by Lisa Gardner
“It’s a big responsibility, escorting a prisoner alone.”
He perked up a little, taking up position at Tessa’s side, one hand on his holster.
Tessa didn’t say anything, just stood there, her face expressionless once more. A cop’s face, D.D. thought suddenly, and for some reason, that made her shiver.
“Thank you,” D.D. said abruptly.
“For what?” Tessa asked.
“Your daughter deserves this. Children shouldn’t be lost in the woods. Now we can bring her home.”
Tessa’s expression cracked. Her eyes went wide, endlessly stark, and she swayed on her feet, might have even gone down, except she shifted her stance and caught herself.
“I love my daughter.”
“We’ll treat her with respect,” D.D. replied, already gesturing to the SAR team, which was starting to re-form itself into a search line at the closest edge of the woods.
“I love my daughter,” Tessa repeated, her tone more urgent. “You think you understand that now, but it’s just the beginning for you. Nine months from now, you’ll be amazed by how little you loved before that, and then a year after that, and then a year after that. Imagine six years. Six whole years of that kind of love …”
D.D. looked at the woman. “Didn’t save her in the end, did it?”
D.D. deliberately turned away from Tessa Leoni and joined the cadaver dogs.
30
Who do you love?
That was the question, of course. Had been from the very beginning—but, of course, Detective D.D. didn’t know that. She thought she was dealing with a typical case of child abuse and homicide. Can’t say that I blame her. God knows, I was called out to enough houses where wan-faced five-year-olds tended their passed-out mothers. I’ve watched a mother slap her son with no more expression than swatting a fly. Seen children bandage their own scrapes because they already knew their mothers didn’t care enough to do it for them.
But I’d tried to warn D.D. I’d rebuilt my life for Sophie. She wasn’t just my daughter, she was the love that finally saved me. She was giggles and joy and pure, distilled enthusiasm. She was anything that was good in my world, and everything worth coming home to.
Who do you love?
Sophie. It has always been Sophie.
D.D. assumed she was seeing the worst a mother could do. She hadn’t realized yet that she was actually witnessing the true lengths a mother would go to for love.
What can I tell you? Mistakes in this business are costly.
I’d returned to Officer Fiske’s police cruiser. Hands shackled at my waist, but legs still free. He seemed to have forgotten that detail, and I didn’t feel compelled to remind him. I sat in the back, working on keeping my body language perfectly still, nonthreatening.
Both doors were open, his and mine. I needed air, I’d told him. I felt sick, like I might vomit. Officer Fiske had given me a look, but had consented, even helped unzip the heavy BPD coat that pinned my arms to my torso.
Now, he sat in the front seat, obviously frustrated and bored. People became cops because they wanted to play ball, not sit on the bench. But here he was, relegated to listening to the game in the distance. The echoing whines of the search dogs, the faint hum of voices in the woods.
“Drew the short straw,” I commented.
Officer Fiske kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Ever done a cadaver recovery?”
He refused to speak; no consorting with the enemy.
“I did a couple,” I continued. “Meticulous work, holding the line. Inch by inch, foot by foot, clearing each area of the grid before moving to the next, then moving to the next. Rescue work is better. I got called up to help locate a three-year-old boy lost by Walden’s Pond. A pair of volunteers finally found him. Unbelievable moment. Everyone cried, except the boy. He just wanted another chocolate bar.”
Officer Fiske still didn’t say anything.
I shifted on the hard plastic bench, straining my ears. Did I hear it yet? Not yet.
“Got kids?” I asked.
“Shut up,” Officer Fiske growled.
“Wrong strategy,” I informed him. “As long as you’re stuck with me, you should engage in conversation. Maybe you’re the lucky one who will finally earn my trust. Next thing you know, I’ll confide to you what actually happened to my husband and child, turning you into an overnight hero. Something to think about.”
Officer Fiske finally looked at me.
“I hope they bring back the death penalty, just for you,” he said.
I smiled at him. “Then you’re an idiot, because death, at this point, would be the easy way out.”
