by Lisa Gardner
Beacon Street was deserted now, the rich folks asleep in their town houses. Farther down, however, he heard the telltale rattle of a grocery cart on city sidewalks. Not all of Boston's residents were wealthy.
David kept walking, cutting across the Public Garden, where hours earlier he'd eavesdropped on Larry Digger and Melanie Stokes. He should probably call Chenney, see how the rookie was holding up. The new kid in the Boston healthcare fraud squad was a serious bodybuilder, one of those guys who look like a giant slab of meat. Big square head on top of a big square neck on top of a big square torso. When he walked, his bulging arms arced out to the side, like an ape. He was hard to take seriously, particularly when he introduced himself as a former CPA.
David still wasn't sure what he thought of the kid. It didn't help that Chenney had no training. The academy gave agent wanna-bes only a sixteen-week basic intro to white collar crime. The real plunge into the fun-filled world of MDRs, HMOs, unbundling, uploading, Part A versus Part B claims wouldn't happen until time and budget permitted Chenney to take specialized training through the National Healthcare Antifraud Association. Until then it was sink or swim, the Bureau's favorite way of seeing what rookie agents were made of.
Tonight Chenney was supposed to be trailing Dr. William Sheffield, but David had caught the anesthesiologist leaving the party after two A.M., and Chenney hadn't been anywhere in sight.
Either he was very, very good, or asleep on the job. David knew where he'd cast his vote.
He grimaced in pain, caught sight of an on-duty cab, and made his decision. At this stage of the investigation, nothing was moving that urgently. He and Chenney could catch up in the morning.
The ride home was long, and by the end David was curled up on the floor, his nostrils filled with the rancid odors of sweat and tobacco while his lower back convulsed and he writhed helplessly. He stumbled out of the taxi as soon as it pulled up to his Waltham apartment complex, shoved money into the cabdriver's hand, and staggered to his feet. He walked around the parking lot. Had to work the muscles, had to get them to relax. Movement was important, exercise the only way to keep what flexibility he could.
Your sacroiliac joints are inflamed, Mr. Riggs—that's the joint where your spine is connected to your pelvis—and that inflammation will start to spread up your back, causing increased discomfort. Exercise, ice, and nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs are the key.
I was an athlete! I was supposed to be a major league pitcher! I know how to ice down. I know pain!
There's not much else we can tell you, Mr. Riggs. Ankylosing spondylitis symptoms vary intensely from person to person and are systemic. You may experience fever, fatigue, and digestive problems, and sometimes AS attacks organs such as your eyes, heart, and lungs. We can't predict how it will affect you personally. All we can tell you is that arthritis is chronic and those people who promise you a miracle cure are only trying to make a quick buck. You can still lead a full, satisfying life with AS, of course, Mr. Riggs, and there are many organizations out there to help you, but you will have to be more creative. Figure out the lifestyle that best works for you.
I have no life. I have no lifestyle. I am so damn tired.
The worst of the spasms finally passed. He kept walking anyway, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe because he'd gone so long without sleep, he'd forgotten how to do it. Maybe because he'd come to dread his bed, where he would start out in slumber and end up clutching his throat, gulping for air. He hadn't experienced that until two weeks ago. He didn't know if it was some kind of phase or if his arthritis had gotten worse.
And he didn't ask, because he was never sure if he wanted to know the answer.
He thought of baseball, the heady days of sweet sixteen.
Saturday afternoons, playing ball with his dad and his younger brother, Steven, talking about “the show,” because Bobby Riggs had been a pretty good pitcher in his day—made it to the minors—and now looked at his sons with hope. Then out of the blue Heather Riggs had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and her husband and sons had come to the field just to take a break from the pain. Then young, beautiful Heather Riggs had died from the breast cancer, and they'd come out to the field because it was all they had left.
A father and his two sons whacking balls and sliding around bases, learning to communicate with each throw, hit, and catch. Cancer could take a loving mother and wife and rip a family apart. But baseball would never let you down. Baseball was as good as gold.
And so was David's arm.
David's arm had been the best of the best. David's arm could take him to the show.
At seventeen he'd been a Mass All-Star pitcher, and the pro-team scouts were already knocking on the door. He and his dad would stay up late talking about which major league teams had the best pitching programs for him, which place they would choose.
Then the nagging pain in his lower back wouldn't go away. He had problems running. Bruised tendon, they thought. Maybe he was outpitching his arm, needed to give it a break. David had to ease up. Steven took over for a while.
But David's back got worse and his shoulder got worse, and one day he was in a doctor's office being told his joints were too inflamed for him to continue pitching, while Steven was throwing his first no-hitter.
The Riggs men had never been quite the same since. David gave up serious baseball—pro teams didn't recruit young studs with health problems—and went to college instead. He didn't play baseball anymore. He left that to Steven, who did get a college scholarship but was never scouted by the pros. Steven had an arm, but he didn't have David's arm, and they all knew it.
