Live to Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  I tensed, bracing myself for God knows what. Andrew would come around the car. Pop open the trunk. And I’d … leap out at him? Scream bloody murder? I was bound and gagged. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Didn’t have a cell phone. Didn’t have a weapon. I was doomed.

  A car door opened. Slammed shut. Another door opened, maybe a passenger door. Andrew was getting something out.

  My body screamed with tension. I squeezed my eyes shut, though I was already lost in the dark.

  Footsteps, growing closer. I had to do something. Think.

  There was nothing I could do. I was trapped, helpless.

  I didn’t feel brave anymore. I pictured my sister, gunned down in the hall. I remembered my brother and his desperate race for the stairs. And I wanted to cry for them. I wanted to cry for all of us, because after tonight, I was pretty sure there would be no survivors.

  The footsteps faded away. Long seconds ticked by without anything happening. My body relaxed, degree by degree. Think, think, think.

  Both D.D. Warren and Greg seemed to feel that Andrew had personal feelings for me. Could I use that? Could I convince him that I liked him, too? If I could just sweet-talk him into loosening the bindings, giving myself one shot at escape …

  The footsteps were back, growing louder. Then, before I was ready, the trunk flew open. Andrew loomed above me, his body shrouded in night. I couldn’t see his face, but felt his eyes upon me.

  “Do you understand?” he asked me.

  Bewildered, I shook my head, cotton gag chafing my lips.

  “You will. It’s time to face your past, Danielle. I’ve been trying to tell you that, but you ignored me. Drastic times call for drastic measures. So here we are. Twenty-five years later. Same day. Time for a new understanding.”

  He reached down, grabbed my shoulders, and forced me up. I screamed against the gag as blood-starved nerve endings roared to life. The sound was muffled, the shriek rebounding into my throat, where it died a quick death. Andrew grunted in satisfaction.

  “You must open your senses,” he intoned, hands under my arms, dragging my deadweight from the trunk. “Remove your judgments. Listen with your heart, remember with your mind. He’ll find you. He’s been trying to contact you for years.”

  He set me on the pavement. Run, my head commanded, even as my legs crumpled and I fell against my captor. Andrew was strong. I remembered his stories of running six miles in soft sand. Now he hefted me easily onto his back in a fireman’s hold. I tried to kick out with my legs, but couldn’t get any momentum.

  With me in place, Andrew trudged toward a large house I didn’t recognize. He pushed open the front door and strode into the darkened foyer.

  “Honey, I’m home,” he called out.

  Upstairs, I heard a woman begin to weep.

  Memory is a funny thing. My entire life had been defined by one episode, that until today, I’d assumed lasted no more than forty minutes. In my memory, my father was holding the gun. In my memory, my father shot himself, instead of me. In my memory.

  Andrew removed my gag. I opened my mouth to scream, and he pressed a finger over my lips.

  “Shhh, don’t forget about Evan and his mother and father. Surely you’d like to save one family.”

  I closed my lips and stared at Andrew. We were upstairs, in a pink ruffled bedroom that clearly belonged to a young girl. I didn’t see any sign of her, and the bed was made, so I was hoping that meant she was no longer around, or maybe this room had been staged for my benefit. I wasn’t sure, and the not knowing kept me silent.

  I studied Andrew, a mouse pinned by a cat, desperate for a glimmer of escape.

  “What do you mean?” I asked. My mouth felt cottony from the gag. I couldn’t get enough saliva to enunciate clearly. I licked my lips, but it didn’t help.

  Andrew set the flashlight between us. I’d grab it and bash it against the side of his skull, except my hands remained tied behind me. He’d released my ankles, allowing us both to sit cross-legged on the floor. I had my back against a wall of dark windows. He had himself situated between me and the bedroom door.

  I didn’t hear crying anymore. The house had gone eerily quiet, the silence freaking me out more than the noises had. Bad things happened in places that were this hushed.

  “Evan is an old soul,” Andrew stated.

