by Lisa Gardner
“Now, what would happen if I did that? Huh? What would happen? Don't you people get it yet? My own children dance and play and join freak shows while I pay the fucking bills. My wife shops and nurses her self-pity while I get up and go to work every single day regardless of rain, weather, or mood. Jesus Christ, Pat, all I ever asked of you was to be a good mother. Then Meagan dies and you weren't even that. You became a mourner, a full-time professional mourner. Is it any wonder that Brian became a freak? Of course he had to turn to men. It wasn't like he was getting any affection from the women in his life!”
Patricia inhaled sharply, but her husband was far from done.
“So don't you turn on me!” He stared directly at Melanie. “Don't you speak to me in that tone of voice! This is my house. Paid for by me, maintained by me, because that's what my life is all about—taking care of the rest of you whether I feel like it or not. You guys get to play. I have never had that luxury. Not even when my little girl was murdered, you selfish, self-centered—”
Harper's voice broke off abruptly. He was near tears, Melanie realized. Oh, God, she'd driven her father to tears.
He wiped his face with the back of a hand, quickly composing himself, but still angry.
“I'm going to the hospital. While I'm gone, I expect you two to give this some thought. And you, Melanie. I want an apology to both me and your mother by morning. And then you can start packing your bags. Because whether you like it or not, this whole family is going on vacation and we're all going to be happy, if it kills us!”
Harper banged through the French doors. Moments later they could hear him storming down the hall and then slamming the front door. Then the house was silent.
Patricia was staring at Melanie, who tried to think of something to say, something to do. She found herself fingering her cheek; it still stung. Her mind couldn't grasp it. She'd never seen her father violent before.
“He just needs some time to cool off,” Patricia murmured. “He's been under a lot of pressure lately. . . .”
Melanie didn't say anything.
“It's going to be all right,” her mother said more anxiously. “This is how families are. We have spells, bad spells, but we get through them, Melanie. We all get through them, and that's what makes us strong.”
“Maybe we shouldn't keep getting through them,” Melanie said tiredly. “Maybe what this family really needs is to fall apart.”
She staggered to her feet. Her legs felt rubbery. Pain gathered behind her left eyeball. Another migraine was coming.
“You're only twenty-nine,” her mother was saying. “Only a twenty-nine-year-old would say something like that. The bottom line is that families must forgive, Melanie, and families must forget.”
“Why? We have never forgotten Meagan. And you and Dad have obviously never forgiven each other, or how could he have said even half of what he did? What did you guys do back then? What did you do?”
Patricia paled again. Then her shoulders sagged and Melanie supposed she'd finally gotten what she wanted. Her mother broke, looking hurt and frightened beyond belief.
Melanie decided there was no satisfaction in it after all.
IN HER OWN room, the colors greeted her sharply. Red, green, and blue. Yellow and orange, and Lord, what a mess.
She shed her dress and climbed into the shower. And there beneath the protective spray, she sobbed simply because she needed to.
When she climbed back out, all the emotion had drained away. She was no longer scared or angry or overwhelmed. She was exhausted.
She took her Fiorinal, cocooned herself in bed, and within seconds fell asleep.
Once she woke up and saw her father standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his face filled with menace.
Then she was sucked back into the darkness, where she ran through a dense underbrush, thorns snatching at her hair and the scent of gardenias cloying in the air.
I want to go home. I want to go home.
Run, Meagan, run.
The sound of laboring breath coming closer . . . coming closer . . .
RUN, MEAGAN, RUN!
The gardenias, the branches, twigs, the heavy footsteps falling so close—
Nooo.
When she woke up again, Patricia sat at her bedside, stroking her hair.
“It's all right,” her mother whispered. “I won't lose another child. I won't.”
TWENTY-THREE
D AVID WORKED LATE. Hunched over his desk, he raked a hand through his hair and sifted through stacks of paper. His eyes were blurred by fatigue, his neck muscles ached, and his lower back had locked up. He pushed himself harder, consumed by the notion that there wasn't much time left.