Steven was now an assistant baseball coach at UMass Amherst, happily married with two great kids and maybe the next major leaguer. And since David couldn't be an all-star pitcher for his father, he'd offered up federal agent instead. He'd put away murderers, catch a serial killer, get a movie of the week. When he'd been assigned to the Boston office, he'd fantasized about exposing Boston's Mafia. He'd work undercover to expose the prominent crime families and have a showdown with the head don.
First year out of the academy, a chiropractor finally diagnosed David as having AS. His “bad back” would never get better.
The Bureau assigned him to white collar crime, where the biggest field danger was paper cuts from sorting through hundreds of boxes of subpoenaed files. David got good reviews each year for his “analytics,” the Bureau's euphemism for being adept at speed-reading large quantities of gibberish while downing take-out Chinese. And he watched his academy classmates break up drug rings, foil terrorism plots, and get promoted first. Those were the breaks in the Bureau.
His back felt much better now. Did that mean it would let him sleep? Nearly five in the morning. Steven probably had a game today. He should drive over and watch. His father would be there.
David would probably go in to work instead. The cleanup at the Stokes house wasn't finished yet, and David needed the excuse to be around. It would give him a chance to learn more about Dr. Harper Stokes and Digger's strange allegations about his adopted daughter.
David walked into his apartment as the first rays of sun began to lighten the sky. Only two pictures decorated the walls. Fenway Park lit up at night. Shoeless Joe Jackson. Not much about the place to call home.
David cast off his clothes without turning on the light and slid into bed. Two more hours until the alarm clock would go off. He needed to sleep.
He stared at the portrait of Shoeless Joe instead.
“Remind me life isn't fair,” he muttered to his idol. “And tell me it's okay, dammit, it's okay.”
Shoeless Joe didn't reply. After a moment David rolled over and pretended to get some sleep.
FIVE
A T FOUR A.M. Melanie bolted awake, a scream ripe in her throat and images blazing in her mind. Little Meagan Stokes chasing her with a bloody head. Little Meagan Stokes chanting “Russell Lee Holmes. Russell Lee Holmes. You're just the brat of Russell Lee Holmes.”
Melan
ie climbed out of bed. Her breathing was hard, her hands were shaking. She could taste blood. She finally realized that in her instinctive effort not to make any noise, she'd bitten her tongue.
She rubbed her damp cheeks, took a deep breath. A minute more and she slid to her feet. Downstairs, she could hear the grandfather clock ticking. Other than that, the three-story house was perfectly still.
Melanie moved quietly. Driven by an impulse she didn't care to examine just yet, she headed downstairs.
The living room was empty, the furniture reassembled, and the whole room cast in a soft glow from the gas lamps on the street.
She drifted toward the fireplace, feeling lonely.
Since her breakup with William, she'd had too many nights like this one, when she woke up to silence and roamed the house, looking for something she couldn't name.
Until he'd proposed to her, she actually hadn't thought too much about a family of her own. She had her parents to take care of, her brother to worry about. Her life was full enough. But then William had asked for her hand in marriage. She'd never been sure why. She'd said yes. She'd never been sure why. Maybe because at that moment she had a vision of herself as Cinderella living happily ever after with Prince Charming, and that vision had seduced her.
The hard facts of reality had emerged soon enough.
She didn't miss William though. What she missed, she supposed, was the dream.
She came to a halt in front of the fireplace. And her gaze turned automatically to the huge oil painting of little Meagan Stokes.
“First we got the timing, Miss Holmes. You just happened to appear the night Russell Lee is fried for killing little kids. Then we got location. You just happened to be dropped at Harper's hospital and he just happened to have blown off an execution to be there. Then we got you. A little girl. Found perfectly clothed and in good health but nobody ever claimed you? All these years, not a single whisper from the people who must've taken care of you for nine years, bought you clothes, fed you, put a roof over your head, hell, even made sure you were found at a hospital, where you'd be in good hands. And then there's the matter of your amnesia. A healthy little girl who couldn't remember anything about where she came from, not even her own name. And all these years later, two decades later, you still don't remember?”
“No,” she whispered to Meagan. “I don't remember. I swear I don't.”
But she wasn't sure anymore. The stirrings in her mind, the recurring black voids, the little girl's voice. How many times now? She'd tried to pretend it wasn't happening, that her mind wasn't beginning to open up and show her things she didn't want to know.
She already had a family. She didn't want to know about a serial killer or her birth parents or her first nine years. None of that mattered. The only thing that did was that when she'd been abandoned in a hospital without even a name, the Stokeses had stepped in and rescued her.
For God's sake, she would be nothing without the Stokeses. Nothing.
Twenty years ago, she'd been a little girl waking up alone in a hospital ER. The white, white walls. The scary needles and tubes. The bewildering, frightening faces of strangers.
Everyone assured her she would be all right. Everyone told her that her parents would show up at any time and set everything straight. She was well fed, well taken care of. Someone out there most certainly loved her.
A couple of days passed. Time spent in the peds ward listening to other little children whimper and be comforted by their parents. Melanie would roll over in her high, white hospital bed and stare at the blank wall, trying desperately to picture the mommy who would come one day soon to comfort her.
