Jane glanced at Frost, who was barely a silhouette standing beside her in the shadows. “How did you find her?” she whispered.
“I didn’t,” he said. “She found me. You were the one she really wanted to speak to. When she found out you’d left for Maine, she tracked down my phone number instead.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this on the phone?”
“I wouldn’t let him,” said Medea, her back still turned to them, her gaze still on the street. “What I’m going to tell you now has to stay in this room. It can’t be shared with your colleagues. It can’t be whispered anywhere. It’s the only way I can stay dead. The only way Tari—Josephine—has any chance of a normal life.” Even in the dark, Jane could see the taut outline of the curtain she was clutching. “My daughter is all that matters to me,” she said softly.
“Then why did you abandon her?” asked Jane.
Medea spun around to face her. “I never abandoned her! I would have been here weeks ago, if only I’d known what was happening.”
“If only you’d known? From what I understand, she’s been fending for herself for years. And you were nowhere around.”
“I had to stay away from her.”
“Why?”
“Because being around me could mean her death.” Once again, Medea turned toward the street. “This has nothing to do with Josephine. She’s just a pawn for them. A way to draw me out into the open. The one he really wants is me.”
“You care to explain that?”
With a sigh, Medea sank into a chair by the window. She was just a faceless shadow sitting there, a soft voice in the darkness.
“Let me tell you a story,” she said. “About a girl who got involved with the wrong boy. A girl so naïve that she couldn’t recognize the difference between sweet infatuation and…” She paused. “Fatal obsession.”
“You’re talking about yourself.”
“Yes.”
“And who was the boy?”
“Bradley Rose.” Medea released a shuddering breath, and her dark form seemed to shrink in the chair, as though folding in on itself for protection. “I was only twenty. What does any girl know at twenty? It was my first time out of the country, my first excavation. In the desert, everything looked different. The sky was bluer, the colors were brighter. And when a shy boy smiles at you, when he starts to leave you little gifts, you think you’re in love.”
“You were in Egypt with Kimball Rose.”
Medea nodded. “The Cambyses dig. When I was offered the chance to go, I jumped at it. So did dozens of other students. There we were in the western desert, living our dreams! Digging by day, sleeping in tents at night. I’ve never seen so many stars, so many beautiful stars.” She paused. “It was a place where anyone could have fallen in love. I was just a girl from Indio, ready to finally start living. And there was Bradley, the son of Kimball Rose himself. He was brilliant and quiet and shy. There’s something about a shy man that makes you think he’s harmless.”
“But he wasn’t.”
“I didn’t know what he really was. I didn’t know a lot of things until it was too late.”
“What was he?”
“A monster.” Medea’s head lifted in the darkness. “I didn’t see it at first. What I saw was a boy who looked at me with adoring eyes. Who talked with me about the one subject we both loved most. Who started bringing me little gifts. We worked in the trench together. We ate every meal together. Eventually we slept together.” She paused. “That’s when things began to change.”
“How?”
“It was as if he no longer considered me a separate person. I’d become part of him. As if he’d devoured me, absorbed me. If I walked to the other side of the camp, he followed me. If I spoke to anyone else, he insisted on knowing what we’d talked about. If I even looked at another man, he became upset. He was always watching, always spying.”
It was such an old story, thought Jane, the same story that had played out so many times between other lovers. A story that too often ended with homicide detectives standing at a bloody crime scene. Medea was one of the lucky ones; she had managed to stay alive.
Yet she had never really escaped.
“It was Gemma who took me aside and pointed out the obvious,” said Medea.
“Gemma Hamerton?”
Medea nodded. “She was one of the grad students at the site. A few years older than me, and a hundred years wiser. She saw what was happening, and she told me I needed to assert myself. And if he didn’t back off, then I should tell him to go to hell. Oh, Gemma was good at that, standing up for herself. But I wasn’t strong enough then. I wasn’t able to break away.”
“What happened?”
“Gemma went to Kimball. She told him to get his son under control. Bradley must have learned about the conversation, because the next thing he said to me was that I must never talk to Gemma again.”
“I hope you told him where to go.”
“I should have,” Medea said softly. “But I didn’t have the backbone. It seems impossible to believe now. When I think back to what sort of girl I was, I don’t recognize myself. I don’t know that person. That utterly pitiful victim who couldn’t even save herself.”
“How did you finally break away from him?”
“It was what he did to Gemma. One night, while she was sleeping, her tent flap was sewn shut. Then the tent was doused with gasoline and set on fire. I was the one who managed to slice the tent open and pull her out.”
“Bradley actually tried to kill her?”
“No one could prove it, but I knew. That’s when I finally understood what he was capable of. I got on a plane and came home.”
“But it wasn’t over.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Medea stood and went back to the window. “It was just the beginning.” By now, Jane’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and she could see the woman’s pale hand clutching the curtain. Could see her shoulders momentarily tense as a car’s headlights slowly passed by on the street and then moved on.
“I was pregnant,” Medea said softly.
Jane stared at her in astonishment. “Josephine is Bradley’s daughter?”
