by Chris Mooney
Hannah came up with a plan. She concentrated on what she would say, creating several drafts in her mind before committing the words to paper. Walter,
The Virgin Mary came to me in a dream last night and told me not to be afraid. She told me what a good, caring person you are. She told me how much you love me, that you wouldn't do anything in this world to hurt me or my family. Your Blessed Mother also said that you would allow me to call my parents and tell them not to worry.
After I talk to my parents, I was thinking that maybe you would join me for dinner, and we could talk and get to know each other better. Hannah had set the envelope and pen in the sliding food carrier along with the dirty paper plates from today's lunch. Now she had to wait to see what Walter would do.
To pass the time, she reread the short diary written by a woman named Emma. Hannah flipped to the last page and began to read: I don't know why I'm bothering to keep this journal. Maybe it's a coping mechanism, this need to leave something behind – to leave my mark. Maybe it's the fever. I can't stop shaking; I'm cold and hot at the same time. Walter, of course, thinks I'm faking. I told him to take my temperature and he did. He said my temperature was a little high but nothing to worry about. He said he wouldn't let anything happen to me.
When my fever didn't break, Walter came into my room holding two big white pills – penicillin, he said. He came back at lunch with two more pills, then two more at dinner. This went on for days (at least it seemed like days; time has no meaning down here). Finally I said to him, 'Do you want me to die?'
'You're not dying, Emma.'
'The pills aren't working. There's something wrong with me. I can't keep any food down. I need a doctor.'
'You have to give the medicine a chance to work. Keep drinking water. I bought you the fancy kind you like, the Pellegrino. You need to stay hydrated.'
'I don't want to die here.'
'Stop saying that.' Walter then launched into another story about how 'his' Blessed Mother came and told him how I would be fine.
'Please listen to me, Walter. Will you listen to me for a minute?' He didn't answer so I kept talking. 'I've been giving this a lot of thought. I don't know where you live. You can blindfold me, put me in the car and drive me to a hospital in some other city. Just drop me off and leave. I swear to God I won't tell anyone who you are.'
His face changed and, I don't know, he looked disgusted, as though whatever was wrong with me was somehow my fault.
'I don't want to die alone,' I said. 'I want to see my father.' I begged, I cried – I did it all.
Walter waited until I was done, and then he gripped my hands and said, 'Pray with me, Emma. We'll pray together to Mary. My Blessed Mother will help us, I promise.'
Walter has just left the room. I try not to think about what will happen to me when I die.
Maybe God gives you a second chance. Maybe he lets you come back until you leave your mark. Or maybe there is no such thing as a soul. Maybe you're just like everything else that wanders the earth, alive for a short amount of time only to die alone, only to be forgotten. Please God, if you're there and you can hear me, please don't let that be true.
Hannah skimmed over the next paragraph, a long, delusional rambling of a repeated fever dream where Emma found herself wandering around dark streets at night, wondering why the sun wouldn't come out, why there weren't any lights on inside the houses, why the streets didn't have any names.
And here were the last words the woman named Emma wrote: I keep thinking about my mother. She died when I was eight. The day of her funeral, when my father and I were finally alone, I remember how he kept reassuring me that my mother's death was a part of God's divine plan. The image that comes to my mind over and over again from that day is how the traffic kept moving past us, the people in those cars going about their lives, going to their jobs, going to see their families and friends. Life just keeps moving forward. It doesn't stop for you. It doesn't even pause to offer you an apology. What scared me then – what scares me now – is how small you really are. In the grand scheme of things, you don't matter. If you're one of the lucky ones, you'll get a nice obituary and maybe a handful of people will pause to remember you for a while, but in the end they just go on, keep on moving forward and force themselves to forget until you've faded just a bit – you have to fade just enough so when they remember you you're not as sharp. You're easier to carry.