He twisted around till he was staring out the front of the parked cruiser, falling silent once more.
I started humming. Couldn’t help myself. Bad Tessa rising.
“All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.”
“Shut up,” Officer Fiske snapped again.
Then we both heard it: The sudden excited barks of a dog catching scent. The cry of the handler, the corresponding rush of the search team, closing in on target. Officer Fiske sat up straighter, leaned over the steering wheel.
I could feel his tension, the barely repressed urge to abandon the cruiser and join the fray.
“You should thank me,” I said from the back.
“Shut up.”
The dog, barking even louder now, honing in. I could picture Quizo’s path, across the small clearing, circling the gentle rise of snow. The fallen tree had created a natural hollow, filled with lighter, fluffier flakes, not too big, not too small. I’d been staggering under the weight of my burden by the time I’d found it, literally swaying on my feet from exhaustion.
Setting down the body. Taking out the collapsible shovel strapped around my waist. My gloved hands shaking as I snapped the pieces of handle together. My back aching as I bent over, punching my way through the thin outer layer of ice to the softer snow underneath. Digging, digging, digging. My breath in short, frosty pants. The hot tears that froze almost instantaneously on my cheeks.
As I carved out the hollow, then gently placed the body inside. Moving slower now as I replaced scoop after scoop of snow, then carefully patted it all back into place.
Twenty-three scoops of snow to bury a grown man. Not nearly so many for this precious cargo.
“You should thank me,” I said again, slowly sitting up straight, uncoiling my body. Bad Tessa rising.
Dog was on it. Quizo had done his job and was letting his handler know it with his sustained bark.
Let him go play with his friends, I thought, tense now in spite of myself. Reward the dog. Take him away to Kelli and Skyler. Please.
Officer Fiske was finally staring at me.
“What’s your problem?” he asked crossly.
“What’s your problem? After all, I’m the one who just saved your life.”
“Saved my life? What the hell—”
Then, staring at my impassive face, he finally connected the dots.
Officer Fiske jumped from the car. Officer Fiske scrambled for the radio on his duty belt. Officer Fiske turned his back to me.
What can I tell you? Mistakes in this business are costly.
I sprang from the rear of the cruiser, fisted both of my shackled hands together and cracked him over the skull. Officer Fiske stumbled forward. I got my arms over his head, around his neck, and yanked hard.
Officer Fiske gasped, made a funny rattling hum, which come to think of it was a lot like CO Kim Watters. Or maybe Brian, dying on the spotless kitchen floor.
I am not sane. That was my last thought. I can’t possibly be sane anymore.
Officer Fiske’s knees buckled. We both went down, while a quarter mile ahead, the snow blew up and screams split the sky and the first dog began to howl.
When Officer Fiske’s legs finally stopped churning, I gasped three times, inhaling shocks of cold air that forced me back to the present. So m
uch to do, so little time to do it.
Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.
I unwrapped my hands, fumbling with the keys at Officer Fiske’s waist, then remembered to snatch his cellphone. Had a very important call to make in the next thirty seconds.
I could hear cries in the distance. More dogs howling. Four vehicles over, Kelli and Skyler picked up the message of distress, their higher-pitched barks joining the fray.
Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.
I glanced at the sky, calculating remaining hours of daylight.
Looks like snow, I thought again.
Then, clutching keys and cellphone, I ran for it.
31
When the first explosion rocked the sky, D.D. was halfway across the clearing, striding toward the snowy mound where Quizo barked with excited intent. Then the world went white.
Snow sprayed up and out in a giant concussive boom. D.D. just got her arms up and it still felt like being hit by a thousand stinging needles. Quizo’s deep bark turned into an immediate bay of distress. Someone screamed.
Then, another rocking explosion and several more cries, while D.D. was knocked back on her ass, head buried behind both arms to shield herself.
“Quizo, Quizo,” someone was crying. Probably Nelson.
“D.D., D.D., D.D.,” someone else was crying. Probably Bobby.
