Live to Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  I’d dumped my father into the damn sewer system, and the son of a bitch had been trying to escape ever since.

  When Andrew topped the stairs, I was waiting for him in the hallway. I sat cross-legged on the floor, hands quiet on my lap. I had my eyes closed, listening to the low murmur of Evan’s voice from the neighboring bedroom. I could feel currents of air whispering against my cheeks. Cold and warm. Light and dark.

  I felt different. Tingling. Flushed. Powerful. As if maybe I was in the company of angels. The memories, I realized. I’d finally opened my mind. Allowed myself to know everything that I knew, and now it was as if I were back in the house that night, except this time my mother and siblings were beside me. We were united. Four against one.

  And the images that filled my mind were both violent and painful.

  “You don’t have the gun,” Andrew stated. “You failed.”

  He took the first step forward, and I finally opened my eyes.

  “Sheriff Wayne saved me,” I said, my voice strong. “My father didn’t kill himself that night. Sheriff Wayne killed him.”

  “You … you spoke to him?” Andrew sounded bewildered. He paused, six steps away, knife pressed against his pant leg.

  “My mother loved him. Have you seen her on the interplanes? Have you asked her about that? Sheriff Wayne was a good man, and she cherished him for that.”

  Andrew became immediately agitated. It proved what I was beginning to suspect.

  “She called the sheriff after I spoke to her, after my father came home. She wanted to kick my father out. But my father refused to go. So she called your father—her lover, Sheriff Wayne—to assist.”

  “He shouldn’t have left his family,” Andrew snapped.

  “Even a good man can be tempted,” I answered. “Even a good man can want something he shouldn’t have. Wayne came over as a man, not an officer of the law. He hoped to reason with my father, convince him to leave the property. Bullies crack under pressure, right? And everyone knew my father was a first-class bully.”

  More agitation. The whap whap of the blade against Andrew’s pant leg.

  “It didn’t go the way anyone planned. My father refused to budge from the bedroom, so Sheriff Wayne went upstairs to fetch him. They started to yell. Then my father spotted his gun, resting on the nightstand. He grabbed it, pointed it at Sheriff Wayne, just as my mother got between them. She took the bullet meant for her lover, dead before she hit the floor.”

  Pictures again, like an old home movie streaming through my head. Had I crept out of my room that night, seen more than I’d known I’d seen? Or were the images from something else? The warmth caressing my cheek. The feel again—my mother, Natalie, Johnny. Four against one. The way it should’ve been that night, twenty-five years ago.

  “My dad hesitated,” I whispered now, “shocked by my mother’s death. It gave Sheriff Wayne the time he needed to bolt from the house to his car. Service firearm, locked in the glove compartment. He had to work the key, hands trembling. Get the door open. Retrieve the nine-millimeter. Check the chamber.”

  More images. A fourth presence, joining me in the hall.

  “While he was gone, Natalie stuck her head out of her room. Johnny made a mad dash for the stairs. And my father started walking down the hall toward my bedroom.”

  The air currents again, shifting. Hot and cold. Light and dark. Swelling.

  “Sheriff Wayne saved my life,” I said loudly. “He shot my father. He carried me from the carnage. Then he called for backup, never telling anyone what really brought him to the house that night. No point in harming his family with his dirty secret, now that my family was dead. As the officer in charge, he controlled the crime scene. That made it easy for him to write it up as a one-man rampage—my father killing most of his family before turning his gun on himself.

  “Sheriff Wayne carried his guilt to his deathbed, where he finally confessed to his son. Is that what brought you to find me? Is that what convinced you I had to face my past, Andrew?”

  I wondered if I’d see a spark of recognition in his eyes, a reaction to his name. But the swirling darkness around him remained impenetrable.

  Evan’s voice crested inside the closet, summoning the final angel, calling for the light.

  “You didn’t have to kill anyone,” I told Andrew. “Your father’s soul was freed the moment he confessed. He wasn’t trapped in the void between the interplanes. But my father was….”

  Andrew snarled. Fresh rage as he understood what I’d finally figured out. He raised his knife.

