by Lisa Gardner
Instead, she got silence.
And then she knew.
She sat back in her chair, already digging around in her jacket, trying to find her mini-recorder.
“Why don’t you care?” the voice asked, high-pitched, tinny. This time around, she thought she could catch a faint distortion, a hint of electronics.
“I’m listening,” she said, fumbling the recorder, finally getting it on top of her desk, switching it on.
“I thought you would care,” the voice echoed petulantly, ping-ponging through the earpiece, “… do something.”
“Let’s meet,” she said evenly. “Talk in person. I want to help.”
“It’s not my fault. ‘Step into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly. And they do, they do.”
“Tell me your name. I need an address, a phone number. I’ll list you as a confidential informant. No one will know but us.”
But the caller wasn’t listening to her. His voice had grown to a higher-pitched whine, sounding angry. “Why didn’t you try harder? You forgot about us. You abandoned us to his web. Now it’s your turn. He’s gonna get you. But I don’t care. I refuse to care. It’s not my fault.”
“Veronica Jones,” she said crisply. “The other women … I know what he did, but I need proof. What does he do with them? Where does he hide their bodies? If you help me find them, I can make this stop.”
But the voice didn’t respond. She heard silence, followed by a crackle of interference. Then, when she had almost given up: “I’m gonna graduate.”
She hesitated, then took a gamble: “You mean like Tommy Mark Evans?”
“That was not my fault!” the voice cried. “You don’t know what it’s like. Once his mind’s made up there’s nothing you can do.”
“Then meet with me. Explain it to me. Help me help you.”
“No. Too late. You had your chance. Now it’s my turn, and I’m gonna graduate.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“All I have to do is kill you.”
“Pardon?”
The caller was agitated now. “Someone loved me once. A long time ago. I wish I could remember her face. But she’s gone now. This is all I have left. I want to survive. I want to graduate. I will kill you.”
“Let me help you!”
“Say goodbye,” the voice whispered, then the caller was gone.
Night was falling by the time Kimberly checked out for the day, taking the elevator down to the lobby, walking out to the parking garage. Temperature hovered around the high forties, cool enough to make her hunch her shoulders inside her camel-colored coat, scarf wrapped tight around her neck.
The sprawling office park was quiet as she followed the sidewalk along the embankment, shallow stream to her right, parking garage to her left. She had one hand in her pocket, curled around her car fob, largest key tucked between two fingers like a shank.
The wind whispered over the slight hill, stirring the hair at the nape of her neck, tickling the upturned collar of her coat.
She turned to study the emptiness behind her, picked up her step.
The shadows grew longer, chasing her into the parking garage toward the crouched form of her station wagon. She didn’t relax until she had checked the full interior, including the backseats and cargo space. Even then, sliding behind the wheel, closing the door, hitting all the locks, she could feel her hands tremble as Baby McCormack gave a fluttering little kick to her side.
“It’s okay, baby,” she whispered. “You’re safe, everything’s all right.”
But she wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince anymore, her baby or herself.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Time spent in the company of spiders can cure anyone of his sentimentality about nature.”
FROM “SPIDER WOMAN,”
BY BURKHARD BILGER, New Yorker, MARCH 5, 2007
Dinner was a somber affair. Kimberly over-cooked the meat, burned the gravy, and remembered why she stuck to takeout. Her father and Rainie tried to be kind about it. They praised the microwaved green beans and moved bites of chicken-fried steak around their plates in an appearance of eating.
If they were curious about Mac’s absence, they didn’t say anything and Kimberly didn’t feel like talking about it. What was there to say, anyway? He was working late. Happened all the time.
“We went to the aquarium today.” Rainie spoke up in a determined voice. “What an amazing place. I particularly enjoyed petting the stingrays.”
“Uh-huh,” Kimberly said.
“Quincy, what about you? What did you enjoy most?”
Kimberly’s father blinked, a deer caught in headlights. “Ummm, the beluga whales.”
“Yes, they were also beautiful. And very playful. I had no idea!”
“Uh-huh,” Kimberly said again.
“So I’m thinking tomorrow we’ll visit the Coke museum. I never realized an entire state could worship soda pop until we arrived here. What do you think, Quincy?”
“Sounds like a plan.” He had picked up his wife’s forced enthusiasm.
Kimberly set down her fork. “Dad, what was Mom like when she was pregnant?”
That brought the conversation up short.
“What?” her father asked.
“Did she have morning sickness, blotchy skin, mood swings? Or was she one of those radiant pregnant women, all aglow with maternal anticipation? Maybe she knit booties, stenciled nursery walls, made list after list of potential baby names …”
“Your mother? Knitting?”
“Was she happy? Did you guys have Amanda’s birth all planned out? Mom would stay home, you would take a leave of absence. You’d decorate the nursery together, take turns rocking your bundle of joy.”
“Kimberly, in all honesty, that was over thirty years ago—”
“Well, you must remember something! Anything! Come on, Dad. I’d ask Mom directly, except, you know, she’s dead!”
