by Karen Rose
“You’ve given me four nicknames,” Daniel said. “What was Jared’s nickname?”
She looked away, but not before he saw the pain and shame in her eyes. “Don Juan, DJ for short. He was the ladies’ man of the group. Jared lured most of the girls.”
“And the other two?”
“Po’boy and Harvard. Po’boy was Wade Crighton. Of that I’m completely sure.”
“Why?”
“The boys had to deliver a girl to the group as part of their initiation. They were divided on whether or not to let Wade in. He was the poor boy. His dad worked in the mill.” Her expression grew grim. “But Wade had assets. He had three sisters.”
Daniel’s stomach lurched. “My God.”
“I know,” she murmured. “The club was angry that ‘Po’boy’ refused to bring his real sister, but the consolation prize was twins.”
Panicked bile rose in his throat. “Wade brought both girls?”
“No. They got mad because they’d been all excited to ‘do twins’ and then Po’boy only brought one. He told them the other was sick and couldn’t leave the house.”
“So they raped Alicia.”
“Yes.” Annette’s eyes filled. “Like they did all the others. I… couldn’t believe what I was reading. I’d married this man. Had babies with him…” Her voice trailed away.
“Mrs. O’Brien,” Daniel said softly. “What did they do to the girls?”
She wiped her eyes with her fingertips. “They’d give them a date-rape drug and take them to a house. Jared never said whose. They’d…” She looked up, pained. “Please, don’t make me describe that part. It makes me sick to think about.”
He didn’t need her description. He’d seen the pictures in obscene detail. “Okay.”
“Thank you. When it was over, they’d put the girls in their cars, pour whiskey on their clothes, and leave them with an empty bottle. They’d take pictures to show the girls in case they remembered. They made it look consensual so that the girls wouldn’t talk.”
Daniel frowned. None of the pictures he’d seen had incriminated any of the men, and not one looked the least bit consensual. “Did any of the girls remember?”
She nodded dully. “Sheila. And now she’s dead. I can’t get her out of my mind.”
Neither could Daniel. “Go on,” he said, and she drew herself straighter.
“That night, they left Alicia in the woods when they were… finished. In the months before Alicia, Jared had written that he wondered what it would feel like if they were awake.” Annette’s eyes were haunted. “He wanted to ‘hear them scream.’ So that night he went back. He waited until Alicia was waking up, attacked her again, and she started to scream. But they weren’t too far from the Crightons’ house, and Jared all of a sudden realized he didn’t want her screaming after all.”
“So he smothered her to make her be quiet.”
“And then he panicked when he realized she was dead. He ran away and left her there, dead and naked in the woods. He wrote all this when he came back from killing her. He was… exhilarated. Then the next day, they found Alicia’s body in the ditch and Jared was as puzzled as everyone else. He thought it was funny. The others in the club were totally freaked and he alone knew he’d killed her and because that drifter was arrested, he’d get away with it, too.”
And Gary Fulmore had spent thirteen years in prison for a crime he hadn’t committed. “What about the seventh man? Harvard?”
“Again, I always thought that was one of the Woolf brothers. Especially Jim. He was always kind of an egghead.” One side of her mouth lifted sadly. “After you, of course. You had the best grades.”
Daniel frowned. “Did I know you back then?”
“No. But everyone heard about you from Mr. Grant.”
His old English teacher. “He talked about me?”
“He talked about all his favorites. He said you memorized a poem and won a prize.”
“ ‘Death be not proud,’ ” Daniel murmured. “What happened after you found the journals?”
“I knew that Jared hadn’t just run away. I knew they’d disposed of him. In the last few passages, Jared said he was afraid. That when he’d get drunk, he’d talk, and it was getting harder not to talk about what they’d done.”
“He was having remorse?” Daniel asked, surprised.
“No. Remorse was not in Jared’s vocabulary. His business was going under. He’d gambled away two family fortunes, mine and his. He wished he could tell everyone what he’d done to Alicia. They’d be amazed. But if he told, the others would kill him.”