  And I curled my fingers around the handle of the gun I’d found in the master bath. From my father’s ashes dumped down a sewer, to his old service weapon taped to a toilet. In these last few seconds, it all started to make sense.

  Andrew stormed down the hall.

  And I had seen my father staring from his eyes.

  My mother always smelled of oranges and ginger. She would feed me strawberry Popsicles on hot days, and stay up with me when I was sick. She loved the Sunday comics and used to pore over Vogue magazine, debating which expensive outfit she would one day love to buy.

  Natalie liked to snack on fresh lemon slices sprinkled with sugar. She’d eat out the pulp, then curl the yellow peel over her teeth and smile at everyone. That last summer, she’d started using lemon juice to bleach out the freckles spattering across her nose. Though I never told her, I secretly loved her freckles and hoped every day to see some on my own face.

  Johnny’s favorite game had been hide-and-seek. He could contort his body into the tiniest spaces, and we couldn’t find him. One day, he wedged himself behind the water heater and couldn’t get out. Natalie laughed, but I could tell he was scared. I held his hand while my mother doused him in vegetable oil. Later, after he’d taken a bath, he shared his favorite comic book with me just to say thanks.

  Andrew, charging. Six yards away, five, four …

  My father, a crush of darkness roaring down upon me like a freight train.

  … three, two …

  “Evan!” a man cried behind Andrew. Michael Oliver, cresting the stairs.

  “Michael, Michael, the police. They’re here, they’re here!” Victoria screamed from downstairs.

  “Mommy!” Evan yelled from the bedroom closet. “Mommy, Daddy!”

  And then Andrew was upon me.

  “Look out!” Michael roared.

  A crash of breaking glass from the entryway.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

  Love and light. Light and love. A family’s last stand.

  “Die!” Andrew howled into my face, knife arcing down.

  I thought of my mother’s love. I remembered my siblings’ goofy grins. And this time I didn’t hide.

  I pulled the trigger.

  The recoil snapped my arms up. The gun connected with Andrew’s chin, knocking him backwards. Did I hit him? Was he bleeding? I couldn’t tell. My ears were ringing, my eyes tearing from pain. My right hand throbbed, burnt from the ejecting brass.

  Evan still screaming. Footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  “Police, police! Drop your weapons!”

  Andrew picking himself off the floor, shaking his head.

  I noticed two things at once. His right side was bleeding, and he still held the knife.

  He looked down at me and started to grin, just as Michael Oliver tackled him from behind.

  “Son of a bitch. How dare you hurt my family. Son of a bitch!”

  “Drop your weapon! For God’s sake, drop it!”

  Sergeant D.D. Warren had topped the stairs, blonde curls flying. She had her drawn weapon pointed at me, and her gaze locked on the tangle of grown men. Her partner, and Victoria, poured into the hall behind her.

  “The police, Michael,” Victoria was trying to say. “The police.”

  “Mommy?” Evan cried from the closet.

  “Drop your weapon!” D.D. screamed again.

  I put down the gun, my gaze still on Andrew.

&n
bsp; “Kick it away. Behind you,” D.D. ordered.

  I did as I was told. Michael was on top of Andrew now, bashing Andrew’s forehead into the floor.

  “Stop it!” D.D. yelled angrily. “Police! Get up, get away. Now!”

  Her voice must have finally penetrated. Michael slowly released Andrew’s hair. He rose shakily, breath shallow, expression wild. D.D.’s partner stepped forward to assist.

  “Evan’s in his closet,” I spoke up. “He needs help. Please?”

  Those words seemed to finally rouse Michael. He stepped back from Andrew. Victoria was already scurrying by the detectives into her son’s room. She returned a minute later, Evan in her arms.

  She looked at her husband. He looked at her. The next instant, they were together, parents, holding tight, their child cradled between them.

  And I felt an ache, deep and endless inside my chest. My mother, Natalie, Johnny.

  I love you. I love you. I love you. And I miss you so much.

  A brush against my cheek. A flutter, like butterfly wings against my right temple. I wanted to hold on, hold close.

  I love you, I thought again. Then I let go, as I should’ve done years ago.

  The other detective was beside Andrew’s prone form. He reached down to feel for a pulse while D.D. covered him with her gun.

