“The dead are never a threat. I feel totally protected by the efforts of you and your fine police department. I know the lengths you would go to protect the cause, and me.”
“Look,” he said straining for control, “if you’re telling me that Jessica Wyeth is alive, then it’ll be easy to track her down. We can issue a warrant for her arrest and alert all states to be on the lookout for her.”
Rheumy eyes glowered from behind draped eyelids. “For a crime committed so long ago? I am certainly in no position to do your job, Detective, but that strikes me as odd. Surely someone would question that, don’t you think? That would be a little bit too sensational for it to go unnoticed by the press.”
“Hey. Enough with this game crap. You’ve told me that she’s alive. How can you be so sure?”
The rumpled newspaper clipping showing the happy faces of the winners of the Harvest Hunter Pace was spread out on the table.
“You can’t base this on one photograph in some hick newspaper.”
“True. That’s why I sent an old friend to see for himself.”
“She confessed to killing Gus Adams,” Coogan said through tightly drawn lips. “All the evidence supported that statement. That’s in my report.”
“Ah, yes. Your official police report.”
“I went over every piece of evidence myself. It was airtight, and the dead don’t talk.”
“She’s not dead and it’s only a matter of time before she talks.”
“Look. There is nothing that connects you to that murder. There is not one shred of evidence that would begin an investigation into your connection with that farm. So she’s alive. What of it? You’re clean.”
“Detective. As I said, my old head is filled with thoughts and memories. It sometimes takes a long while for my memories to drift to the surface. I just seem to recall that Miss Wyeth told you something of great importance as to what she saw the night you claim she murdered Gus Adams. You sewed the case up so neatly and quickly, that I hardly had a chance to absorb what you said. Such a fine example of efficient police work. Tell me again what she said that’s not in your official report.”
Coogan’s finely tailored suit was almost soaked in sweat. “She said she saw two men kill Gus Adams.”
“And did anything unusual happen in the following days that might not have gotten into your official police report?”
“Unusual? I don’t follow you.”
“Hamilton is such a sleepy hollow. Anything unusual would surely be remembered by someone.”
“No. Nothing. I sewed the case up tight.”
The old man paused and motioned to the drawing room door with a nod of his head. “You have been most helpful, Detective Coogan. Thank you for indulging the ramblings of an old man. I am losing faith in my ability to recall small details. And the mind of a murderer like this Wyeth woman is no place for me to lose my way.”
Coogan got up from the chair and stopped at the door. His leather soled shoes soundless on the dark parquet floor. “I’ll see to it that our friend is taken care of.”
Another chuckle rattled up from the chest of the old man. “Oh, no. No need to trouble yourself with another effort. I know you would never dream of lying to me. And after so many years, I am sure she doesn’t even remember what she told you. Good Evening, Detective Coogan.”
The graceful mahogany doors swept shut behind the arrogant detective.
“I need to talk to you.” Magnus did not look up as his summoned aide materialized out of the shadows. “I would hate to think that any additional bumblings would further mar our friend’s record. I definitely want him to know why his service has come to an end.”
The figure nodded. A smile tugged at the line of smooth skin on his face. He turned to leave.
“Make it slow.”
December 1995
“MERCI BEAUCOUP, MONSIEUR.”
The conductor barely acknowledged the thanks from the demurely dressed and very pregnant woman. It was late, and he wanted to get home. He just wanted to make sure nobody slipped and fell this rainy night on his shift. Especially that one. The figure of the young woman waddled along beside her husband or boyfriend or whatever. He felt a flash of pity for her. That big lout she was with hardly offered to help her at all. Well, that was not his problem. He tipped his hat at her and returned to help another passenger
At the curbside, the woman rubbed her lower back in discomfort and turned to her escort. “Merci mille fois, thank you.”