“So he wanted to brag.” Daniel shook his head.
“He was scum. So when he died, part of me was relieved, but the rest of me was terrified. I thought, what if the others knew that I knew? They’d kill me, too, and Joey. I was pregnant and I didn’t have anywhere to go. I waited, terrified, thinking someone would come into my house in the night and kill me.
“A few weeks passed. The mill went under and Jared’s mother had to file bankruptcy. I’d walk down Main Street with my head down. I’m sure most people thought I was ashamed of the bankruptcy, but I was terrified. I knew that some of the men I knew had done those things. I knew sooner or later they’d see it in my eyes. So I sold what we had left and moved here. I got a job and made ends meet.”
“And you kept the journals.”
“Insurance. I figured if they ever bothered me, I could use them as leverage.”
“What about Jared’s mother?”
“Lila tried to get a loan from the bank. She went to the bank and begged.” Her jaw tightened. “On her knees. She begged Rob Davis on her knees and he turned her down flat.”
“That had to have been humiliating for your mother-in-law.”
“You have no idea,” she said bitterly. “One of the tellers told everyone she’d seen Lila on her knees in front of Davis.” A hot flush spread across Annette’s cheeks. “The way Delia said it made it seem like Lila was doing something perverted. The very thought… Lila never even knew an act like that existed, much less considered doing it to Rob Davis.”
Daniel kept his face neutral, even though he’d tensed inside. “Delia?”
“Yeah,” Annette said with contempt. “Delia Anderson, that slut. Everyone knew she was having an affair with Rob Davis. She probably still is. And she had the nerve to spread that lie about Lila. Lila had a bad heart, and after that, everything went downhill. She had to sell everything, too. She had to pull Mack out of Bryson Academy and he was furious. He was wild. He scared me, even before I knew what Jared had done.”
Now the murders of both Sean and Delia made sense. “Mack was violent?”
“Oh, yes. Mack got into fights all the time, even before the bankruptcy. He never got in trouble. Somehow all the charges would just go away. I thought it was O’Brien money until I found out there wasn’t any left. When I found the journals, I knew. All the others had been supporting Jared, giving him enough money to get by, to stay one step ahead of the IRS and his creditors. They must’ve smoothed the way for Mack, too.”
“That makes sense. I would have come to the same conclusion.”
Her smile was sad. “Thank you. Most of the time when I thought about telling anyone, I thought they’d think I was crazy. That maybe I’d made it all up. And then…”
“And then?”
“Then I’d pull the brick out just enough to prove to myself the journals were still there. And I’d know I wasn’t crazy.”
“When was the last time you pulled out the brick?”
“The day they dug up your brother’s grave and found someone else buried there I thought, ‘Now I should tell. Somebody will believe me.’ ”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked gently.
“Because I’m a coward. I kept hoping one of you guys would figure it all out. That you’d come and make me tell and that I could tell myself I had no choice. And because I didn’t tell, all those girls are dead.” She looked up, her eyes bright with
tears. “I have to live with that for the rest of my life. I don’t think you have any idea how that feels.”
You’d be surprised. “You’re telling me now. That’s the important thing.”
She blinked, sending the tears down her face, and she wiped them away. “I’ll testify.”
“Thank you. Mrs. O’Brien, do you know about any keys?”
“Yes. Simon took pictures of all of the attacks. If one told, they’d all go down, and the pictures kept everyone ‘honest.’ Simon kept the pictures as insurance. He never did any of the rapes, he just took the pictures.”
“So what about the keys?”
“Simon kept the pictures in a safe-deposit box at the bank. It was a special box that needed two keys. Simon had one and everyone else had copies of the other. That way it balanced the power. When Simon died the first time, Jared was terrified it would all come out, but time passed and no key was found. Why, do you have it now?”
He let the question pass and asked one of his own. “Did you find Jared’s key?”
“No, but he did have a picture of it in the journal. A drawing, like he’d traced it.”