Social services took over, transferred her to a nearby hospice. No more talk about the return of her loving parents. Now everyone murmured about finding a good foster home instead. What about adoption? It would be one thing if she were a baby, she heard someone say, but since she wasn't . . .
Night after night, alone in a plain room, realizing more and more that no one was going to magically arrive for her. No one was going to take her home. No one could even give her a name.
Then Patricia Stokes came.
She appeared in the doorway in a pretty pink suit, saying she'd come to read Melanie a story. Melanie didn't say a word. She looked at the thin, beautiful woman with her sad, lilting voice, and had thought almost viscerally, I want her.
She'd thrown her arms around the pretty lady. She'd buried her face against her fragrant neck. Tell me everything is all right now. Tell me I have a home.
The beautiful Mrs. Stokes had read her a story about a fairy-tale princess. For reasons Melanie hadn't known, she'd cried at the end. Then she'd hastily dried her tears, given Melanie a yearning look, and quickly left the room.
Later, one of the social workers explained to Melanie that Mrs. Stokes had lost her four-year-old daughter years ago in Texas. It had been very tragic. Now the Stokeses were starting over in Boston and Dr. Harper Stokes and his wife were among the most generous people in the community. Really, a lovely couple. So sad what had happened, of course, but sometimes God knows best.
Melanie got it. The Stokeses were missing a little girl the way she was missing a family. Apart, they were all lonely. Together, they would fit.
The next time Patricia arrived, she thrust out her arms. In an instant Mrs. Stokes folded her into her embrace. She began to cry again. This time Melanie patted her back.
“It's all right now,” she whispered solemnly. “I'll be your little girl and everything will be all right.”
Patricia had cried harder.
Six months later the Stokeses brought Melanie home.
By the time she was twelve, Melanie was the only one who could make her overworked father laugh. She was the one who understood Brian and his black moods.
Then there were the really dark nights, when her brother stayed out late and her father worked late, when Melanie would go downstairs and find her mother staring up at the oil portrait of the four-year-old daughter who would never be coming home. The little girl Patricia had brought into the world and lost. The little girl who, even though Patricia had Melanie, she still couldn't forget.
On those nights Melanie would lead her mother upstairs and into bed. Then she would sit with her mother in the silence and hold her hand, trying to help her simply get through.
It's okay, Mom. I'll take care of you. I will always take care of you.
Five o'clock. The grandfather clock chimed again, rousing Melanie from her memories.
She was still staring at Meagan Stokes, who beamed as she held out her favorite red wooden horse to whoever was watching her. Little Meagan, with the perfect blue ruffled dress, big blue eyes, and golden sausage curls. Bright Meagan, who, just three weeks after the painting was completed, would be dead.
And twenty years later the Stokes family was still trying to get over it. Melanie understood now that there were some wounds not even an earnest new daughter could mend.
She finally turned away. She curled up on the sofa and whispered, “But they're my family too, Meagan. I earned them. I did.”
THE MAN HUMMED softly to himself in the dark room. Making a list, checking it twice . . .
Twenty-five years he'd waited. Thought about what he'd do, turned it over in his mind, refined it until it was absolutely right. Three weeks earlier he'd started the ball rolling with a single phone call. First get everyone in the same town. With Larry Digger's arrival just a few hours ago, the last of the players had arrived. Now let the games begin.
Twenty-five years ago such crimes had been committed, both big and small. Twenty-five years ago such sins had been tolerated, both big and small. He had always thought human nature would take care of everything in the end. Someone would break, someone would talk, maybe even Larry Digger would finally put the pieces together.
But year had passed into year, and everyone did absolutely nothing. Told nothing, asked nothing, remembered nothing, learned nothing. Everyone got away with it.
He had had enough. Now he was taking matters into his own hands. Starting with the list—the complete compilation of the crimes committed by each.
The crime of not telling. The crime of not knowing. The crime of not remembering. The crime of unconditional love. The crime of unrelenting cowardice.
The crime of never being enough of a man.
Then there came the worst crime, a crime so big, he could not come up with a name that could capture its full nature. It was hypocrisy and greed and selfishness all rolled into one. It was taking what other people had simply because they had it. It was heartlessness and it was worse—it was ruining people's lives and not losing a moment of sleep.
It was the one Real Sin, for he had often thought that the true heart of the devil was contempt.
He had not come up with the price for this sin. It needed to be special, it needed to be simple, and it needed to be horrible.
He returned to what he did have. Candles and feathers and ancient art. A child's toy and a child's dress. Cow tongues and pig hearts and a bushel of apples. An object that bobbed in a glass jar and was so gruesome, not even he could stand the sight.
A phone number.
His preparations were complete.
Time for the opening gift. He studied his list. He studied his pile. He made his decision: Melanie. Melanie, who had actually found happiness as the Stokeses' other daughter. Melanie, who, in all these years, had never done him the favor of remembering.
He got out his butcher's knife. He sharpened the blade.
He was ready.
Do you know the perfect crime?
I do.
SIX
S UNDAY WAS A beautiful day, bright spring sun, gaily chirping birds. Melanie woke up to discover herself on the camelback sofa with waiter David Reese peering down at her. She sat up in a hurry.