The beefy man winced. “Yeah. Sure. Anytime.” He was glad to be rid of her. She had stuck to him like flypaper ever since New York. He could not even lose her during his train change. A real weirdo. She had better get new eyeglasses, too. Those thick ones she was wearing hardly helped her vision at all. She must be legally blind or something. He escaped through the crowd once she got to the taxi stand. That preggo would never be able to keep up with him.
“Au revoir!” she waved happily at the retreating figure. The woman hoisted her suitcase into the taxi pulled up in front of her. Responding to the surprised look at the cabby’s face, she replied, “Oh! Strong!” and pantomimed flexing her bicep. Settling into the back seat, she handed a cabby a note with ‘Marriott Copley Place’ scrawled on it. The taxi pulled out into traffic and left the bustle of South Station behind.
“Ya know, lady. Ya couldda got off at Back Bay Station and saved yerself a fare.” The cabby’s brown eyes and bushy black eyebrows were framed in the rearview mirror as he stared back at his passenger.
“Oh? Oui.” She remained silent for the rest of the trip despite his efforts to talk with her, just looking and smiling absently in his direction. Language barrier. She tried to pay him with Canadian dollars and bowed her head in apology when he refused. Finally settling the tab, she waddled into the hotel, past the lobby and through the causeway joining the hotel to a large mall.
It was late, and the mall was nearly empty. Quietly observing everyone, she slogged her way to the ladies’ rest rooms. The people in the mall at this hour were a mix of college-aged kids dressed in an array of punk, grunge, and general anti-fashion clothes. A small percentage were well-dressed professionals, returning to the cluster of hotels from dinner or theater engagements or just window shopping at the expensive stores. She dallied in front of the mirror, adjusting her thick glasses and washing her hands thoroughly. When the few women that were there either left or entered a stall, she entered the large handicapped stall unnoticed.
Slipping out of her overcoat and long, plain dress, she brought the sharp scissors to her swollen abdomen. Using the blades as a knife, she stabbed through the layers of support and the belly rumpled to the floor. Instantly, layers of old clothes, boxes of different hair dye, shabby wigs, and a box of bandages and first aid tape littered the floor. All traveled safe from accidental discovery.
She swept her red hair up into a ponytail at the top of her head. First aid tape was used to secure the hacked hemline of the dress to somewhere above her knees. Its lace collar was ripped off and flushed. Working efficiently, she stuffed her backpack with the contents of her belly. A man’s long black overcoat and short boots emerged from the huge suitcase and the horrible brown plaid coat and ‘sensible’ shoes were exchanged in their place.
Before donning her new attire, she carefully and painfully cleaned and redressed her burns. The pain no longer made her knees buckle. She taped a series of wads of bills to her inner thighs, stomach, back, and upper inner arms, just in case. Having cash taped to her gave just a little more flexibility, a tinge more safety. She needed to find better places for all of the cash from selling the Jeep. She hesitated before jamming the rest of it in the pack.
Jessica felt along the inside of the trash receptacle that shared the wall of her stall and the stall next to it. There was a large amount of space deep above the receptacle’s door flap. She rummaged through her pack and p
ulled out a short black wig and thin red sweater. Placing a wad of twenty-dollar bills and the wig in the center of the sweater, she scrunched it into a long tight roll and taped it inside the lid.
She sat still for a long time and identified the sounds around her. Several women had come and gone in the time she was there and took no notice of her. She placed the suitcase on the toilet seat and bent down to look under the stall partition. One pair of feet could be seen at the far end of the row. Jessica squirmed her way over several stalls and emerged. If anyone found the suitcase and was suspicious, the review of any surveillance tapes would not readily give away the transformation that occurred in that stall.
Looking at her reflection while washing her hands, she stifled the urge to laugh. Dark red lipstick coated her lips and some of the color blended onto her cheeks. Time to go. She had to hurry if she was going to get to the YWCA’s Berkeley Residence before midnight.