My father won't be that lucky. He'll leave my pictures up and he'll stop and stare at them and wonder what happened to me, what my last moments were like. I wish I could give him this diary or whatever it is I'm writing here so he could have some, I don't know, some final peace, I guess. I want my father to know
The entry ended.
I want my father to know. Emma's last words.
What happened to her? Had she died here, in this room? On this bed? If she died here, what had Walter done with her body?
Had he killed her?
Walter knocked on the door.
71
Hannah shoved the notebook underneath the sheets. She waited for the door to open. It didn't. The card reader didn't beep and the lock didn't click back.
Walter knocked again. Then she realized he was waiting for her to speak.
Don't speak unless he allows you to talk to Mom and Dad.
Two more knocks and when Hannah didn't answer, he opened the door.
Walter was dressed in a crisp white shirt and grey pinstriped dress pants. He was holding two items – a gift-wrapped box and, folded on top, a white terrycloth robe. He placed both items on the table.
'I thought you might want a clean robe,' he said. 'You can wear it on your way to the bathroom. You can take a shower or, if you prefer, a bath.'
Hannah didn't answer.
'I read your letter,' Walter said. 'I've prayed long and hard, and I've decided to let you call your parents.'
'Thank you.'
Walter smiled. His face changed, became more relaxed.
'It's good to hear your voice,' he said.
'I'm sorry I haven't been too talkative, but I thought…'
'You thought I was going to hurt you again.'
Hannah had anticipated the question. She knew what to say.
'I know what happened in the car was an accident. I forgive you.'
Walter placed the gift-wrapped present on the bed.
'You didn't have -'
'I wanted to,' he said. 'Go ahead and open it.'
Hannah tore off the paper. Inside the box, wrapped in tissue paper, was the black Calvin Klein cocktail dress she had admired in the Macy's store window the night of the snowstorm.
'Do you like it?' Walter asked.
'It's beautiful.' Hannah shivered beneath her pyjamas. She forced a smile. 'Thank you.'
'I was hoping you'd wear it tonight, at dinner. I'm making veal cutlets. The first course is braised scallops served in a white wine sauce.'
'It sounds wonderful.' Hannah took a deep breath and plunged. 'I'd like to talk to my parents now. I don't mean to be pushy; it's just that I'm worried about my father. He's very sick. He has cancer.'
That was a lie. Hannah had watched a Forensic Files show about a man who raped and killed prostitutes. The killer had snatched one woman and handcuffed her inside the back of his van. She kept talking about her father, how he had cancer and if she died nobody would take care of him. Her abductor raped her and let her go. After he was caught, he told police he didn't kill the woman because his mother also had died of cancer.
'Why don't you shower first?' Walter said. 'Change into the robe, and I'll escort you to the bathroom. Knock on the door when you're ready.'
Hannah wondered if Walter was watching through the peephole. She stepped behind the curtain that hid her toilet and changed quickly. She pulled the robe tightly around her, knotted the belt around her waist and knocked on the door.
Walter stepped into the room. He was holding a pair of handcuffs.
'To make sure you don't run away or, you
know…'
Go along or try to fight him? If she fought him now, on this issue, he might not let her make the phone call.
'They'll be off in a moment,' Walter said.
Hannah needed to push past her fear. She needed to be brave. She turned around and Walter slipped on the handcuffs. Hannah wondered if he did this because of Emma. Had she tried to run away during her first visit to the bathroom?
Walter stepped up next to the card reader. It beeped and the lock clicked back. The card reader was set up next to his waist, she noticed. The card must be in his pocket. That way he can keep his hands free.
Hannah stepped into the hallway of a half-finished cellar. To her left was a linen closet. He turned her around and she saw, at the end of the hallway and to the right of the stairs, a bathroom of white tile. The door had two padlocks on it.
Hannah walked slowly, wanting time to process everything she was seeing. The concrete floor was cold beneath her bare feet.
'May I take a bath?'
'Of course,' Walter said.
'How long do I have?'
'Take as long as you want.'