  The detective frowned, looked back at D.D., made a small shake of his head.

  I realized then what we’d all missed before: the pool of blood slowly growing beneath Andrew’s body. When Michael tackled him, Andrew had still been holding the knife. Apparently, it had finally found a target.

  “Everyone out,” D.D. ordered flatly.

  We moved to the driveway, where the sun was coming up. Michael and Victoria remained huddled close, Evan nestled between them, refusing to let their son go. I stood off to the side, turning my face toward the light.

  EPILOGUE

  VICTORIA

  We’ve found a school for Evan. It’s full-time care in a family-friendly environment in southern New Hampshire. The kids live in actual homes, with trained caretakers serving as surrogate parents. The campus includes a lake, huge gardens, and neighboring woods. The curriculum combines a structured schedule with plenty of outdoor time, where kids get to breathe fresh air, learn to garden, and benefit from the healing powers of nature.

  The school even utilizes meditative training to help agitated children improve their self-soothing skills.

  Evan’s nervous, but not morally opposed. We can visit on weekends. If his behavior improves, he can come home for the holidays. It’s beginning to feel manageable. Yes, he’s on medication. Yes, he’ll be going away. Yes, we have many “learning opportunities” ahead.

  But the school is beautiful. Evan’s calmer. And our family is healing again.

  The DA decided not to press charges against Evan. Our lawyer argued Evan had been unduly influenced by Andrew Lightfoot’s now obviously violent tendencies. Prosecuting a child who’d just been kidnapped by his spiritual healer didn’t make for great headlines, so the matter was quietly dismissed. After another week at the acute care unit, a bit of tweaking with Evan’s medication, and the development of a long-term plan, Evan was allowed to come home to finish out the summer before heading to his new school.

  It gave me time to heal and go back-to-school shopping with my daughter.

  Last week, Chelsea visited Evan and me twice, Michael acting as chaperone. Evan became overexcited, slamming his fingers in the front door, then tripping over his own feet and knocking his sister into the TV. But Chelsea hung in there, I hung in there, Michael hung in there. The calmer we remained, the calmer Evan became. By the end of the second evening, we even managed a family game of charades. Chelsea won. When I gave her a congratulatory hug, she clung to me and cried. So I cried with her.

  Sometimes, that’s just what you need to do.

  The wedding has been postponed. More pressing matters to tend to, Michael told me, and I thought I saw some of the old familiar heat in his gaze. I know I felt it in mine.

  I’m thinking of returning to interior decorating. I’m thinking of prizing every single second I have with my children. I’m thinking of being me again, independent, beautiful, and strong.

  And I think if I do that, Michael doesn’t stand a chance.

  D.D.

  D.D. loved it when a case came together. Andrew Ficke, aka Andrew Lightfoot, died at the scene, bleeding out after severing his femoral artery. Evidence, however, had a life of its own, and they found plenty of it.

  A military-grade Taser was found on the front seat of Lightfoot’s car. Tests determined it met the voltage requirements of the Taser used to attack Patrick Harrington, Hermes Laraquette, Danielle Burton, and Victoria Oliver. The Taser also contained custom cartridges, apparently available on the black market, that powered the device’s twin wires without leaving behind any traceable confetti.

  A search of Andrew’s Rockport home also revealed a package of zip ties, same size, color, and durability as the ties used to subdue Danielle Burton and the Oliver family. Then there was the duffel bag in his car trunk, which lit up like the Fourth of July when tested for bodily fluids. The bag revealed three different blood types, most likely cross-contamination from once containing clothing stained with the blood of multiple murder victims.

  Andrew Lightfoot was a known associate of all the victims. The police found no alibis for him on the nights of the murders, and security cameras showed him entering the hospital the evening Lucy was hanged. Fire investigators recovered fifteen smoke bombs in the ventilation system; latent prints recovered Andrew’s prints from several of the devices, tying him explicitly to the emergency evacuation.

  As far as D.D. was concerned, that was a wrap. Andrew had taken his world of spiritual interplanes a bit too seriously, convincing himself that the fate of his father’s soul was more important than the continued corporal existence of various individuals. He had murdered A, believing he was saving B. Or more likely, he had just wanted to terrorize Danielle Burton after she rejected him.

