by Chris Mooney
Something was wrong. The makeup Walter used to hide his scars was smeared in several places. She saw thick, rubbery patches of crimson and brown coloured skin. His eyes were wet. Had he been crying?
'Get dressed,' Walter said again. His hair was dishevelled, sticking up at odd angles as though he had just climbed out of bed. He was wearing his coat.
'Where are we going?'
'I'm taking you home.'
Hannah was about to ask the question, stopped. Don't say anything. Just do what he says.
She had to ask. She needed to know. 'Why are you letting me go?'
'Mary said it's the right thing to do.'
Hannah picked up her clothes. They smelled of fabric softener. Walter had cleaned them.
Walter didn't leave the room. Hannah took the clothes behind the curtain hiding the toilet and changed quickly.
When she came out, Walter was holding a pair of handcuffs.
This time he didn't ask her to turn around. He yanked her hands behind her back and handcuffed her. She didn't fight him. When he wrapped a black blindfold over her eyes, she didn't fight him. Walter grabbed her by the arm and quickly dragged her down the hallway as though the house was on fire.
Walter helped her up the stairs. Hannah took the steps one at a time, heart pumping with fear, the handcuffs biting into her wrist. Why was he rushing? Something was wrong. Hannah couldn't see, couldn't make out any shapes. She was trapped in the dark.
The stairs ended. Hannah stepped into the kitchen. Walter held onto her arm and led her down what felt like a narrow hallway. She kept bumping into walls.
Walter told her to stop. She did. He grabbed her by the shoulders and then moved her to the left and told her to take three steps forward. She did.
Walter was breathing hard. 'I'm going to take off your handcuffs and then help you put on your jacket,' he said. 'After your jacket is on, I'm going to cuff you again.'
Coat on and zippered, the handcuffs back in place, Walter put his hands on her shoulders and moved her to the right. Something hard bumped up against the tips of her boots.
He slipped something inside her jacket pocket.
There was a long moment of silence. She heard him sniffle and clear his throat several times.
Was he crying?
'You're so beautiful, Hannah.'
He was crying.
'You're the most beautiful woman I've ever met,' Walter said. 'I love you so much.'
In some strange, bizarre way, she wanted to thank him for his kindness – to tell him he was doing the right thing. She wanted to say she wouldn't tell anyone about him or what had happened, cross her heart and hope to die, swear on a stack of bibles, whatever he wanted. But she didn't want to risk breaking whatever spell he was under by saying something that might cause him to change his mind. 'Stay still,' Walter said. 'Don't move.'
80
With Emma and Judith, Walter fired one shot in the back of their head and quickly pushed them over the bathtub before their legs buckled. He never stayed inside the bathroom – seeing their bodies thrashing inside the tub, limbs kicking, hearing the gurgling sounds they made as their brain died… it was too upsetting. He went to the closet to pray to Mary, waiting for them to bleed out, Mary reassuring him that they hadn't felt anything. What he was witnessing was their bodies dying. The body didn't matter. It was just a vessel for the soul, and the soul was what mattered.
The difficult part done and out of the way, he came back to the bathroom and turned on the shower to rinse away the blood. Then he made a sign of the cross on their foreheads with their blood, baptizing them as he prayed, and transferred the bodies to the plastic tarp lying on the floor. The pocket holding the statue was then sewn shut – Mary needed to stay with them until their souls were finally released three days later – and before he dumped them into the water to be baptized all over again, he prayed again.
When he arrived home, he cleaned the shower and floors with bleach, wiping everything up with the towels, and then he'd go to the closet again to pray.
Tonight would be different.
Hannah Givens stood facing the shower wall. No plastic tarp under her feet. No towels or bottles of bleach to clean out the tub. The statue was in her pocket but there was no need to sew it shut. Mary didn't want him to deliver Hannah into the water. After he shot Hannah, he was to place the gun against his temple or the roof of his mouth and pull the trigger. Those were Mary's instructions.
Walter brought the handgun up and pointed it at the back of Hannah's head. His hand was shaking. He couldn't stop crying. Mary spoke to him.
Don't be afraid. I'm here with you.
I'm scared.
It's painless. You won't feel a thing, I promise.
Help me.
Remember when I took you into my arms for the first time and pulled you close to my heart?
Yes.
You were surrounded by my love. I took the pain away. Do you remember?
He did.
Do you feel my love for you, Walter?
Yes.
You'll forever be surrounded by my love. Now do it.