“Did Jared say under which name the safe-deposit box was listed?” he asked, and held his breath until she nodded.
“Charles Wayne Bundy. I remember being horrified. And I remember thinking that would be an important detail to keep inside my head in case I ever got pressed to tell. That maybe that would buy protection for my children. But you’ve already promised me that, so… there you are.”
Charles Manson. John Wayne Gacy. And Ted Bundy. It all fit. Simon had had a fascination with serial killers as a teenager, copying their art. Susannah had been the one to find the art he’d hidden under his bed all those years ago. This was gold. If Simon had taken incriminating photos of the rapists to ensure their compliance, Daniel would have all the proof he needed once he got the contents of that box.
“Do you have any idea of where Mack might hide?”
“If I did, I’d tell you. I know he’s not in his old house. It was torn down while he was in prison.”
Daniel raised his brows. “Why?”
“Someone broke in and ripped everything up. The walls, the floors. What was left wasn’t worth saving.”
Daniel thought of Alex’s bungalow. “They were looking for the key.”
“Probably. Rob Davis benefited. After the house was gone, he bought the land dirt cheap and put in a warehouse for the mill. I can’t see Mack hiding there. It’s used daily.”
He’d check it out anyway. They had to find Mack O’Brien before he killed again. And he was a warrant away from identifying the final member of Simon’s club. Charles Wayne Bundy’s safe-deposit box awaits.
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Brien. You’ve been more help than you know. Let’s go get your boys and we’ll get you someplace safe. We can send someone for your things.”
Annette nodded and followed him out the door, and she didn’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-three
Arcadia , Georgia , Friday, February 2, 11:35 a.m.
It fits,” Luke said over the speakerphone in Chase’s office.
Daniel was on the phone in Sheriff Corchran’s office, relating Annette O’Brien’s story while he waited for an agent to take her and her two sons to a safe house. “Now we just have to find him.”
“We revised the APB,” Chase said. “We got his parole file. He’s a lot bulkier now than he was when he went in.”
“They usually are,” Daniel said grimly. “He may also have changed his hair. While we were driving to Corchran’s office, Mrs. O’Brien remembered that a box of blond hair coloring she’d bought was missing.”
“I’ll update it again,” Luke said. “Here’s something else-Mack O’Brien was often put on roadside cleanup while he was in prison. He’d been on crews assigned to every one of the areas where he left the bodies.”
“We need to search the mill property-especially the new warehouse that was put up where the O’Briens’ house used to be.”
“I’ve already dispatched a team,” Chase said. “They’re going in as pest inspectors so we don’t raise the alarm too soon. What about a warrant for that safe-deposit box?”
“Chloe’s working on it. As soon as we’re done, I’m driving to Dutton so I can go right to the bank as soon as she gets it signed by the judge. What about Hatton?”
“He’s still in surgery,” Chase said. “Crighton’s lawyered up. Won’t talk to us.”
“Sonofabitch,” Daniel muttered. “I’d so like to get him for Kathy Tremaine.”
“After all this time…” Luke said, a shrug in his voice. “I don’t see it happening.”
“I know, but at least Alex could get some closure. Has she asked to see him yet?”
“No,” Chase said. “She hasn’t mentioned him at all. She’s pacing the floor over Hatton, but hasn’t asked word one about Crighton.”
Daniel sighed. “She will when she’s ready. I’m headed out to Dutton. I’ll call as soon as I get inside the box. Cross your fingers.”
Atlanta, Friday, February 2, 12:30 p.m.
Alex stood, pacing the short length of the outer office. “They should have called.”
“Surgery takes a while,” Leigh said calmly. “When Hatton’s out, they’ll call.”
Leigh’s face was calm, but her eyes were scared. Somehow that made Alex feel a little less alone. She’d opened her mouth to say as much when her cell phone trilled. It was a Cincinnati area code, but she didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Miss Alex Fallon?”
“Yes,” she said warily. “Who is this?”