Quincy fell silent. Kimberly blinked her eyes, ashamed by her own outburst, the emotion that had risen out of nowhere and now clogged her throat. She should apologize. Say something. But she couldn’t, because if she opened her mouth, she was going to burst into tears.
Her father drew in a breath. “I’m sorry, Kimberly,” he said quietly. “I know you have questions. And I would like to answer them, I would. But to tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about Mandy’s birth, or even your own. I think when your mother was pregnant with Amanda, I was working a string of bank robberies in the Midwest. Four men in an unmarked white cargo van. They liked to pistol-whip the tellers, even when the women were cooperating with their demands. I remember interviewing eyewitness after eyewitness, trying to get a feel for how the team operated. And I remember walking into the ninth bank and discovering that, this time, they had shot the teller between the eyes. Heather Norris was her name. Nineteen-year-old single mother. She had just started at the bank in order to earn enough money to go to college. Those were the things that made an impression on me. As for your mother and what she was going through …”
“She hated you,” Kimberly said quietly.
“Eventually, yes. And I would say, not without cause.”
“Did you hate her?”
“Never.”
“What about Mandy and me? Two more females interfering with your precious work?”
“You and Amanda are two of the best things that ever happened to me.” She saw him squeeze Rainie’s hand. It didn’t improve her mood.
“Oh sure, you say that now. But at the time, when you were working one hundred cases a year of murdered kids and mutilated women, each of them needing your complete focus, and there we were, demanding that you come home for dinner, attend the school play, watch our talent show. How could you not get frustrated? How could you not grow impatient with all our petty demands?”
“They were never petty.”
“But they were. They can be. How do you manage it all? How do you find enough time and energy? Enough love?
How can you be all things to all people?”
Her father was silent for a moment. “Did you know your mother had a job before you girls were born?” he asked abruptly.
“She did?”
“Yes. She worked at an art gallery. Your mother had a master’s in fine art. She hoped to be a curator of a museum someday. That was her dream.”
“Then she got pregnant.”
“Things were different back then, Kimberly. Your mother and I had always assumed she would stay home with our children. It never occurred to us to do anything different. Though maybe, in hindsight, we should have.”
“Why do you say that?”
Her father shrugged, obviously choosing his next words with care. “Your mother was a bright, creative woman. While she loved you and your sister, life as a stay-at-home mom … It was hard for her. Not as fulfilling as she had hoped. And then, with me gone all the time … I think it was easier sometimes to blame me for her dissatisfaction. I loved my job. And she … didn’t.”
“Would you have let her go back to work?”
“I don’t know. She never asked. And I was never home long enough to realize how unhappy she was. Until, of course, it was too late.”
“I don’t know how to do this,” Kimberly whispered, her hand curling over her belly. “I thought I did, but here I am, five months pregnant, and suddenly, I don’t understand anything anymore. How to be a wife, an agent, let alone a mom. I haven’t even had the baby yet, and I’m already terrible at this!”
“I wish there was something I could tell you, Kimberly. But life isn’t a one-size-fits-all model. These are the questions you should be asking. These are the concerns you and Mac will get to address. All I can say is that as a parent, I think I made every mistake a father could make, and I still wound up with a positively wonderful daughter.”
Kimberly shook her head. She knew he meant the words kindly. She wanted to accept them gracefully. But all she could wonder is if Mandy would say the same, and thoughts of her sister, dead by the age of twenty-three, simply broke her heart all over again.
Kimberly waited until bedtime to bring up the phone call. Five months ago, she would’ve mentioned a death threat to Mac. They both would’ve scoffed at it, having received their fair share. Now she didn’t think she could talk about it with Mac, so she told her father instead.
He approached it with his usual practicality. “What do you know about the caller?”
“Nothing.”
“Nonsense. Try harder. You’ve spoken to the person three times. Plenty of opportunities to learn.”
She remembered now: Her father was a hard-ass. “Umm, the caller has access to a computer and a credit card and is knowledgeable enough about the Internet to use call spoofing.”
“Okay.”
“Caller knows the FBI’s general information number; not that hard because it’s also in the phone book. But,” she considered now, “caller also knows my cell phone number, which is harder to get.”
“What else?”
“Caller sounds like a male, but that could be the result of voice distortion. I have the impression, however, that the caller is younger. Some of the expressions used, the general moodiness and anger. I’d guess adolescent.”
“Excellent.”
“There’s a slight regional accent, so I’d say he’s a local. Calls have happened during the evening, small hours of the morning, and now daytime. So someone with a flexible job or schedule, or perhaps no job at all.”
“Goes along with your theory of an adolescent.”
“Yes.”
“Motive? Why is the caller reaching out? Why you?”
She had to think about it. “At first, when the caller shared the Veronica Jones tape, I thought it was to help. A person, possibly a victim him-or herself, was trying to bring attention to what had happened so that Dinchara would be punished. The second call also sounded like a warning. Someone still trying to help. Also, we know someone close to Dinchara is delivering envelopes bearing the missing girls’ driver’s licenses, potential ‘trophies.’ It’s possible the caller is the one who made the deliveries, a first attempt at outreach that, unfortunately, didn’t get the job done.”