  Naturally, Alex argued with her. “He was a spiritual healer. Man did good work, according to his clients—”

  “Converts.”

  “Clients. You don’t go from being a respected shaman to a mass murderer overnight.”

  “He was obsessed with Danielle. She wanted nothing to do with him. How much rejection can one man take?”

  “According to her testimony, he wanted her to save his father’s soul. How does killing two entire families accomplish that?”

  “It didn’t accomplish that,” D.D. pointed out with a shrug. “Poor problem-solving skills. Definition of a murderer right there. Some guy wants a divorce, but doesn’t want to lose half of his assets, so he kills his wife instead. Did he have to kill her? Were there other options that might have ended his marriage while preserving his bank account? Of course. But murderers don’t see other options. That’s why they’re murderers.”

  They were sitting in D.D.’s office. The other taskforce members had left. Case was closed, not to mention they’d heard this same conversation a couple of times before. That didn’t stop D.D. and Alex.

  “Yeah?” Alex continued now. “And where in business school and shaman studies did he cover how to slaughter an entire family? Single killing blow to a grown woman, as well as an athletic teenage boy? Not to mention how stone cold you gotta be to chase a screaming girl down the hall, then drag her back to her death. Or shoot a young girl in a dog bed. Or suffocate a baby in a cradle.”

  “Merely proves how compartmentalized he was. Think about it: The man had two lives—Ficke the investment pro, Lightfoot the soul saver. Ficke was definitely not nice; he fucked women and screwed friends, all in the name of high finance. Then one day, Ficke up and reinvented himself as the kinder gentler Lightfoot. Maybe in the beginning he honestly believed he saved his friend’s life. Maybe, given some of the accounts of his work, he lived the life of woo-woo. But think about it: Healing is its own power tr
ip. Next thing you know, the New Age adrenaline rush triggered his old predatory instincts. Andrew begins defrauding the state, taking advantage of overwhelmed mothers, and feeding his inner ego. Lightfoot returns to being Ficke, this time armed with a bunch of spiritual mumbo jumbo for manipulating the masses.”

  “He wanted Danielle,” Alex said.

  “Absolutely. All comes back to Danielle. The girl his father had once saved. The woman who still wouldn’t do what Andrew said. Andrew wanted her, and Andrew always got what he wanted. Or no one else did.”

  “Meaning one stubborn woman can drive a man over the edge.”

  “It’s a gift,” D.D. said modestly. “Now case is closed. Perpetrator is dead. It’s seven p.m. I haven’t slept in four days. Why the hell are we still at work?”

  “Because you haven’t said yes.”

  “To what?”

  “To the chicken marsala I’m planning on making you. With a side of Italian bread, and a bottle of Chianti.”

  “Is there tiramisu for desert?” D.D. asked.

  “Vanilla bean gelato.”

  D.D. looked at him. Alex looked at her.

  She sighed, took off her pager, set it carefully on her desk.

  “Alex, take me home.”

  DANIELLE

  According to the police’s final report, Andrew Lightfoot allegedly went crazy and murdered twelve people in his quest to gain my attention and save his father’s soul. They used the term “allegedly” because murdering twelve people is a complicated way of saving someone’s soul. Or perhaps that’s why they ruled him crazy.

  I didn’t contradict anything they said, though I had my own opinion on the subject. Nothing I could prove. Frankly, until a month ago, not even something I believed. But I work with children, and children are a powerful litmus test of human nature. At one time, kids loved Andrew. They responded to him. Even if I didn’t consider myself a mumbo-jumbo sort of gal, I’d seen some of his results.

  I don’t think a madman could’ve helped those kids, particularly the hypersensitive ones, who would’ve perceived the taint. I think Andrew used to be Andrew. And I think, somewhere in his exploration of the celestial superhighway, he encountered a negative energy beyond his control. He met my father’s corrupt soul, hoping to use him to learn more about his own father. Unfortunately, my father’s spirit used Andrew to hunt me down in order to finish what he’d started twenty-five years ago.