“My name is Officer Morse. I’m with the Cincinnati police.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your apartment was broken into last night. Your building manager noticed the door was open this morning when she came to bring in your mail.”
“No, I called my friend yesterday to ask her to check my mail. She must have forgotten to pull the door shut.”
“Your apartment was ransacked, Miss Fallon. Pillows and mattresses are slashed, contents of your pantry are all dumped on the floor, and-”
Alex’s heart had started to race at ransacked. “And my clothing’s been slashed.”
There was a hesitant pause. “How did you know?”
Trust no one, Wade had said in his letter to Bailey. “Officer, could you give me your badge number and a phone number where I can call you back after I check you out?”
“Not a problem.” He gave her the information and she promised to call him back.
“Leigh, can you please check this officer’s ID? He says my apartment was trashed.”
“Oh my God.” Wide-eyed, Leigh took the information. “I’ll do it right now.”
“Thanks. I need to make a few calls before I call him back.” Alex called the hospital and was relieved to hear Letta answer. She told her to be careful, then asked her to give the same message to Richard, who was on shift.
Leigh was hanging up her phone. “The Cincinnati cop’s legit, Alex.”
“Good.” She called Morse back. “Thanks for waiting.”
“You were prudent to check. Do you know who could have broken into your place?”
“Yes, kind of. Probably the same ones who ransacked my rental house down here. Can I refer you to Agent Daniel Vartanian? He’ll know what information to give you.”
“I’ll call him. Do you know what they were looking for?”
“Yes, because I got to it first. It was at my ex-husband’s house. If whoever did this realizes that, they might go there next.”
“Give me his address. We’ll send someone out to make sure they’re okay.”
“Thank you,” Alex said, touched and surprised.
“We have been watching the news, Miss Fallon. Sounds like Agent Vartanian has his hands full.”
Alex blew out a breath. “That he does.”
Dutton, Friday, February 2, 12:30 p.m.
Daniel lo
oked down at the heavy volume of poetry in his hands. He’d stopped by a bookstore on his way from the Arcadia’s sheriff’s office. Chloe Hathaway was still working on his warrant, so he had some time to kill. He was now parked across the street from the bench in front of the Dutton barbershop. He wanted to talk to his old English teacher, Mr. Grant, who sat on the barbershop bench watching with a sharp eye.
Daniel got out of his car. “Mr. Grant,” he called.
“Daniel Vartanian,” Grant called back while the other men looked on.
Daniel motioned Grant to come to him and waited as he shuffled his way to Daniel’s car. “I have something for you,” he said when Grant reached him. He handed the man the collection of poems. “I’ve been thinking of your English class,” he said in a normal voice, then whispered, “I need to talk to you, but I needed to be discreet.”
Grant smoothed the volume with a reverent gesture. “It’s a beautiful book,” he said, then whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to me. What do you want to know?”
Daniel blinked. “What do you know?”
“Probably more than would fill this book, but not much of it pertinent. Ask your questions. If I can answer, I will.” He opened the book and leafed until he found the John Donne poem that had been Daniel’s favorite. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“I need to know about Mack O’Brien.”
“Quick mind, but a hot temper.”
“Who did he lose his temper with?”
“Damn near everybody, especially after they lost everything. While he was at Bryson, he fancied himself a real ladies’ man. Like his big brother.” Grant tilted his head as if he were contemplating the poem. “Mack was bad news. He vandalized school property, drove that Corvette of his like he was some hotshot NASCAR racer, got into some major fights.”
“You said he was a ladies’ man.”
“No, I said he fancied himself to be a ladies’ man. It’s different.” Grant turned pages until he came to another poem. “I remember overhearing conversations some of the female students had after Mack changed schools. They’d chatter, thinking I was busy grading papers. They were laughing that Mack had expected to come to Prom-he no longer went to the school and they scorned him. They said he’d only been tolerable because of his car. Without that, they didn’t want to give him the time of day. He wasn’t nearly as handsome as his big brother. Mack had terrible acne, and it left him pockmarked. The girls treated him pretty badly.”