Chenney had investigated William Sheffield's trash early that afternoon. He'd discovered an entire bag filled with pig organs, stained bedding, and one shiny apple. Unless Sheffield had taken up a macabre hobby, David was willing to believe the items had been left as some kind of shocking display.
After twenty-five years, had one of the co-conspirators finally had enough? Or was there a person they had yet to identify? And what other kinds of messages might have been delivered that the Bureau simply didn't know about yet?
David hated that question most of all. He was left with an overall feeling of being herded, that the messenger wasn't moving just with speed, but with competency. Hitting everyone's buttons and moving on. Advancing them all through some highly complex game where he already had an ending in sight.
That ending worried David quite a bit.
“What you got?” he demanded from Detective Jax at four in the afternoon.
“Forty-two cases and two unidentified stiffs. And how are you?”
“Overworked and underloved. Have you ID'd the shooter?”
“Nah, the tarot card reading came back inconclusive. Now I'm thinking of contacting a medium. Maybe get the guy's name and a song by Elvis Presley. You know, 'cause us local boys have nothing better to do with our time.”
“What about the pay phone records? Know who Difford spoke to?”
“Yo, Agent, keep your pants on. It takes a little time to subpoena public phone records and wade through the mess, unless, of course, you want to do the paperwork for me.”
“It's your case,” David said stiffly.
“As a matter of fact, it is. So why the hell am I talking to you?” Detective Jax hung up. Apparently forty-two cases took their toll on a man.
David was left with gnawing frustration and a really bad mood. Subpoenaing records did take time. Sorting through the records of a downtown Boston pay phone with its extraordinary high volume of calls took even longer.
He just wanted answers now.
Seven P.M. arrived.
Lairmore stopped by on his way out the door. “Where are we?”
“Same as yesterday, plus one additional corpse.”
Lairmore scowled. David raised an inquiring brow. “Bad day, Lairmore?”
“Bad week,” the supervisory agent said. David didn't push. Lairmore's business was his own, just as David's business was his own. The red message light on his phone was already blinking with the third message left by his father.
After a moment Lairmore walked away.
David returned to the open file on his desk. He was surrounded by stacks of materials, as if they were pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle just waiting to fall into place. He had a file on the Stokes financials, which he was dutifully compiling for his next seven A.M. meeting with Lairmore. Nothing revolutionary there. Money came in, money went out. Someone had better tell Harper there was more to life than Armani suits.
David sighed. He'd left two messages with Brian Stokes, but neither had been returned. At eight P.M. he paid a visit to the exiled son's house. No lights on, nobody home. Next David tried the private practice where Brian worked, only to be told that the doctor had called in sick.
Forty-eight hours without a single sighting of Brian Stokes. David still wasn't sure what that meant.
Nine P.M. H
e followed up with the lab. They didn't have conclusive news yet. No prints. Candles were a local-made brand available from a factory in Maine and sold in several hundred locations in the state. The toy did seem old. Most interesting was the scrap of dress that had yielded two blood types. They were hoping to have DNA test results by end of week, and that was considered a rush job. Of course, for DNA results to be useful, you generally needed someone to match them against.
Back to the normal investigative world of hurry-up-and-wait.
Nothing you can do anymore, Riggs. You are trying to help her, you are.
I lied to her, he thought bluntly, finally left alone with his guilt. I never told her I was investigating her father, or that we probably do have a case against Harper for healthcare fraud.
That's your job. You have to do your job. That is how you help her.
What if it makes a difference? What if knowing that much about her father would give her perspective, help keep her safe?
You don't know that, Riggs. As Chenney likes to say, there's still a world of difference between reckless endangerment of human life and hiring a hit man to kill your adopted daughter.
He finally headed back to his place.
He slipped on boxers, crawled into bed.
He fell asleep with his pager cradled against his cheek, and he dreamed he was in a wooden shack but with Melanie, not Meagan Stokes. He was cleaning, scrubbing the floor furiously, as if that would save them all.