Good. Not only did she want some time to soak in the hot water – she hadn't bathed since her arrival – she wanted to poke around and see if she could find anything. If she did, through some miracle of God, find something useful, would Walter know it was missing? She'd have to give it some thought.
Heading past the cellar steps, Hannah glanced to her left and saw a washer and dryer. The clothes she had worn to the deli that day were folded neatly on top.
'I don't know what kind of shampoo or soap you like, but if you tell me, I'll be more than happy to get them for you,' Walter said. 'Whatever you need, whatever you want, just ask and I'll gladly -'
The doorbell rang.
72
Walter shoved her up against the wall and jammed the stump of his disfigured hand against her mouth. 'Say one word and I'll lock you in the dark with no food. Do you want that? Do you?'
Hannah shook her head.
The doorbell rang again. Looking past his horribly scarred face, she saw the basement steps leading up to an opened door; saw kitchen cabinets and the ceiling of another room. Less than a dozen steps. If only she wasn't handcuffed…
What if the police were at the door?
Bite his hand, get it away from your mouth and scream DO IT.
Walter yanked her away from the wall, spinning her around and wrapping his arm around her throat, squeezing as he dragged her back down the hallway. She couldn't breathe and she couldn't fight him. He was too strong.
He stepped up next to the card reader. It beeped and he pressed 2 followed by 4 and 6. She didn't see the last number.
The door opened. Walter shoved her inside. Hannah tripped and fell against the floor. A moment later, the room went dark. Hannah hugged her knees close to her chest and rocked back and forth, trying to stifle her tears. Walter grabbed the.22 Bulldog from the kitchen cabinet. He kept the gun behind his back as he moved inside the living room and looked through the window.
Standing on his front porch was a heavyset woman bundled up in a bulky winter coat, hat and scarf. Walter didn't recognize her. She was holding a dish wrapped in tinfoil.
He checked the street and didn't see any cars. His was the only house on this street. He looked back to the woman.
Answer the door or let her leave?
She rang the doorbell again.
The woman smiled as the door opened. The smile faltered a little when she saw his face. It took her a moment to recover.
'Hello, I'm your new neighbour, Gloria Lister.'
Walter didn't answer. He stared at the snow melting against her boots, knowing she was shocked by his face, knowing she was judging him. He wanted to swing the door shut and hide.
When he didn't introduce himself, the woman broke the uncomfortable silence. 'The lights were on, and when I saw your car in the driveway, I thought you were home,' she said. 'I didn't want to leave this pie out here, so I rang the doorbell a few times. It's apple. I'm a baker -'
'I'm allergic to apples.' A lie. He wanted her to leave. Now.
'Oh… okay, well, I'll take it back then.' She waited a moment, and when he didn't answer, she said, 'I didn't mean to disturb you. Have a good night.'
Walter slammed the door shut. He put on the padlocks and shut off all the lights. He felt dizzy.
He should have said hello. He should have taken the pie. Tomorrow, when his new neighbour went to work, she would tell all her friends at the bakery about her strange neighbour, the man with the ugly, scarred face. I was glad to go, really, he looked like a monster, Gloria would say, and they would all have a good laugh. People would talk. Word would get around – it always did in small towns – and sooner or later the police would get wind of Gloria Lister's strange neighbour who didn't invite her inside his home, who left her standing outside in the cold with her pie. Maybe the police would pay him a visit, decide to come inside and take a look around. You never knew.
He should have at least said hello.
Using the wall for support, he stumbled into the living room and looked out the window again, watching his new neighbour carefully manoeuvring her way over the icy patches on the street. Walter wondered what it would be like to invite a woman inside his house. That would be a first.
73
Darby was reviewing the DVD Malcolm Fletcher had sent to Jonathan Hale when she heard a knock on the door.
'I've got some news on the unknown makeup sample,' Keith Woodbury said. He wore a winter coat and his face was red from the cold. 'Follow me to my office.'