“Yes.” She turned and faced Jane. “But she can’t ever know that.”
“She told us her father was a French archaeologist.”
“All her life I’ve lied to her. I told her that her father was a good man who died before she was born. I don’t know if she actually believes me, but it’s the story I’ve stuck to.”
“And what about the other story you told her? Why you kept moving and changing your names? She thinks you were running from the police.”
Medea shrugged. “It did explain things, didn’t it?”
“But it’s not true.”
“I had to give her some reason, a reason that wouldn’t terrify her. Better to be running from the police than from a monster.”
Especially when that monster is your own father.
“If you were being stalked, why run? Why not just go to the police?”
“You think I didn’t try that? A few months after I came home, Bradley turned up at my college campus. He told me we were soul mates. He told me I belonged to him. I told him I never wanted to see him again. He started following me, sending me flowers every fucking day. I threw them away and called the police and even managed to get him arrested. But then his father sent his attorneys to take care of the problem. When your father’s Kimball Rose, you’re untouchable.” She paused. “Then it got worse. Much worse.”
“How?”
“Bradley showed up one day with an old friend. Someone who scared me even more than Bradley ever did.”
“Jimmy Otto.”
Medea seemed to shudder at the mention of that name.
“Bradley could pass for normal—just another quiet man. But with Jimmy, you only had to look in his eyes to know he was different. They were black as a shark’s. When he stared at you, you just knew he was thinking about what he’d like to do to you. And
he became obsessed with me, too.
“So they both followed me. I’d catch a glimpse of Jimmy staring at me in the library. Or Bradley peeking in my window. They were playing a psychological game of tag team, trying to break me down. Trying to make me look crazy.”
Jane looked at Frost. “Even then,” she said, “they were already hunting together.”
“Finally, I left the university,” said Medea. “By then I was eight months’ pregnant, and my grandmother was dying. I went back to Indio and had the baby. Within a few weeks, Bradley and Jimmy showed up in town. I filed a restraining order and got them both arrested. This time, I was going to put them away. I had a baby to protect and it had to end there.”
“But it didn’t. You chickened out and dropped the charges against Bradley.”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you mean, not exactly? You did drop the charges.”
“I made a deal with the Devil. Kimball Rose. He wanted his son free of prosecution. I wanted my daughter to be safe. So I dropped the charges, and Kimball wrote me a big check. Enough money to buy my daughter and me a new life, with new names.”
Jane shook her head. “You took the money and ran? It must have been a hell of a check.”
“It wasn’t the money. Kimball used my daughter against me. He threatened to take her from me if I didn’t accept his offer. He’s her grandfather, and he had an army of lawyers to fight me. I had no choice, so I took the money and dropped the charges. She’s the reason I did it, the reason I’ve never stopped running. To keep her away from that family, away from anyone who might hurt her. You understand that, don’t you? That a mother will do anything to protect her child?”
Jane nodded. She understood completely.
Medea returned to the chair and sank down with a sigh. “I thought if I kept my daughter safe, she’d never know what it’s like to be hunted. She’d grow up fearless and smart. A warrior woman—that’s what I wanted her to be. What I always told her to strive for. And she was growing up smart. And fearless. She didn’t know enough to be afraid.” Medea paused. “Until San Diego.”
“The shooting in her bedroom.”
Medea nodded. “That’s the night she learned she could never be fearless again. We packed up the next day and drove to Mexico. Ended up in Cabo San Lucas, where we lived for four years. We were fine there and we were hidden.” She sighed. “But girls grow up. They turn eighteen and insist on making their own choices. She wanted to go to college and study archaeology. Like mother, like daughter.” She gave a sad laugh.
“You let her go?”
“Gemma promised to keep an eye on her, so I thought it would be safe. She had a new name, a new identity. I didn’t think that Jimmy would ever be able to find her.”
There was a long silence as Jane took in what Medea had just said. “Jimmy? But Jimmy Otto’s dead.”
Medea’s head lifted. “What?”
“You should know that. You shot him in San Diego.”
“No.”
“You shot him in the back of the head. Dragged his body outside and buried him.”
“That’s not true. That wasn’t Jimmy.”
“Then who was buried in the backyard?”
“It was Bradley Rose.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“Bradley Rose?” said Jane. “That’s not what the police in San Diego told us.”
“You think I couldn’t recognize the father of my own child?” said Medea. “It wasn’t Jimmy who broke into my daughter’s bedroom that night. It was Bradley. Oh, I’m sure that Jimmy was lurking around nearby, and the gunshot probably scared him off. But I knew he would be back. I knew we had to move fast. So we packed up and left the next morning.”
“The body was identified as Jimmy’s,” said Frost.
“Who identified him?”
“His sister.”
“Then she made a mistake. Because I know it wasn’t Jimmy.”
Jane switched on the lamp and Medea shrank from the light, as though the glow from a mere sixty-watt bulb was radioactive.
“This is not making sense. How could Jimmy Otto’s own sister make a mistake like that?” She snatched up his psychiatric file from the bed and scanned Dr. Hilzbrich’s notes. She quickly spotted what she was looking for.