But he could still see Melanie laid out in the middle of the floor, and no matter how hard he scrubbed, she didn't move.
In the doorway Russell Lee Holmes stood laughing.
CHENNEY WAS TIRED. Really tired. He'd managed to snag an afternoon nap, but between trying to track down William Sheffield's garbage and his history at some boys' home in Texas, he'd still had a long day. At least he'd learned interesting information. According to one of the nuns, Sheffield had been a bit of a monster at that boys' home. She even thought William might have poisoned one of the older boys, not enough to die, but enough to put some fear of God in the child and keep him away from William. Clearly, there was more to the thin, overeducated anesthesiologist than met the eye.
Now Chenney trudged through the dim halls of City General, pushing a cart loaded down with cleaning supplies, a giant trash can, and rolls upon rolls of toilet paper. Halls were empty, dimly lit. His cart echoed against the linoleum floor and gave him the willies. He didn't like big institutional places.
When the ICU nurse had moved on to other patients in the ward, he'd managed to sneak a glance at the charts. He couldn't understand any of the shit—that was Riggs's department.
He'd finally focused on two older patients who were hooked to heart monitors and IVs. One looked in pretty rough shape. Toothless jaw open beneath the oxygen mask. Skin settling into folds around her neck. Flesh tone nearly gray. Chenney figured whatever condition she had, it was real.
The other man was younger, probably in his fifties. Fairly fit, actually. Good haircut. Nice spring tan, a bit of a roll around the middle and upper arms. The next time the nurse was around, he'd inquire politely about the man's condition.
Chenney turned the corner, slogging ahead, and thinking he really had to get up to speed on healthcare fraud.
“Oh, excuse me.” Chenney had been so lost in thought, he'd run into a doctor.
The man turned around, equally startled, and Chenney found himself face-to-face with Dr. William Sheffield.
Chenney gripped the cart to hold himself steady. He was just a janitor, he reminded himself belatedly.
“Are you going to move?” Sheffield inquired tersely. Chenney caught a faint whiff of whiskey.
“Sorry.” Chenney eased back his cart. He had to stare at the floor now, or he was sure his face would give him away. Luckily Sheffield wasn't in the mood to chat. The anesthesiologist brushed by in a snit and kept walking down the hall.
Okay. Now what?
Chenney should swing back around to the ICU. Would Sheffield really strike two nights in a row? Anything was possible.
Chenney picked up his footsteps, never seeing Sheffield turn around with a last annoyed glance, his gaze falling to the janitor's shoes. William took one look at the retreating Italian loafers, and his stomach plunged, and his mouth went dry.
He bolted into the nearest bathroom. He vomited into the sink. He grabbed the two vials of propranolol from his pocket, wiped them clean with paper towels, and shoved them deep into the trash can.
Harper was setting him up, that son of a bitch. Looking for a fall guy so he could once again sail away into the sunset.
Well, Harper Stokes had another think coming. William was not going down without a fight. Particularly not when he knew a thing or two.
“WE HAVE PROBLEMS,” Harper stated at the other end of the line.
“Would it kill you to let me sleep?” Jamie O'Donnell yawned, annoyed at being woken up for a second night by Harper. Jamie glanced at the clock glowing next to his bed. Two A.M. Bloody hell.
“Hang on.” Jamie pushed back the covers and crawled out of bed, conscious of Annie sleeping beside him. Jamie touched her cheek once, then picked up the phone and carried it with him to the adjoining room of the suite, shutting the door behind him so he wouldn't disturb her.
“What's up, sport? Did you just get your tickets to Europe?” Jamie yawned again. The European vacation still rankled him. Harper riding off like the good cowboy with the tall white hat.
“Fuck Europe,” Harper said. “This is about William. He's cracked. Called me in total panic, told me he was being pursued by a pair of Italian loafers, and that he wasn't going to let me get away with this. Then he slammed down the phone. I tried calling back twice, no answer. I went by his place. Looks as if a tornado has blown through, and both William and his car have vanished.”
