by Lisa Gardner
“Mr. Petracelli—”
“I told the Lawrence detectives there had to be a connection. I mean, first some Peeping Tom looks in our neighbor’s window, then our seven-year-old daughter goes missing. Two different cities, they said. Two different MOs. Mind your own business is what they meant. Let us do our jobs, crazy kook.”
He was working himself into a state.
“I tried to call your father, thought if he could at least speak to the police, he could convince them. But I didn’t have a phone number. How do you like that? Five years of friendship. Cookouts, New Year’s Eve parties, watching our daughters grow up side by side, and one day your family takes off without so much as a by-your-leave.
“I hated your father for leaving. But maybe it’s just plain old jealousy. Because he left and he saved his little girl. While I did nothing and I lost mine.”
His shrill voice broke off, his bitterness undisguised. I still didn’t know what to say.
“I miss Dori,” I finally ventured.
“Miss her?” he parroted, and that ugly thing flickered in his eyes again. “I haven’t heard from your family in twenty-five years. Pretty funny way to miss someone if you ask me.”
More silence. I shifted uncomfortably from side to side. I felt that he had something important to say, the real reason he had dragged himself out on such a dark and rainy night, but he didn’t know yet how to put it in words.
“I want you to go to the police,” he stated finally, peering up from beneath the brim of his hat. “If you tell them your story, especially about the locket, they’ll take a fresh interest in the case. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, you know. And if they find some new leads …” His voice wobbled. He stiffened, soldiered on.
“I got a heart condition, Annabelle. Quadruple bypass, shunts. Hell, I’m more plastic parts than flesh and blood these days. It’s gonna get me in the end. My father didn’t live much past fifty-five. My brother neither. I don’t mind dying. Some days, frankly, it sounds like a relief. But when I die … I want to be buried next to my daughter. I want to know she’s by my side. I want to know she finally came home. She was only seven. My little girl. God, I miss her so much.”
And then he started crying, giant, heaving sobs that made strangers stop in bewilderment. I put my arms around his shoulders. He grabbed on to me so hard, he almost pulled me to the ground. But I braced myself against his weight, felt the waves of his rough, violent grief.
Bella whined, prancing nervously, pawing at my leg. All I could do was wait.
Eventually he straightened, wiping at his face, tightening the belt of his coat, adjusting the brim of his hat. He wouldn’t look at me anymore. I didn’t expect him to.
“I’ll go to the police,” I promised him, an easy pledge, since I’d already done so. “You never know. Forensic science is getting better all the time; maybe they’ve already made an important discovery.”
“Well, there is that pit over in Mattapan,” he mumbled. “Six bodies. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky.” His face spasmed. “Lucky! Do you hear me? Christ, this is no way to live.”
I didn’t comment. I sneaked a quick glance at my watch. I’d been gone twenty minutes. I was probably as good as fired anyway. What were a few minutes more?
“Mr. Petracelli, did you ever see the Peeping Tom?”
He shook his head.
“But you believed the man existed, right? That someone was living in Mrs. Watts’s attic, keeping tabs on me?”
He regarded me strangely. “Well, I don’t think Mrs. Watts and your father would make up something like that. Besides, the police found the man’s camping supplies in Mrs. Watts’s home. That seems real enough to me.”
“So you never got a look at the guy? Saw him for yourself?”
He shook his head. “Nah, but two days after the discovery of the stuff in Mrs. Watts’s attic, we had a neighborhood meeting. Your father circulated a description of the Peeping Tom, along with a list of ‘presents’ you had received and when they had arrived. He told us there wasn’t much the police could do; until something criminal actually happened, their hands were tied. Of course, we were all infuriated, especially those of us with kids. We voted to establish a Neighborhood Watch program. We’d just had our first meeting, in fact, when your dad announced that your family was taking a little vacation. None of us realized we’d never see you again.”