He couldn't pull the trigger.
Your mother is here with me. Emma and Judith are excited to see you. They love you, Walter. Deliver Hannah to me and then come and join us.
The doorbell rang.
Hannah's head turned to the sound. Lightning quick, Walter wrapped his arm around her throat, the good hand coming up, pressing the muzzle of the gun against her head.
'Say one word and I'll kill you.'
The doorbell rang again.
Who was at the door? Had his new neighbour Gloria Lister come back with another one of her pies?
You're my special boy, Walter. I love you.
The bathroom door was open. The lights were on, as were the kitchen lights.
Come home to me. It's time.
The doorbell rang again, followed by a knock on the door. Hannah was crying, shivering against him.
'Shut up.'
I love you, Walter.
It was hard to hear Mary over Hannah's bawling.
'Shut up.'
Pull the trigger.
Hannah didn't stop. He placed his good hand over her mouth.
There's no reason to be afraid, Walter. Can you feel my love? Can you feel -
Hannah bit his thumb.
Walter screamed and Hannah pushed him backwards. He hit the bathroom vanity, the back of his head shattering the mirror. Hannah twisted her head side-to-side like a rabid dog, tearing skin from his hand, and Walter kept screaming as the gun dropped into the sink.
81
The front door had a thick pane of glass covered with lace curtains. Someone was home. A light was on inside the kitchen, and Darby could see a round table and a wool jacket lying over the back of a chair.
Darby was about to lean on the doorbell again when she heard a man screaming.
She reached one hand inside her coat, the other gripping the doorknob, turning and finding it locked. She kicked the window with the heel of her boot. The glass splintered and she kicked it again and it shattered – a woman was screaming for help. Oh Jesus, Hannah Givens is in there and she's screaming.
Darby crawled through the pane, jagged pieces of glass cutting her coat and cheek, and stepped into the foyer. SIG gripped in her hand, she moved down the hall and stared down the target sight, ready to shoot, the screaming growing louder as she spun into the kitchen and checked her left side, her blind spot – clear. To her right, a well-lit hallway of checked green and white linoleum stretching down to an opened door with stairs leading into the dark garage. At the end of the hallway and to the left, another opened door, the light inside blazing. Shadows moved across the hallway wall and Darby moved fast. Get ready to shoot. Keep shooting until he falls. Mouth dry and adrenaline pumping, she crouched low and turned the corner.
A man with a mangled face smeared with makeup had one arm wrapped around Hannah Givens' throat, squeezing, pressing her close to him
. Darby couldn't fire. Hannah's head was too close to the man's face – the man was Walter Smith, there was no question; the man Darby had seen in the hospital photographs, the face with slabs of scarred meat stitched back together and smeared with the same shade of makeup found on Judith Chen's sweatshirt.
Hannah's nose was broken. Blood poured down her face and a blindfold of black cloth covered her eyes. Walter Smith stood behind her, his head partially shielded behind Hannah's, his bloody hand coming out of the sink holding a revolver. He's going to kill her, you can't risk a shot. Do something.
An idea came and she had to try it, roll the dice and pray.
'The Virgin Mary sent me here to help you,' Darby said. 'She's in danger.'
A single, lidless eye stared at her.
'Mary called for me, Walter. She told me to go to Sinclair and help her.'
'You talked to Mary?' Walter didn't lower the gun, kept it aimed at her, but the caged, desperate glare in his good eye disappeared, replaced by confusion, maybe even hope. Use it.
'Yes,' Darby said. 'I spoke to her. She told me what happened. She told me to come here and help you.'
'Why do you have a gun?'
'I had to protect Mary.'
'Are you an angel?'
'Yes.' Darby didn't want to lower the gun. If she lowered the gun, she'd expose herself. Walter might panic and start shooting. Keep talking. 'The Blessed Mother was in great danger, but I saved her. She told me to come here to help you. Your hand is bleeding. Are you hurt?'
'They have her.' Walter was crying. 'They're going to hurt my Blessed Mother.'
'They can't hurt her. I took care of them.'
'What did you do?'
'They're gone. They can't hurt you. Mary's safe but she needs your help. We have to move our Blessed Mother to a safe location.'
'Mary said I had to do this.' Walter moved the gun to Hannah's head.
'Mary wants you to give Hannah to me. Do not disobey her.'
'Mary told me what to do. She told me but I can't… I can't do the other thing. I can't kill myself, I'm too scared.'
