“All rise!”
All shuffle to their feet until the judge is seated. Her face shows the wear and tear of the day, but her voice is resolute. “Ms. Parkman?”
Danielle stands, never letting go of Max’s hand. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“I am advised by the police department and the sheriff that all current efforts to locate Ms. Morrison have been unsuccessful. Do you have anything else you wish to offer the Court at this time?”
“In fact, I do, Judge.” She reaches into the file box and pulls out a videotape. “There is one more piece of evidence I would like to show the Court. It was found in Ms. Morrison’s room. I would be happy to put on Lieutenant Barnes to establish the chain of custody if you wish.”
Hempstead waves a weary hand. “That won’t be necessary. I believe all of this evidence will be properly submitted to the judge who is assigned to the trial of Ms. Morrison—if she is ever found.”
“May I proceed, Your Honor?”
“Yes, please do.”
Danielle whispers something to Max and then nods at Georgia, who takes him gently by the hand and leads him from the courtroom. Danielle signals to Doaks, who has returned with only the news that Marianne left everything in her hotel room and that law enforcement is scrambling to track her down. He pulls down the projection screen and dims the lights. She inserts the tape and turns to the judge. “I’m afraid this will tie up all unanswered questions, Your Honor. This video was found in Ms. Morrison’s closet and appears to have been taken from the Fountainview unit on the day Jonas died.” She presses the play button. There is a whirring noise and a blank screen. After a few moments, it begins.
Marianne enters the room and drags a form out of view of the camera. It does not move. She closes the door, takes a rubber doorstop and wedges it tightly under the door. She slips on a pair of thin latex gloves and crouches down, only white nurse shoes visible under her dress. She inches her way to the bed.
Jonas is turned with his face against the wall, knees drawn up tightly into his body. His angle of repose makes him look even more childlike, hauntingly vulnerable. Sandy hair is swept back from his face. Eyes closed, he looks peaceful, angelic.
She sits on the bed next to him. She places a large shopping bag on the floor beside the bed and puts her hand softly on his shoulder. One can almost sense the warmth of his body against her palm. Gently, she loosens and then removes the restraints in place around his wrists and legs. Without taking her right hand from his body, she gropes in the bag. She caresses the cool metal of the comb as if it is inviting to her fingertips. She places the instrument on the side of the bed.
It is so quiet.
As she shakes his shoulder, his eyes flutter, then focus on hers. He pulls himself into a sitting position and hugs his knees to his chest, watching her carefully. “Go ahead, Jonas, do it now,” she urges. He immediately begins banging his head against the wall—first the back, one side, then the back, then the other side. He does it in a continuous rhythm, a drumming with eyes closed, following the ritual. Four bangs in back, four left, four back, four right. Four, four, four, four. When the requisite number of raps has been accomplished, he begins slapping his face, first with the right hand, then the left—right, left, right, left. His hands move faster and faster in staccato syncopation. The strokes are harder and harder. The skin mottles.
Jonas opens his eyes and searches her face, as if looking for confirmation that this is what she wants. She shakes her head no. He starts biting the top of his right hand—bite, bite, bite, bite. She leans over and picks up the metal comb with the long, sharp prongs and begins tapping it against her palm. Slap, slap, slap, slap. It is a metronome, keeping time with his methodic inflictions.
Alerted by the new sound, he looks up and sees the comb. It flashes in the light. His eyes fix upon it like a parrot watching the sun glint off the mirror in his cage. He bites his hands ever harder. It takes a long time for them to bleed, misshapen as they are with calluses from years of earlier assaults.
She nods and taps, watching as the curiosity flickers in his eyes. “Yes, baby, yes,” she whispers, smiling at him. “You can touch it in a minute, my love, and you’re going to feel so much better.” Her voice is a croon, her eye applause.
The left hand is bleeding strongly now—on top, where he has found a vein. He moves to the right and begins again, further renting the skin each time with smaller, angrier bites. His head rocks slowly up and down, up and down, his eyes never moving from the sight of the rhythmic slapping of the metal comb in her hands. He no longer looks for her eyes. It is as if he knows what she wants. His eyes are glazed, hypnotic.
Once she sees that he has successfully penetrated the skin of the right hand and is biting hard, she moves ever so carefully closer, the metal comb keeping time with their dance. Holding the instrument in her left hand, she gently taps the side of the bed with it, the soft, muffled beat uninterrupted. With her right hand, she strokes his head as his eyes track the vertical bobbing of the comb. Her face surges with love.
“There, there,” she murmurs. She leans down and kisses the top of his head, loving him, as the comb taps against the sheet. He rocks with her. “Isn’t that a pretty thing? So shiny, so new.” He bobs more rapidly and reaches for the comb with his ruined left hand. “Oh, no, my love, not yet, not yet,” she whispers. She pulls back the covers to expose his bare legs. He stops biting and grunts softly, reaching for the comb in earnest. She places the comb in his right hand and wraps his left hand tightly around it.