“Do you happen to have those handouts? The description of the Peeping Tom my father circulated? I mean, I know it’s been a long time, but …”
Mr. Petracelli smiled softly. “Annabelle, honey, I have a whole fat manila folder containing every single piece of documentation. I’ve brought it with me to every meeting we’ve had with the police since my little girl vanished, and at every meeting they’ve politely set it aside. But I’ve kept everything. In my heart of hearts, I’ve always known there was a connection between Dori’s disappearance and yours. I just never could get anyone else to believe it.”
“May I have a copy?” I was already reaching into my bag, fumbling for one of my business cards.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Mr. Petracelli, you said you knew my father for five years. Were you the one who was new to the neighborhood, or were we?”
“Your family arrived in ’77. Lana and I’d been there since she was pregnant with Dori. We’d heard a rumor that a family was moving in with a daughter Dori’s age. Lana had just gotten the cookies out of the oven when the U-Haul showed up. She marched right over with snickerdoodles in hand and Dori in tow. You girls became inseparable from that very afternoon. We had your parents over for dinner the second night, and that sealed the deal.”
I smiled at him to encourage further reminiscences. “Oh, really? I honestly don’t remember. Guess I was too young.”
“You were, what, eighteen months, two years old? Had that great toddler waddle. You and Dori used to chase each other around our house, screaming at the top of your lungs. Lana would shake her head, saying it was a wonder you didn’t trip over your own feet.” Mr. Petracelli was smiling. No wonder he was so tormented. In spite of his earlier statement, he remembered the past vividly, as if it were an old photograph he viewed often.
“Where did my family move from? Do you know?”
“Philly. Your dad had been with the University of Pennsylvania, or something like that. I never understood Russell’s job much. Though for a professor type, I have to say, he had great taste in beer. Plus, he liked the Celtics, which was good enough for me.”
“I never understood my father’s job much either,” I murmured. “Teaching math always sounded so boring to me. I remember I used to pretend he was with the FBI.”
Mr. Petracelli laughed. “Russell? Not likely. I’ve never met a man so squeamish about firearms. At that Neighborhood Watch meeting, a bunch of us discussed buying guns for protection. Your dad wouldn’t hear of it. ‘It’s bad enough some man has brought fear to my house,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll let him bring violence, too.’ Nah, your dad was a liberal academic to the core. Can’t we talk this out, give peace a chance, and all that crap.”
“Did you buy a gun?”
“I did. Little did I know, I should have sent it with Dori to Lawrence.” Mr. Petracelli’s face twisted again, the bitterness getting the best of him. His breathing had grown shallower, strained. I wondered about his heart.
“Lana said your parents died,” he said abruptly.
“Yes, sir.”
“When?”
I considered his question, where he was going with this. “Does it matter?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
His lips thinned. “Where did you go, Annabelle?” he said brusquely, ignoring my question. “When your family went on vacation, how far away did you go?”
“All the way to Florida.”
“And your father really got a job there? That’s why you stayed?”
“He drove a taxi. Not the same as being a pr
ofessor, but I believe he thought the trade-off was worthwhile.”
The news seemed to surprise Mr. Petracelli. That my father had been willing to surrender his academic career, or that my father hadn’t lied about getting a job? I wasn’t sure. He blinked. “Sorry,” he said after a moment, “guess I’m just getting paranoid in my old age. It’s easy to do, considering I wake up screaming most nights.”
The rain had started to spatter down again. Mr. Petracelli was already turning to go. I stopped him by putting my hand on his arm. “Why did you ask about my father, Mr. Petracelli? What do you need to know?”
“It’s just … after Dori disappeared, a neighbor reported seeing a man driving an unmarked white van in the area, even gave the police a description of the guy. Lana never agreed with me, of course, but my first thought?”
“Yes?”
“Short dark hair, tanned face, real good-looking guy. Come on, Annabelle.” Mr. Petracelli’s face suddenly changed again, that crafty gleam returning to his eyes. “Tell me who that is.”