  This sounded like the Andrew I knew, so I nodded.

  “He feels too much, is saturated by the negativity of this world. Other, crueler souls haunt his dreams. They seep into his waking consciousness. They encourage him to do bad things, such as kill his own mother. It’s a terrible way to live, such a young boy, fighting a war nobody else can see.”

  I’d heard this spiel before, so I nodded again.

  “He’s not the only one, Danielle. There are other souls caught in a horrible abyss. They cannot return to this world for a fresh set of experiences, nor can they journey to any other plane. They are trapped in the black hole of unfinished business. This is the Hell writers such as Dante described for us. It is a horrible, horrible existence, Danielle, for it has no end. Old, sensitive souls trapped for eternity.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about, but I nodded again. Gag was gone. Ankle bindings were gone. If he’d just release my hands, I might have a chance of winning this.

  “People fear death. They’re bound by primitive notions of Heaven and Hell. But that assumes we exist only in one dimension. Once you accept that souls are capable of moving among many spiritual planes, then you understand the greater truth of our existence. Physical death is nothing, merely a blip on a soul’s radar screen. Ozzie and his parents—they’re not gone; they’ve simply moved to the next set of experiences. Ishy, Rochelle, Tika, and baby Vivi. Again, not destroyed, just set free from an unfortunate corporal existence.”

  “You killed the Harringtons and the Laraquettes?” I exclaimed in horror.

  “I enabled them to move on to the next plane of existence,” Andrew corrected.

  “Oh my God. And Lucy, too?”

  “I’ve already explained to you that she’s happier now. You know what happened to her here. Surely you can understand it’s been better for her to journey on.”

  “You hanged her?”

  “She saw through me, straight into my heart. A powerful soul, that one. So I waited until it was late, and the unit lightly staffed. Then I simply led her out of the ward. She followed willingly. Again, she’s much happier—”

  “You sick son of a bitch!” I interrupted hotly. “You had no right! Maybe Lucy followed you through the doors, but what about when you entered the radiology room? What about when you tied the knot in the rope? You murdered her. You violated the choice she made to exist on this plane of being. How could you!”

  Andrew glared at me. “You’re not listening—”

  “You weren’t even poisoned, were you?” I interrupted again, pissed off to the point of recklessness. “That was just a little charade to get you away from the unit. You’re a fraud. I knew it!”

  “Quiet!”

  “Fuck you!”

  Suddenly, Andrew wasn’t sitting across from me. Suddenly, he loomed over me, his face inches from mine, the fury in his eyes threatening to drill me to the floor. I wanted him to be crazy. I wanted to see a rabid light shining in his gaze. Instead, the determination in his face frightened me to the core.

  “You will believe. You will visit the interplanes, you will open your mind and open your heart. Or you and everyone in this house will die. Are you paying attention yet, Danielle? Are you listening to me?”

  Wordlessly, I nodded. His blue eyes were burning, burning, burning. He was on fire with something. Faith, I thought. Mad faith.

  When he spoke next, his words were clipped and direct. “I’ve hidden a gun in this house. It contains four bullets. I know where it is, and the person who killed your family knows where it is. Now we’re going to have a race. Whoever finds the gun first gets to use it. To be fair about it, I’ll give you a ten-minute he
ad start. You may waste time searching for a phone, if you’d like. The phone service has been disconnected, just as the electricity has been terminated. Also, this house was set up by Evan’s mother to contain him twenty-four/seven. The locks are key-in, key-out, and there’s only one key that works.” Andrew lifted a chain around his neck, to reveal the single key.

  “Finally, before you resort to smashing windows or other such nonsense, understand that you’ll be deserting Evan; his mother, Victoria; and his father, Michael, who did me the favor of showing up at the hospital. When the ten minutes are up, I will shoot them. I doubt you can break a window, race to the neighbors’, and summon help before ten minutes expire, particularly as your hands will be tied for the duration of our little race. Continue your policy of denial and people will die. Face your past, open your heart, and you have a fighting chance. You’ve driven me to this, Danielle. But I’m trying to be fair about things.”