Raising their linked hands, she helps him press the sharp prongs against his skin—just hard enough to leave five red impressions on his right thigh after the pressure is released. He stares at the comb in his hands, transfixed. She raises their hands again and croons softly, a mother teaching her child to raise a baby spoon to his lips for the first time. Slowly, she continues to lift his hands high above his face, and together they come down upon his thigh, this time with more force.
He does not whisper or moan, but stares with fascination as this effort produces bright red droplets where the prongs pierce the skin. Now he automatically raises his hands on his own, this time so high at the peak that they are actually behind his head. She stands close by, tenderly cupping her hand around the back of his neck.
“You’re such a good boy, Jonas, such a good boy.” Her chant is low and satisfied.
He is monomaniacal in his focus now. He swings his head back roughly and pushes her away. She moves silently to the corner of the room and observes. It is as if she knows what he will do. She glances at her watch. “Twenty-two minutes,” she whispers.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, the metal comb clasped tightly in his right hand. With the left, he pinches the top of each thigh. He stabs the right, then the left, the right, the left. Awkward at first, he finds a shorter arc better suited to his purpose. He switches seamlessly from one leg to the other. He moans softly now, eyes glassy. Soon both legs are flowing blood. His stabs become faster and deeper. He doesn’t stop, but looks up at her.
Where now, where now? his eyes ask.
“Nomomah, Jonas, nomomah?” she whispers. “Are you ready? If you are, if you really are, baby, I’m going to give you nomomah and let you stop.” She takes a few steps back, puts her arms around herself and begins to rock.
“Nomomah, nomomah, nomomah.” His chant is psalm.
She walks across the room and sits in the armchair, first covering it with a sheet. “Look at me, baby, and I’ll show you how to do it, I’ll show you how to fix it all.” She stretches her legs straight out and points her index finger at the soft vein in her groin. Calmly and purposefully, she raises her hands together and clasps them high above her head. She then viciously drives her balled fist into the area of her femoral artery.
She smiles dreamily and nestles back into the chair. “It will be quiet, and there will be no more pain, my darling, no more at all.” She closes her eyes, still smiling—as if to show him the glory and
peace of it all. He has eyes only for her. After a moment, she stands and goes to him. She takes one of his white socks from the floor and stuffs it into his mouth. He doesn’t react, as if it isn’t the first time.
She looks again at her watch. “Fourteen minutes.”
His eyes follow her as she takes her seat across the room once more. The comb dangles in his hands. He doesn’t seem to see the red holes that stare up at him from his thighs, doesn’t see the blood running down his legs. He grasps the comb more tightly. It is wet with gore. He clutches the handle and, with interlocked fingers, holds it high above his head.
He gives her one last look, a gaze filled with bruises, trust, betrayal, torture and finally—damnation. He turns his head upward, as if in prayer. Without a sound, he uses all his force to plunge the iron prongs directly into his lifeline. Even with the muffling of the sock in his mouth, his scream is crazed and awful. His neck arcs and bends, inhumanly rigid, his throat a parallel line to the ceiling. He is paralyzed, lightning-struck in that position for what seems like an impossible moment before he collapses back onto the bed.
A spurt of blood so violent and forceful shoots from his groin that she seems both revolted and gratified at its height, its breadth. She is there in a flash, running around and behind him, placing the pillow over his mouth. He struggles against her for a few moments, but the horrific beauty of the red geyser seems to have lent her inhuman strength and power.
Blue eyes stare into the camera’s eye. It is the gaze of a righteous woman.
She turns back to him and forces him down, strong as a man. When minutes have passed and he is finally still, she lifts the pillow and places it neatly on top of the bed. She takes the sock out of his mouth, carefully removes the comb from his hands and places it purposefully into the hand of an unidentifiable form lying next to the bed.
Blood is everywhere—on the bed, the floor, the ceiling. She checks her clothing. Crimson streaks stain her dress. She stands on the sheet, removes her bloody gloves, and steps out of her dress and shoes. Handi Wipes remove the red traces from her arms and face. She takes a shift from her bag and slips it quickly over her head. Gold sandals follow. She rolls the soiled items in the sheet and places it into the plastic shopping bag. She raises her wrist. Her hand is steady.
“Six minutes.” She slings the shopping bag over her shoulder and takes a last look at Jonas.
His eyes stare up like empty marbles from a white bowl. His body is laid open on the brilliant ruby sheets.
He stares at heaven.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The lights come up slowly. Danielle looks at Hempstead. Both have tears streaming down their faces. As Danielle turns, Sevillas and Doaks rise to meet her, while Max and Georgia enter the room. She puts her arms around them all. They walk her to her seat.
Hempstead clears her throat and recovers sufficiently to nod at the court reporter. Her fingers prepare to take down the record. “Mr. Langley?” says the judge.