She walked crisply with a slight bounce to her step down Boylston Street, taking a right onto Berkeley. Occasionally glancing in the gleaming windows, no one paid any attention to yet another Generation X kid in the college-swamped city of Boston. Her shoulder muscles were stiff and sore from her travels and from the tension she felt from being hyper vigilant. Relaxation could happen only once she passed the last hurdle for the night.
A trio of women returning from a night out bustled up the stairs of the residence. Walking up to the bleary-eyed resident assistant hunched over open books behind the lobby desk, Jessica huffed impatiently to be noticed.
“Yeah? Whaddya want?” The overweight woman shifted heavily in her burdened chair.
“Hi. Lolly Greenburg. I called yesterday.”
Pudgy fingers pushed and sifted through papers littering the desk. “Yeah. From Buffalo, New York.” More shufflings of the mess on the desk produced a key. The assistant leaned her hulk over the desk and stared at the backpack. “Temporary stay, right? That’s thirty-two bucks a night. Credit card?”
Jessica shook her head and offered cash, US. She paid for three nights.
“Private room. Shared bath down the hall. Cafeteria on the second floor. Questions?” The red ponytail shook again. “Up the elevator. Fifth floor. To the right.”
It had been three days since she stopped to rest. Once safely in her room, Jessica threw her pack down on the rickety chair. She was exhausted. The only sleep she had gotten were the small periods of dozing she allowed herself during the long train and bus rides she took crisscrossing the east coast. She spent a lot of money on tickets she never used or gave to anyone who looked anything like her and on clothes purchased at thrift stores, now discarded. Without any kind of license, real or fake, she could not rent a car. It would not take her long to get another one, however.
The earlier attempt to run before the fire prompted her to pack her suitcase. She had forgotten that she left it in the Jeep when Snugs began her labor. With everything else that happened, she never gave it another thought. That is, until she woke up and saw Michael sleeping in the chair beside her that night. Without a barn full of horses to tie her down, she crept out of the house and rolled her Jeep down the hill to start it well away from her guard’s ears.
She put the Jeep into four-wheel drive and drove along the dirt mountain roads, always heading east. She crossed into West Virginia and then into Virginia. She sold her Jeep at the first place she came to. Smelling desperation, they ripped her off but she did not care as long as she had cash. Money in hand, she immediately walked to the bus stop, bought four tickets to different cities, boarded a bus and got off a few stops before her destination. She made the first of many stops to a local consignment shop and pharmacy. Appearance and destinations kept changing. Most importantly, she kept moving.
Running was second nature. Skills remained fresh, and she added new tricks when she needed to. Giving the appearance of traveling with someone whenever possible would confound anyone looking for “a lone woman.” The stunned silence of most of the people she ‘joined’ up with was used to her advantage, always filling the gap with some story and accent that seemed to fit at the time. She made an early promise that she would never spend the night in the streets. She sensed they were far too dangerous for her. She always felt safer in the woods or on a farm in the open than in a city on a street. But, cities were easier to get lost in.
But those were rules of the past. There was a big difference in how she was running now. She was not running away. She was running to. Mistakes could not happen.
Thoughts strung out through the veil of her sleep deprived mind. No decisions or plans could be made now. She would worry about staying lost in Boston in the morning.
The newspaper archives of the Boston Public Library were located on the first level in a windowless cavern behind a door labeled ‘Microtext Department.’ The air, arid and still, reeked of decaying paper and dust. Current issues of The Boston Globe were stacked along the back wall. Images of any issue over four years old filled the metal cabinets of microfilm, with more recent issues on CD-ROM. Unsure of exact dates, Jessica grabbed microfilm index books dated 1983 through 1988.
A precise strategy eluded her. She could not remember enough on her own, and nothing of what happened to her in the past weeks made any sense. Memories of her childhood were not something she examined. Going back in time would help her. She could only remember up to her guilt; then the rest was a void. Jessica wanted to know how she killed and why. She also wanted to know why the men who broke into her house wanted her dead. They knew who she was, but they did not report her to the police. Why? Jessica suspected she knew the answers and willed her memories to the surface. To help herself, she had to piece together the facts from whatever anyone else may have said or written at the time.