Seated behind his desk, Woodbury removed a sheet of paper from a folder. He handed her the FTIR graph showing the breakdown of the chemical compounds and their individual concentrations.
'For the past week, I've been playing the chemical version of Scrabble with my MIT friend, rearranging the compounds,' Woodbury said. 'What threw us off were the levels of titanium dioxide. It's a mineral. You can find traces of it in everything from food to cosmetics. You don't need to take notes. This will all be in my report.
'One of the products found in the sweatshirt sample is called Derma. It's a cosmetic concealer used to hide severe facial scarring caused by acne, surgery or burns. The product comes in a variety of shades so the patient can match it to their individual skin pigmentation. A good number of plastic surgeons and dermatologists recommend it to their patients. It's not a prescription item any more – it used to be, until the late nineties – but you can't buy it at a store, at least not yet. The company is manufacturing a new line of cosmetics that, starting next year, will be carried nationwide in department stores like Macy's. At the moment, you can only order Derma through the company website.'
Woodbury handed her another graph. 'This is the unknown sample,' he said. 'It's LYCD, shorthand for live yeast cell derivative. It's a relatively new chemical – that's the reason why FTIR couldn't identify it. LYCD isn't listed in any of the cosmetics databases.'
'What is it?'
'To put it simply, LYCD provides oxygen to the skin, allowing it to breathe. It's a facial cream but not a traditional one. LYCD is supposed to help facilitate the healing. You apply it to either a fresh incision or a severe burn. It's also supposed to help relax scar tissue. Did Judith Chen have any facial scarring?'
'No.'
'What about Emma Hale?'
'Her face was flawless.'
'Did either woman get a chemical peel?'
'I don't know. Judith Chen didn't make enough money to afford something like that, but I wouldn't be surprised if Emma Hale did.'
'The sweatshirt sample contained both Derma and LYCD. As I said, LYCD is designed for fresh incisions, burns or scars. You apply the LYCD cream to your face in the morning and then at night, before bed. A container lasts about thirty days. Derma is used to camouflage the scarring. It's for people who have sensitive or problematic skin. It doesn't contain any alcohol. Most over-the-counter cosmetic conceale
rs contain some alcohol-based preservative which, for some people, can irritate the face.'
'Let me ask you this,' Darby said. 'Could someone with normal skin use it as a beauty treatment?'
'You mean younger, healthier looking skin in thirty days or your money back?'
'Exactly.'
'I suppose you could use it for that purpose, but there are better products on the market, ones you can readily purchase in high-end specialty stores. What do you ladies call it? Hope in a jar?'
'I wouldn't know.'
'Don't you watch Oprah?'
'No.'
'I thought all women watched Oprah. It's like a law or something.' Woodbury grinned as he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. 'Okay, let's say you wanted to use LYCD because you believed it would help make your skin more youthful. You'd have to go to a dermatologist's office or a burn clinic. I doubt they'd sell it to you on that basis. Did you find any evidence of recent facial trauma on either victim?'
'Given the advanced state of decomposition, it was impossible to tell.'
'If Chen and Hale didn't have any facial scars, if they hadn't suffered some sort of facial burn, then there was no reason they would be carrying either product in, say, their purse or backpack when they were abducted. The other problem is Derma. The shade doesn't match Judith Chen or Emma Hale's skin colour. That leaves us with two possible scenarios. The first is that these products belong to another victim. The second is that their attacker uses both of these products. If Chen's killer was wearing Derma and LYCD, it's possible he might have accidentally transferred the products to her shoulder when he picked up her body.'
'How would I go about finding out who sells this LYCD cream?'
'That's where we're in luck,' Woodbury said. 'Only one company manufactures an LYCD product – Alcoa, based out of Los Angeles. The product is called Lycoprime. You can't buy it at a drugstore or purchase it legally online. You have to find a dermatologist or burn clinic that sells the product. Lycoprime is relatively new. Alcoa started manufacturing it less than two years ago.'