He looks as if someone has thrown a grenade into his foxhole. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“Does the State have a motion it would like to make?”
“What, Judge?”
She taps her pen impatiently. “On your feet. You have a motion to make.”
He scrambles to comply. “I—uh—the State hereby moves to dismiss all charges against Max and Danielle Parkman.”
Hempstead nods grimly. “Ms. Parkman, please rise.”
Danielle stands.
“Ms. Parkman, the Court hereby dismisses all pending charges against you and your son. You are both free to go.” She stands and clasps her hands before her. “Before you do so, however, I must offer you the abject apologies of this Court and the State of Iowa. You have been subjected to a most terrible ordeal—one I most fervently wish could have been spared you. Unfortunately, when confronted with the evil and tragedy we have seen today, apparently nothing is as it seems.” She sends a small smile to Sevillas. “The contempt charges against Mr. Sevillas are, of course, also dismissed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” he says.
“Although I could still make that one stick,” she mutters. She gathers up her robes and sweeps from the bench. The bailiff puts his hands on his hips and bellows. “All rise!”
Doaks jerks his head toward the door. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
“Amen,” says Sevillas. Tony wraps his arm around Danielle’s shoulders to shield her from the onslaught of the press and well-wishers who swarm the aisle. She buries her face into his neck as exhaustion and emotion finally overcome her. She sobs as she realizes that Max will be all right. Although she never let herself believe it, a wave of relief so intense washes over her that she realizes how profoundly in the dark grip of that diagnosis she has been. Georgia hugs her hard—her eyes brimming with tears. Danielle releases her and holds Max so close, he grins up at her. “Hey, Mom, I’m not going anywhere.”
She smiles through her tears. “And I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Tony holds her closer, his voice gruff. “Thank God it’s over.”
She looks up at him. “But Marianne got away with it.”
“For now,” he says. “They’ll find her.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”
Doaks tugs on her arm. “Hey, cookie, ain’t you had enough? I need a goddamned drink.”
She smiles. Shoulder to shoulder, the five of them march down the aisle. Danielle walks through the door. She doesn’t look back.
EPILOGUE
Danielle leans back in her deck chair and shades her eyes from the blazing afternoon sun. She waves at Max, who has returned from a long hike through the wooded hills near their new home—just north of Sante Fe. The wind has whipped a healthy glow into his cheeks. The sun glints in his hair. He stops and waves back, a big grin on his face.
She left the firm a year ago and put out a shingle in this small town. Her practice is now low-key—wills and estates. Tony spends every free moment he can with them, shuttling back and forth from Iowa. Max has recovered from Maitland, although it took months to undo the harm Fastow’s experimental chemicals wreaked on his system, much less the trauma he suffered as a result of the entire experience. After the hearing, Danielle learned from Reyes-Moreno that Fastow was finally found in an isolated fishing town in Mexico and that Maitland is pursuing criminal charges against him.
She watches Max—so strong and happy—and can’t believe her good fortune. Once the poisons were cleansed from his system, Maitland confirmed that he was not psychotic, not violent, not crazy. Reyes-Moreno correctly diagnosed him as bipolar—which explained his wild mood swings and anger—and gave her back her boy.
Danielle gives him another long look and checks her watch. It is almost time to leave for the airport to pick up Tony. He just accepted a partnership with a firm in Sante Fe. She looks at the antique band on her left hand, the diamonds afire in the bright sunlight. Soon he will never have to leave her again.
She picks up her wineglass and makes the short journey to the mailbox. Inside is an envelope, forwarded from her old New York address. She opens it. A postcard falls out, the postmark smeared and illegible. Danielle holds it up. It is an African scene of bolting antelope and wildly colored birds flying across a veldt. She turns it over. A flowing, elaborate script fills every available writing space.
God moves in mysterious ways.
Adopted adorable twin girls.
All mine!
Love and kisses,
M.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank all of my family and friends who have steadfastly supported and encouraged me. They have read my manuscript ad nauseam—and still love me. For my brilliant agent, Al Zuckerman, for taking a chance on a new writer and for his insistence on excellence; for Donna Hayes and Linda McFall, for loving the book and making this happen. For Glenn Cambor, who first told me to write and then kept my head on straight while I did. For Beverly Swerling, my reader, without
whom this novel would still be in a box under my desk.
My heartfelt thanks to Jim and Jeanine Barr, who provided their judicial and criminal-law expertise; Wayman Allen, for his police and private investigator savvy; for Cynthia England and Dawn Weightman—for their steadfast devotion and love; for Lane, Tom and Kelly—who made me laugh every day.
For Jim Sentner, my other father, who has supported me in every wild endeavor with love and patience. A special thanks to my three sons—Brendan, Sam and Jack—who have inspired me and given me the privilege of being their mother.
And for Bill—my editor, my love, my life.
Photo Credit
Roger Winter,
Fredericksburg, Texas
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Antoinette van Heugten Page 32