“You're right. The kid's gone Humpty Dumpty.”
“Jesus Christ,” Harper exploded. “He's ranting that I set him up. I've done no such thing. Just who the hell is behind all this? I thought you were going to figure it out.”
“I'm trying. As a matter of fact, I'd thought I'd talk to Larry Digger about it, but I couldn't. Seems that Larry boy is now dead.”
“What!”
“Oh, don't play dumb with me, Harper. I know you did it.”
“I did not!” Harper sounded shrill. “What the hell is going on? Somebody is setting me up, Jamie. You have to believe me. Somebody is just plain fucking with everything. My God, even Melanie came home accusing me of doing something to Meagan.”
For a moment Jamie didn't reply. He'd never heard his old friend sound so out of control before, so genuinely afraid. He kept waiting for some feeling of satisfaction to come to him, but it didn't. He still carried the suspicion that this too was an act. It was always so difficult to tell with Harper.
“You really didn't arrange to harm Larry Digger?”
“No!”
“Well, I didn't do it.”
“But, but . . .” Harper was definitely losing it now. “Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You have to fix this, Jamie. Everything is falling apart. It can't just happen like this. Not . . . not after all this time. It makes no sense. This was over and done with, end of story.”
“You started it again with the surgeries, Hap. I warned you to keep your hands clean—”
“Fine, fine, I'm stopping them. Just find Sheffield for me. Work this out with him.”
“What makes you think he'll listen to me? He hates me as much as anyone.”
“Because, Jamie, he's your kind. Remember?”
Jamie was silent. Then he had to shake his head. Leave it to Harper to lash out even when he was down. There was more than a bit of the street fighter in prim, proper Dr. Stokes.
“All right,” Jamie said finally, reluctantly. “One last time, I'll take care of things. Just give me a day or two.” He added as almost an afterthought, “Oh, Harper.”
“What?”
>
“Have you spoken to your son lately?”
“No. I've been meaning to call. Tomorrow I'll do it.”
“Well, I wish you the best of luck, then, old man, because I've been trying to reach him for twenty-four hours now, but Brian seems to have also disappeared. I wonder what that means, Hap. I wonder.”
TWENTY-FOUR
M ELANIE WOKE UP with her cheek still stinging. She fingered the bruise gingerly. Painful, but nothing that wouldn't heal. She supposed that assessment characterized much of her life these days.
When she came downstairs, the house was quiet. No Harper or Patricia. No María.
She called her brother. Brian wasn't at home. She tried him at work. He was still out sick, the receptionist informed her. Something about a forty-eight-hour flu bug. Melanie didn't believe that for a minute. If Brian was sick, he'd be at home. Now what?
The phone call, the anonymous tip that supposedly had come from her own house. In the chaos of the past few days, she'd never followed up on it. Now she dialed the local phone company and arranged for a listing of calls to be sent. That would be a start. And until then?
Melanie roamed the downstairs, feeling strange and outside her own skin. Her home looked like a setting from a play to her now, a carefully crafted backdrop. Living room hung in rose-colored silk, perfect for social gatherings. Front parlor with golden Italian marble, perfect for impressing hospital administrators. Dining room with the huge walnut table set for twelve, perfect for family dinners and long, intimate conversations as the Stokeses unwound from their day.
Back patio with its clay urns of climbing roses and wrought iron table, perfect for a father to strike a daughter.
Enough. Melanie went down to the basement, where there rested a pile of boxes that shared one common label: MEAGAN STOKES 1968–1972.
When Melanie had turned twelve, Patricia lobbied to finish the basement as a rec room for the kids. Harper denied the motion. Families needed places to hide their junk, he'd insisted. Basements served useful purposes.
It may have made sense, except the Stokeses had no junk. No boxes of old clothes, old books, jigsaw puzzles, or games. No stained carpet or too-old furniture. Harper was scrupulous—all outgrown items were catalogued, evaluated, and sent to the Salvation Army for the tax deduction. Everything had its worth. Except these boxes, whose content was priceless.