  “You want … you expect me to find my father’s soul on the spiritual interplanes and ask him about the hidden gun? I’m supposed to … talk to him?”

  Andrew tilted his head. “What do you fear most, Danielle? That he won’t offer to save you? Or that he will?”

  “You’re insane.”

  “An explanation that enables you to continue your policy of denial. Let me give you a hint: Who saved you that night, Danielle?”

  “Sheriff Wayne.”

  “How did he get there? You never left your room and your house was located miles from the nearest neighbor. Who heard the gunfire? Who called nine-one-one?”

  I stared at him blankly, not getting it.

  Andrew sighed, shook his head at me, then rose to his feet. “You focus too much on the corporal world, Danielle. You hate yourself for not saving your family’s lives. I want you to fight for their souls. You don’t know the truth of that night. You refuse to see what you can’t accept. And in doing so, you’ve damned them all, especially my father.”

  “Your father?” I asked incredulously.

  “The respectable Sheriff Wayne. An old soul trapped in the abyss. That’s the true hell, Danielle. That’s what all of us should wisely fear.”

  Andrew glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. You can confront your past, or you can lose your future. You can save my father’s soul, or I will use all four bullets. I’ll start with the mother. That’s how these things are generally done. Then Evan. Then his father. I’ll save you for last, the order you know best. Tell me, Danielle, how many families are you prepared to lose?”

  Andrew disappeared into the gloom of the hallway. I sat frozen, too stunned to move. Then I heard a new sound, from the room next to mine.

  “Mommy?” Evan whispered, his voice tinny with fear. “Mommy?”

  Andrew was insane, I thought, and we were all going to die.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  Phil was a brilliant man. Via cell phone, D.D. gave him the update on Andrew Lightfoot, who appeared to have abducted Danielle and Evan. They needed Andrew’s last name and background info, fast.

  Phil answered by cross-referencing Lightfoot’s address with the state licensing board for financial traders. Given that Lightfoot used to be an investment banker, it stood to reason that he kept his license up, if only to manage his own assets.

  Sure enough, the database spit back the name Andrew Ficke, son of Wayne and Sheila Ficke. Sheila had an address in Newburyport, not far from her son. Wayne, a former sheriff, had died two years ago.

  D.D. called Sheila, told the bewildered woman that her son was currently assisting the BPD with an urgent investigation and they needed to locate him immediately. A list of known addresses, please?

  Turned out Andrew owned a seaside home, a yacht, and a co-op in New York. If souls really got to choose their experiences, D.D. was coming back as a New Age healer.

  She doubted Andrew would run all the way to New York with an abducted woman. Seaside home too obvious. Yacht more interesting; lots of privacy out at sea. D.D. would notify local uniforms to watch the docks, and the Coast Guard to monitor the harbor.

  “Sorry to call so late,” D.D. told the woman, not wanting her to be alarmed and attempt to contact Andrew. “We’re all set now. Thanks again.”

  “What’s the case?” Sheila asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said Andrew was assisting with a case. Which case? If you can talk about it, of course.”

  D.D. almost said no. But then, at the last second: “He’s helping us investigate the murders of two families. Maybe you’ve seen the reports on the news.”

  “Oh, that sounds like Andrew. He’s been fascinated by such cases ever since his father’s involvement, of course.”

  “His father’s involvement?”

  “Way before your time, dear. Back in eighty-five, when Wayne was still sheriff, one of his former deputies got drunk and turned his gun on his family, then himself. Only the girl survived. Danielle Burton. Such a terrible night. Wayne put together an album of the event, filled with newspaper clippings and such. Right up until his death I’d find him searching through it. I think he kept looking for what he might have done differently, the warning he should’ve spotted, the action he could’ve taken, which would’ve spared that poor family.”

  “Where’s the album?” D.D. asked immediately.