Articles were indexed by subject matter, names, dates and certain key phrases. After several attempts, she finally located a reference to a headline, Brutal Murder Shocks Quiet Town of Hamilton.
The image of the article was slightly yellow as it appeared on the screen of the ancient film viewer, but the text and photographs were quite clear.
HAMILTON, MA - The brutally slain body of a man was found early yesterday at Wyeth Worldwind Farm, located in the exclusive North Shore suburb of Hamilton.
The victim, identified as 59 year-old Patrick ‘Gus’ Adams, was a long-time manager of the world famous thoroughbred breeding and training establishment. Mr. Adams’ body was found early this morning by Jason Cressup, an employee of the farm. The cause of death was multiple stab wounds. There were signs of a struggle, including a woman’s jacket nearby covered with blood. The jacket has been identified as belonging to Jessica Wyeth, the wealthy heiress of the late James and Margaret Wyeth and sole owner of Wyeth Worldwind Farm. Footprints, apparently made by a woman, were also found at the scene.
Sources report that Mr. Adams and Miss Wyeth had engaged in a heated argument at a restaurant earlier in the evening. When questioned by police, Miss Wyeth was reported to have been wearing clothes which appeared to have been stained with blood, dirt, and hay as a result of a struggle.
Senior Detective Terrance Coogan reluctantly named Miss Wyeth as the prime suspect in this murder. He was quoted as saying, “It would be a tragedy that a woman at the beginning of her adult life would be accused of such a deed.” All efforts are being made to locate the person or persons responsible for Mr. Adams’ murder. Trooper Owen Shea stated that Miss Wyeth could not be reached for comment.
A picture of Jason standing over the site where he found Gus’ body and a picture of a young and vibrant Gus, smiling after some unnamed win at a track, accompanied the article. The shock of the description of the body and the implicit condemnation of her was traumatic. Reading how Gus died confused her. She did not remember holding any knife or stabbing him. She forced herself to read the paragraphs again and again until she became numb. Finally, the trembling in her hands subsided as she clenched the antique machine. Sh
e felt mildly detached from her surroundings, floating somewhere above the table, held there by some invisible hand.
Mechanically, the research continued. To keep her mind functioning, Jessica forced herself to take notes as she read, listing the names of anyone quoted. Articles marched on in succession. Nothing opened more memories. Facts hit the shield and were deflected. A second series of articles told of the young heiress, the prime suspect, suddenly killed in a freak explosion. It was a sensational story at the time and received much coverage. She was dubbed the ‘Murdering Heiress.’
Hours passed as she poured over the newspapers. Finally saturated, she returned the fiche to the small metal cabinets and moved herself to less dismal quarters. Her head pounded as it usually did whenever thoughts from her past invaded her. She just wished she could remember on her own.
Eyesight blurred from research spurred the growing migraine. Jessica read through the names on the list. Jason Cressup became a minor celebrity for finding the body. He was quoted in every article. Contacting him would be stupid. He would turn her over to the police in a second to rekindle his moment of stardom.
The next names on her list were those of the officers in charge of the investigation. A Detective Terrance Coogan and a Trooper Owen Shea were the leaders on the team. A crevasse opened in her mind, and a ball of memories rolled out. Jessica fought hard to keep the revulsion from boiling out of her when she remembered the detective. She placed her head down on the table and could feel her heart begin to pound. Instead of pushing the memories away, she willed them forward. She saw Coogan’s leer, his sharp features, the way he questioned her, the way he did not even try to listen to her when she tried to talk about what happened.
It was too much for her. Her hands and legs began to shake violently. Waves of nausea thrust upward. Her panic attack threatened to make a scene in the hushed rooms of the library. The only way to stop it was to get control of herself by forcing the memories back down into their cages. Giving herself commands blocked the memories. Get out. Take a walk.
The Charity Page 25