For a moment, I didn’t get it. Then, as his innuendo struck, I tried to snatch my hand away. He grabbed my fingers, held on tight. “Don’t be absurd!” I said sharply.
“Yeah, Annabelle, the man who took my Dori, he sounds exactly like your dear old dad.”
He flung my arm back at me. I fell to the wet sidewalk, bruised fingers tucked protectively against my chest while Bella went into a paroxysm of barking. I grabbed her, trying to steady her, steady me.
When I looked up again, Mr. Petracelli was gone, and only the ugliness of his accusation lingered in the wet, dark air.
Carl fired me. I took the news well, considering I needed the job to cover such luxuries as rent. Mostly, it was a relief to leave the loud, chaotic space of Quincy Market, where Mr. Petracelli’s ugly words still tainted the night. Even Bella was subdued, walking obediently beside me as we left Faneuil Hall, crossing into the familiar territory of Columbus Park.
The harborside park was small compared to other Boston green spaces. But it offered a water fountain that kept the kids giggling and wet during the summer, while the adults lounged in the grass or beneath the shade of the long wooden trellis. There was a playground, a rose garden, and a small reflecting fountain, where the homeless kept vigil.
Sometimes, before my Starbucks shift, I’d bring Bella here to run around with her North End neighbors, an informal puppy playgroup. I’d stand to the side of the gathered humans, while the dogs frolicked.
Too cold and wet for children now. Too late for dogs or community gatherings. The homeless slept on the benches. The barflies passed briskly through, mindful of the misty weather as they exchanged Faneuil Hall haunts for North End eateries. Other than that, the park was quiet.
I found myself thinking of the note again. Return the locket, or another girl will die.
Was there a young child in bed right now, maybe tucked in with her favorite stuffed dog and pink fleecy blanket? Did she trust her parents to keep her safe? Believe nothing could happen to her inside her own home?
He would walk across her lawn, heavy metal crowbar slapping against his thigh. He would tuck himself somewhere out of sight, maybe a tree or bush. Then he would inch along the side of the house until he came to her window.
Lifting the crowbar, going to work on the window sash …
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyeballs, as if that would make the images go away. I felt dipped in ugliness, suffocated by violence. Twenty-five years later, I still couldn’t escape.
I didn’t want to think about Mr. Petracelli’s words. I didn’t want to think about the threat left on the windshield of D.D.’s car. The past was the past. I was a grown adult. I’d lived in the city for over ten years. Why would the boogeyman suddenly return now, demanding my old locket, threatening new victims? It didn’t make any sense.
Mr. Petracelli was insane. A bitter, crazy man who’d never gotten over the terrible loss of his daughter. Of course he blamed my father. Saved him all sorts of parental guilt.
As for Bobby and D.D.’s allegations …
They had never met my dad. They didn’t know him the way I did. How he could sink his teeth into a problem like a pit bull, refusing to let go. Obviously, Catherine had information he wanted. In that case, it would’ve made sense to my father to pass himself off as an FBI agent. Normal fathers probably did not do such things, but they probably didn’t move their families to Florida just because the police wouldn’t call in the National Guard to look for a Peeping Tom.
And as for my father’s brief disappearance shortly after we moved to Florida … No doubt there were loose ends to tidy up. Closing out bank accounts, putting things into storage. Except, of course, he could’ve closed out the bank accounts before we left. And apparently he’d arranged for the moving company by phone.…
I didn’t want to go there. My father was obsessive, paranoid, and systematic.
That still did not mean he was a killer.
Except maybe he wasn’t even Russell Granger?
My temples started to throb again, the beginnings of a first-class headache that had started twenty-five years ago and now threatened to go on without end. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted … I just wished …
“Hello.”
The voice startled me so badly, I squeaked, twirled, and nearly fell. A strong hand grabbed my arm, held me upright.
Bella barked excitedly as I belatedly turned around to discover the old man from Boston State Mental standing beside me. Charlie Marvin. Bella barked louder. Far from being concerned, Charlie simply bent down and held out his hand.