  “Andrew took it. My husband was the first on the scene, carrying the girl from the house. Many of the newspapers dubbed him a hero. I don’t know that Wayne agreed, but the articles are flattering and it’s nice for a son to have such stories of his father.”

  “Wayne ever talk about that night? The details of what happened?”

  “No, he wasn’t a talking sort of man. He put together the album. I think that was his therapy.”

  “What about Andrew? Did he question your husband about the case?”

  “Andrew asked Wayne questions every now and then. But once my husband retired, he left those days behind him and took up fishing. That seemed to work for him.”

  D.D. ended the call, turned to Alex.

  “Andrew Lightfoot’s father was the sheriff who handled the shooting deaths of Danielle’s family twenty-five years ago,” she reported excitedly. “What are the odds of that being a coincidence?”

  “His father was at the scene?”

  “His father was considered a hero for entering the carnage and rescuing Danielle.”

  Alex blinked, paused, got the same intense look that was on her face. “So … we have Andrew Lightfoot, linked to Danielle’s past, linked to Danielle’s present. Has a family connection to a historic mass murder. Has a personal connection to two families who have presently been murdered. Shit. It’s a reenactment!”

  “Reenactment?”

  “The Harringtons and Laraquette-Solis family. He’s staged them to be similar to Danielle’s family.”

  “But why?” D.D. demanded, running an impatient hand through her hair. “Million-dollar question, and we still don’t have a penny’s worth of answer.”

  “I have no idea.” Alex grabbed D.D.’s arm. “Wait. We’re being stupid about this. The boy, Evan. Wasn’t his mother admitted to the hospital earlier today with a knife wound?”

  “I think so.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Somewhere in the parking lot with all the other patients, I presume.”

  They both turned back to the hospital. The fire engines were still on-site, as well as numerous uniformed officers. Patients, staff, and curious onlookers were now corralled a safe distance from the building, where nothing much seemed to be happening. No smoke. No shooting flames. The fire, if there had been one, appeared under control.

  “Let’s not presume.” Alex released her arm. “We need to find her and ask about Lightfoot.”

  “We don’t know what she looks like.”

  “Greg does.”

  The staff and kids from the psych unit remained huddled by a copse of trees, waiting for the signal to reenter the hospital. Most of the kids
were awake now and getting into trouble.

  Greg flashed Alex and D.D. a quick glance as they approached. Then he yelled at Jorge to get out of the tree, told Jimmy to drop the stick, and whirled to grab an escaping Benny by the shoulder.

  “We need you to find Evan’s mom,” Alex informed the MC tersely.

  “Right now?” Greg raised one arm, Benny dangling from his biceps. Jorge and Jimmy came racing toward them, arms outstretched like airplanes.

  “Vroom, vroom, vroom!” the boys cried.

  “Right now,” Alex said over the noise. “This is about families, right? Entire families. So if Evan’s gone …”

  “Where is his family?” Greg filled in.

  “Exactly.”

  Benny dropped off Greg’s biceps, and joined his vrooming friends, weaving among the bushes. Greg looked from the kids to the detectives and back to the kids again. His dilemma was clear.

  “Oh crap.” D.D. closed her eyes and bit the bullet. “I’ll take the kids,” she informed Greg. “You go with Alex and locate Evan’s mom.”

  Greg arched a brow. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” D.D. eyed the racing kids dubiously. “But hurry. I mean it. For all of our sakes, run!”

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  DANIELLE

  How long was ten minutes? When you were a kid, ten minutes seemed like forever. Once you were in school, it became a fifth of a class. And when your hands were bound and you were stumbling around a darkened house …

  I was in the hallway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The night had been an endless one, and the first tendrils of morning were starting to seep into the sky. In another thirty minutes, the house would be bright with the daylight. Assuming any of us were alive to see it.

  Evan was in the room next to the girl’s; I could hear him mumbling a stream of agitated gibberish. There appeared to be four bedrooms on this floor. Probably a girl’s room, a boy’s room, a guest room, and the master suite. The traditional Colonial setup.