“And today’s call?”
“Angry,” she said without hesitation. “The caller was pissed off. Like I’d personally failed him. Maybe because he’s made the effort but I haven’t magically come through with an arrest? I’m not sure. But tonight the tone had changed. I’m no longer his ally. I’ve become his target.”
Quincy’s face held a ghost of a smile. “That does sound like an adolescent.”
“Exactly!”
He paused thoughtfully. “Is it possible that your caller is still in contact with your UNSUB? Perhaps the UNSUB himself changed the dynamics of the relationship. You said the caller wants to ‘graduate.’ And to do that, he/she claims he has to kill you.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps because it is the UNSUB’s bidding? Which brings us to the next logical question: Why you? Is it because the caller was told specifically to kill Special Agent Kimberly Quincy? Or that he/she was told to kill a law enforcement officer? Or a woman?”
“Me specifically,” Kimberly replied slowly. “From the very beginning, the caller has known I was involved with the Dinchara case. So I don’t think he chose me at random. It’s because of my involvement in the case. That’s what put me on his or her radar screen.”
“Likely suspects?” her father quizzed.
“Ginny Jones. Knows my cell phone number, has met with me regarding the case, and knows what happened to both her mother and Tommy Mark Evans. And,” she added thoughtfully, “she has a good reason to be angry with me, considering what happened between her and Dinchara last night. Whatever problems Ginny hoped to solve by contacting law enforcement, I don’t think it’s worked out the way she planned.”
“But?”
Kimberly shrugged. “But why mess around with call spoofing? We’ve already met face-to-face. There’s nothing in the phone calls she couldn’t have told me in person.”
“Shy?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Scared?”
“I think it’s a bigger risk to be following up by phone, versus telling me everything when we’re in person. Then again, girl like her … Who the hell knows?”
“Do you think the caller was serious?” Quincy asked her quietly. “Do you feel your life is in jeopardy?”
She chewed her lower lip, unsure of how to answer. “It’s spooky to be threatened.”
“But do you feel your life is in jeopardy?”
“I’m not sure. There’s a big difference between preying on prostitutes and gunning for a fed. Then again, there’s gamesmanship here. Ginny … the caller … I feel like a pawn being moved around a board for reasons I can’t see. And that, more than anything, makes me nervous. Even if I’m not the main target, I could still wind up collateral damage.”
“You’ve filed a report with your supervisor?”
“Left him a memo with a copy of the tape tonight.”
“What do you think he’ll recommend?”
“I’m hoping like hell he’ll finally agree to form a task force,” she declared drily. “One thing the caller did drop was that he or she knows something about Tommy Mark Evans. And there’s an unsolved homicide, where, heavens to Betsy, we have a body. Maybe that will finally get the wheels churning, because God knows poor Ginny nearly got her face caved in for nothing. And I am pissed off about it!”
“That’s my girl,” Quincy told her.
That, more than anything, finally made her smile.
“I think Sal’s onto something,” she said seriously. “I think Dinchara has been preying on prostitutes. Ginny escaped. She was the lucky one. Now we need to do something about the other girls. I want to find them. I want to bring them home. And then, I want to nail Spideyman to the wall.”
“Given what you learned with the boot,” her father said, “I’d head to the
woods. Bring some cadaver dogs.”
“Sure, seven hundred and fifty thousand acres. Couple of dogs will blow through that in a day.”
“You get your sarcasm from your mother’s side.”
“Don’t you wish. But hey, Harold has an old friend who is an arachnologist. He’s arranged for us to meet with her first thing in the morning. Normally I wouldn’t place a lot of weight on the analysis of molted spider skin, but given Dinchara’s predilections …”
“Can I attend?”
“Ah, Dad, and miss Coca-Cola World?”
Her father said seriously: “Please, I’m begging you.”
She stayed up after Rainie and Quincy retired, watching late-night TV in bed while waiting for Mac. At one a.m., she couldn’t take it anymore. She rubbed her lower back, regarded her slightly swollen feet, decided she had grown bigger since just yesterday and it was definitely time to sleep.
“Sweet dreams, Baby McCormack,” she whispered to her belly, turning off the light, dragging the covers up.
Sleep was not kind to her. She found herself running through a bloody house, which she dimly recognized from crime scene photos of her mother’s murder. She was desperate to find Bethie. She had to see her mother. There was so much she needed to say.
Except then she heard the wail of a baby and she knew it wasn’t her mother she had lost. She was racing to find her baby. Following the cries through the house. Following the blood trail.
Then, a ghostly white bassinet finally appearing in front of her …
“Shhhh,” Mac’s voice told her. “Shhh, you’re all right, Kimberly. It’s just a bad dream. It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you.”
She clung to him. Felt his arms go around her, tucking her against the solid warmth of his chest. Except she couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop trembling. Even in her husband’s arms, she didn’t feel safe.
The phone rang. Once, twice.
The third time, she finally managed to pull herself to the surface. The clock glowed five a.m. Mac was sleeping with his back to her. Her cell phone chimed again next to the bed. He stirred groggily as she snatched it up.