She got her eyes open in time to see Bobby charging across the clearing, legs plunging through the snow, face ashen with panic. “Are you all right? Talk to me, D.D. Talk to me, dammit.”
“What, what, what?” She blinked. Shook ice and snow from her hair. Blinked again. Her ears were ringing, filled with a sense of pressure. She cracked her jaw, trying to release it.
Bobby had reached her side, clutching her shoulders.
“Are you okay are you okay are you okay?” His lips moved. It took another second for his words to penetrate the buzz in her head.
She nodded weakly, pushing him back so she could inventory her arms, legs, and most importantly, her torso. By and large, she appeared to be in one piece. She’d been far enough away and the snow had cushioned her fall. She wasn’t hurt, just dazed and confused.
She let Bobby help her to her feet, then triaged the rest of the damage.
The snowy rise targeted by Quizo’s keen nose had disintegrated. In its place was a brown hollow of earth, covered in shredded bits of tree, leaves, and—heaven help them—pink fabric.
Quizo was off to one side, muzzle buried in the snow, whimpering and panting. Nelson stood over his dog, hands gently holding the shepherd’s ears as he whispered low, soothing sounds to his distressed pet.
The other search dogs had halted in their tracks and were howling at the sky.
Officer down, D.D. thought. The dogs were telling the world. She wanted to bay with them, until this terrible feeling of rage and helplessness eased in her chest.
Cassondra Murray, team leader, already had her cellphone out and in clipped tones was summoning a vet. Other BPD officers were swarming the scene, hands on holsters, searching for signs of immediate threat.
“Stop!” Bobby yelled suddenly.
The officers stopped. The dog handlers froze.
He was looking around them in the snow. D.D., still cracking her jaw against the ringing in her ears, did the same.
She saw pieces of hot pink fabric, a shred of blue jeans, what might have been a child’s tennis shoe. She saw red and brown and green. She saw … Pieces. That was the only word for it. Where there had once been the buried remains of a body, there were now pieces, sprayed in all directions.
The entire clearing had just become a body recovery site. Meaning every single person needed to evacuate in order to limit cross-contamination. They needed to contain, they needed to control. And they needed to immediately contact the ME’s department, let alone busloads of crime-scene techs. They had bits of human remains, they had hair and fiber, they had … they had so much work to do.
Dear God, D.D. thought vaguely, her ears still ringing, her arms still stinging. The dogs howling, howling, and howling.
She couldn’t … It couldn’t …
She looked down and realized there was a puff of pink now stuck to her boot. Part of a coat maybe, or a girl’s favorite blanket.
Sophie Leoni with big blue eyes and a heart-shaped face. Sophie Leoni with brown hair and a gap-tooth smile who loved to climb trees and hated to sleep in the dark.
Sophie Leoni.
I love my daughter, Tessa had stood here and said. I love my daughter.
What kind of mother could do such a thing?
Then, all of a sudden, D.D.’s brain fired to life and she realized the next piece of the puzzle:
“Officer Fiske,” she yelled urgently, grabbing Bobby’s arm. “We need to alert Officer Fiske. Get him on the radio, now!”
Bobby already had his radio out, hit the button to transmit. “Officer Fiske. Come in, Officer Fiske. Officer Fiske.”
But there was no reply. Of course there was no reply. Why else would Tessa Leoni demand to personally escort them to the body? Why else rig her own child with explosives?
D.D. turned to her fellow investigators.
“Officer down!” she shouted, and as a group they plunged back through the woods.
Afterward, it all seemed so obvious, D.D. couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it coming. Tessa Leoni had frozen her husband’s body for at least twenty-four hours. Why so long? Why such an elaborate plan to dispose of her daughter’s remains?
Because Tessa Leoni hadn’t been just dumping a corpse. She’d been planting her get-out-of-jail-free card.
And D.D. had played right into her hand.
She’d personally checked Tessa Leoni out of the Suffolk County Jail. She’d personally driven a suspected double-murderer to a remote location in central Mass. Then she’d personally escorted a canine team to a body rigged with explosives, allowing Tessa Leoni to disappear into the wild blue yonder.