“Beautiful dog,” he murmured, waiting until Bella gave up barking long enough to sniff his hand. Another tentative sniff, then she stepped toward him, wagging her tail.
Charlie, apparently, was a dog person. “Oh, there’s a good girl. Aren’t you beautiful? Look at those markings. You must be an Australian shepherd. Not a lot of sheep around here for herding, I’m afraid. Would you settle for taxis? What do you think? You look like a fast girl. I bet you catch a lot of taxis.”
Bella seemed to think this was a fine idea. She pressed herself against Charlie, while eyeing me for approval. The man had totally and completely won over my dog.
He finally straightened from his squat, smiling ruefully as his knees creaked, and he had to grab my arm for support.
“Sorry,” he said cheerfully. “It’s one thing to get down. Quite another to get up.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, voice sharp, making no apologies.
His blue eyes crinkled at the corners. He seemed to find my concern amusing. He held up both hands in a gesture of mea culpa. “Remember how I said you looked familiar?”
I nodded grudgingly.
“I kept thinking about it, remembered from where. This park. You run through here with your dog. Generally a bit earlier than this, but I’ve spotted you quite a few times. I never forget a face, particularly a pretty one.” He glanced down, tickled Bella under the chin. “Of course I’m talking about you, sweetheart,” he crooned.
I couldn’t help myself, I finally smiled. Then hastily pulled it together. “And why are you in the park so often?”
He jerked his head toward the corner of Atlantic Avenue. “Working with the homeless. Just because you don’t have a roof over your head doesn’t mean you should be denied the word of God.”
I couldn’t think of an argument for that.
“Anyhooo,” he drawled, rocking back on his heels, cramming his hands into his pockets, “I’ll confess, I’ve been looking for you.”
I didn’t say anything, but felt my pulse quicken as I went on high alert.
“You’re not with the police,” he stated.
No answer.
“But they took you to the crime scene.” He cocked his head, regarding me steadily. “So I figure maybe you’re another kind of expert. Botanist, bone person. I don’t really know anything, I just watch Court TV. But I am a good judge
of people and I don’t think you’re a scientist any more than you’re a cop. Which means … I’m thinking relative. Of one of those poor girls. But you’re too young to be a mother. So maybe a sister? That’s my theory, at least. You knew one of the girls whose body has been discovered, and for that I am very sad.”
Very slowly, I nodded. Sister. That seemed close enough.
Charlie smiled. “Phew!” He made an exaggerated motion of wiping his brow. “I really am blowing things out my arse, you know. Then again, more often than not, I’m right. The Lord has given me a gift. For now, I am using it for His work. Minute this gig is done, however, that’s it. I’m hitting the poker tables. In my old age, I’m gonna get myself a Cadillac!”
His smile was too infectious. I found myself smiling back, while Bella pranced around us, clearly infatuated with her newfound friend.
“All right,” I said. “So I’m a relative. What’s your interest?”
Charlie sobered up instantly, shaking his head mournfully. “I can’t sleep. I know that might sound crazy. I’m a minister. If I don’t know the true evil man is capable of, then who does? But I’m an idealist. The times I’ve been around genuine evil, I knew it. I could feel it, touch it, smell it. Christopher Eola reeked of it.
“But during all my years at Boston State Mental, I never suspected anything as terrible as a mass grave. I never walked the streets of Mattapan and imagined young girls were being stolen from their homes. Never walked through the woods of the property and thought for a second that I heard a young girl scream. And I used to walk those woods with great frequency. Lots of us did. It’s one of the finest nature sanctuaries in the state; we would’ve been fools not to enjoy God’s bounty. And that’s what I felt when I walked through those fields, skirting the marshes, retreating into the forest—I felt honestly, genuinely, closer to God.”
His voice caught. He looked up, pinning me with somber blue eyes. “It’s shaken me to my very soul, young lady. If I could not feel the evil on those grounds, then what kind of minister am I? How can I be God’s messenger when I was so blind?”