“His sister’s name was Carrie.” Jane looked at Frost. “Get Crowe on the line. Ask him to find out where Carrie Otto lives.”
He pulled out his cell phone.
“I don’t understand,” said Medea. “What does Jimmy’s sister have to do with this?”
Jane flipped through the notes in Jimmy’s Hilzbrich Institute chart, searching for any and all references to Carrie Otto. Only now that she was specifically searching for them did she realize how many times Carrie had been mentioned.
Sister is visiting again, second time today.
Carrie stayed past visiting hours; reminded she must adhere to rules.
Carrie has been asked not to call so often.
Carrie caught smuggling in cigarettes. Visiting privileges suspended for two weeks.
Sister visiting…Sister visiting…Carrie here again.
And finally she came to an entry that stopped her cold:
Far more extensive family counseling is indicated. Carrie has been referred to Bangor child psychiatrist to deal with issue of abnormal sibling attachment.
Frost hung up his cell phone. “Carrie Otto lives in Framingham.”
“Tell Crowe to get a team there now. With backup.”
“He’s already moving on it.”
“What’s happening?” Medea cut in. “Why are you so focused on the sister?”
“Because Carrie Otto told the police that the body you buried was her brother’s,” said Jane.
“But I know it wasn’t. Why did she say that?”
“There was a warrant out for his arrest,” explained Frost. “In connection with a woman’s disappearance in Massachusetts. If the authorities believed he was dead, they’d stop looking for him. He could become invisible. She must have lied to protect him.”
“Carrie is the key,” said Jane. “And we know where she lives.”
“You think my daughter is there,” said Medea.
“If she isn’t, I’m betting that Carrie knows where he’s keeping her.” Jane was pacing the room now, checking her watch. Mentally calculating how long it would take for Crowe and his team to reach Framingham. She wanted to be there with him, knocking on that door, pushing into that house. Searching those rooms for Josephine. I should be the one to find her. It was after midnight, but she was wide awake, energy fizzing like carbonation through her bloodstream. All this time, she thought, we’ve been chasing a dead man when we should have focused on Jimmy Otto. The invisible man.
The only patient who really scared me, Dr. Hilzbrich had said about Jimmy. He scared everyone. Even his own parents.
Jane stopped and turned to Frost. “Do you remember what Crowe said about Jimmy’s parents? About how they were killed?”
“It was an accident, wasn’t it? A plane crash.”
“Didn’t it happen in Maine? They bought a house in Maine, to be close to Jimmy.”
Once again, Jane picked up the psychiatric file and flipped to the front page where the patient info was typed. Jimmy’s parents were Howard and Anita Otto, and they had two addresses. The first was their primary residence in Massachusetts. The second address, in Maine, had been added later; it was handwritten in ink.
Frost was already dialing Boston PD on his cell phone. “I need you to check a property tax record for me,” he said, looking over Jane’s shoulder at the address. “State of Maine, a town called Saponac. One Sixty-five Valley Way.” A moment later, he hung up and looked at Jane. “It’s owned by the Evergreen Trust, whatever that is. She’ll call us back with more information.”
Once again Jane was in motion, frustrated and impatient. “It can’t be that far from here. We could just drive by and take a look.”
“It’s been decades since th
ey died. That house has probably changed hands several times.”
“Or maybe it’s still in the family.”
“If you just hang on, we’ll get that information on Evergreen.”
But Jane was in no mood to wait. She was a racehorse at the starting gate, ready to move. “I’m going,” she said, and glanced toward the dresser where she’d left her keys.
“Let’s take my car,” said Frost, already at the door. “We’ll need the GPS.”
“I’m coming, too,” said Medea.
“No,” said Jane.
“She’s my daughter.”
“That’s why you need to stay out of the way. So we won’t be distracted.” Jane holstered her weapon and the sight of that gun should have said it all. This is serious business. This is not for civilians.
“I want to do something,” Medea insisted. “I need to do something.”
Jane turned and saw a woman as determined as any she had ever met, a woman primed for battle. But this battle was not Medea’s; it could not be.
“The best thing you can do tonight is stay right here,” said Jane. “And lock the door.”
Valley Way was a lonely rural road lined by woods so thick that they could not make out the residences through the trees. The number posted on the roadside mailbox told them they were at the right address, but all they could see in the dark was the beginning of a gravel driveway that trailed off into woods. Jane pulled open the mailbox and found a damp accumulation of advertising circulars. All were addressed to OCCUPANT.
“If anyone lives here,” she said, “they haven’t cleaned out their mailbox lately. I don’t think anyone’s home.”
“Then no one should object if we take a closer look,” said Frost.
Their car slowly rolled down the driveway, gravel crackling under the tires. The trees were so dense that they did not see the house until they rounded a bend and it suddenly stood before them. Once it might have been a handsome vacation cottage, with a gabled roof and a broad front porch, but weeds had sprung up and engulfed the foundation and hungry vines had clambered up and over the porch railings, as though determined to smother the house and any unfortunate occupants.
Tess Gerritsen's Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Bundle Page 213