“I am such a fucking idiot!” D.D. exclaimed two hours later. They remained at the wilderness site, Boston police and local sheriff’s department vehicles stacked up for a good three hundred yards.
Ambulance had arrived first, EMTs attempting to treat Officer Fiske, but then, when he waved them off, embarrassed, ashamed, and otherwise not ready to play well with others, they’d tended to Quizo instead. Poor dog had suffered a ruptured eardrum and singeing to the muzzle from being closest to the blast. Eardrum would heal naturally, just as it would in humans, the EMTs assured Nelson.
In the meantime, they’d be happy to drive the dog to his vet. Nelson had taken them up on that deal, obviously very shaken. The rest of the SAR team packed up his truck, including the mournful Kelli and Skyler. They would debrief with D.D. in the morning, team leader Cassondra had assured her. But for now, they needed to regroup and decompress. They were accustomed to searches that ended in tangible discoveries, not homemade explosives.
With the SAR team departing, D.D. got on the phone to Ben, the state medical examiner. Had body parts, definitely needed assistance.
So it went. Officers had withdrawn. Evidence techs had advanced.
And the search for former state police trooper Tessa Leoni, now officially a fugitive from justice, kicked into high gear.
According to Fiske, he’d forgotten to reshackle her ankles (another shamefaced admission that would no doubt lead to a pint of whiskey later tonight). Tessa had also grabbed his keys, meaning there was a good chance she’d freed her wrists.
She’d taken his cellphone, but not his sidearm, which was good news for the fugitive recovery team, and probably a narrow escape from death for Fiske (a second pint of whiskey, probably tomorrow night). Tessa was last seen in an unzippered black BPD jacket, and a thin orange jumpsuit. On foot, no supplies, no hat or gloves, and in the middle of nowhere to boot, no one expected the woman to get far.
Adrenaline would carry her over the first mile or two, but soft snowfall made for exhaustive run
ning, while providing a trail a blind man could follow.
Fugitive recovery team geared up, headed out. An hour of daylight left. They expected it to be enough, but were armed with searchlights in case it was not. Twenty officers against one desperate escapee.
They would get the job done, the lead officer had promised D.D. No child killer would be running on his watch.
D.D.’s turn to be shamefaced, but no pint of whiskey for her later tonight. Just another crime scene to process and a taskforce to debrief and a boss to update, who was probably going to be very unhappy with her, which was okay, because currently, she was very unhappy with herself, as well.
So she did what she always did: headed back to the scene of the crime, with Bobby at her side.
The ME had his staff on-site, suited up and delicately depositing body parts into red-marked biohazard bags. Evidence techs followed in their wake, collecting other detritus, which hopefully included pieces of the incendiary device. Not too hard to rig homemade explosives in this day and age. Took about ten minutes on the Internet and a quick trip to the local hardware store. Tessa was a bright woman. Assemble a couple of pressure-sensitive devices, then place them in the snowy hollow with the body. Cover and wait.
Dogs and police arrive. Tessa retreats. Bombs go ka-boom. Her guard goes Say What? And Tessa seizes the opportunity to take down a fellow officer and hit the road.
Hello, injured search party. Goodbye, BPD.
As far as D.D. was concerned, each piece of evidence now recovered was another nail in Tessa Leoni’s coffin, and she wanted them all. She wanted them all.
Ben looked up at Bobby and D.D.’s approach. He handed over his bag to one of his assistants, then crossed to them.
“Well?” D.D. asked immediately.
The ME, mid-forties, stoutly built, with buzz-cut steel gray hair, hesitated. He crossed his arms over his burly chest. “We have recovered organic matter and bone consistent with a body,” he granted.
“Sophie Leoni?”
In answer, the ME held out his gloved hand, revealing a slender fragment of white bone, approximately two inches long and smeared with dirt and bits of leaves. “Rib bone segment,” he said. “Full length would be consistent with a six-year-old.”