'You don't have to be afraid any more. I'm here to help you. Mary sent me here to help you, but first, you need to help her.'
'I love her.'
'She loves you too, Walter. That's why she sent me here.'
'I love her so much.'
'I know you do.' Get him to put down the gun.
'I can't live without her,' Walter said.
'Mary has given us both so much and now it's our turn to help her.'
'Where are we going to take her?'
'I don't know. Mary said she would tell me when I brought you back to the chapel. Let Hannah go and I'll take you to Mary.'
Walter eased Hannah into a sitting position on the tub's side and then collapsed to his knees, sobbing, hands in his hair. The gun slid from his fingers and dropped to the floor covered with shards of broken glass.
'I love her,' Walter said.
'I know.' Darby kicked the gun away, grabbed Walter by the hair and smashed his face against the floor.
Walter cried out in surprise, his muscles tensing, ready to fight. She pressed a knee into the base of his spine, grabbed the back of his collared shirt and dug the muzzle of her gun against his neck.
'Move and I'll kill you.' Darby could taste it on the back of her throat, that burning satisfaction of killing the monster that lived beneath his human skin.
A shot to the head was too kind. She wanted him to suffer.
Then do it. Make him suffer.
Walter's muscles went limp. He collapsed back against the floor.
He didn't fight her when she yanked his hands behind his back and cuffed them. If he had tried to put up a fight, she could have shot him. She could have done anything. Darby felt a curious disappointment seeping through her limbs as she reholstered the SIG.
She rifled through his pockets for the handcuff key.
'You're safe, Hannah, he can't hurt you.' The college student was lying sideways inside the tub, shaking and crying. 'I'll have those cuffs off in just a moment.'
Walter lay motionless on his stomach, eyes blank as he stared off into space mumbling what sounded like a prayer.
Darby found the handcuff key. She reached inside her jean pocket for the phone. She felt it along with the small panic button Tim Bryson had given her.
Behind her, the sound of a heavy footstep crunching over glass and then the feeling of two cold metal prongs pressed against her neck.
'I'd prefer not to use the Taser,' Malcolm Fletcher said, 'so please sit still.'
82
The SIG was tucked inside her shoulder holster. There was no way Darby could reach it.
'Special Agent Fletcher,' Darby said, gripping the panic button between her fingers. 'I thought you'd left town.'
'I missed you so much I decided to come back.' Fletcher stood behind her. 'Please put your hands behind your back.'
Darby pressed the button, felt the seal break. 'May I stand?'
'If you wish,' Fletcher said. 'But please, no sudden movements.'
Darby slowly removed her hand from her pocket. Leaning forward, she placed both hands on Walter's lower back, tucked the panic button in his back jean pocket and stood. The Taser's metal prongs never left her neck.
'Nice job deleting the patient file from the Shriners computer system,' Darby said, placing her hands behind her back. 'Did Jonathan Hale pay you extra for that?'
Malcolm Fletcher wrapped a pair of Flexicuffs around her wrists and motioned to the hallway. 'After you,' he said.
'I'd like to stay here with Hannah.'
'Miss Givens will be joining you in the living room momentarily.' He gripped Darby's forearm gently and whispered against her ear. 'Don't be scared. I won't harm you.'
Darby wasn't afraid. For some reason, she believed him.
Malcolm Fletcher, murderer of Tim Bryson and two federal agents, escorted her into a living room with shabby grey carpeting. A framed oil painting of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall above the fireplace.
'Tell me about Sam Dingle,' Darby said.
Fletcher brought her to an armoire holding a TV, turned her around and asked her to sit on the floor.
'Did Dingle kill Jennifer Sanders?' Darby said.
'You'll have to ask him yourself when you find him.'
'You promised me the truth.'
'Sit on the floor,' Fletcher said. 'I'm not going to ask you again.'
'Can't keep Mr Hale waiting, can we?' Darby sat.
'Sammy raped and strangled Jennifer Sanders,' Fletcher said, looping another pair of Flexicuffs inside the ones fastened around her wrist. 'He also strangled the two women from Saugus.'
'Is that Jennifer's voice on the audio tape?'
'Yes.'
'Where did you get it?'
Fletcher tied a second pair of cuffs around the armoire's legs. 'I found the cassette and many more inside Sammy's home.'
'Did you kill him?'
'No.'
'Then what did you do to him? Where is he?'
Malcolm Fletcher left the room without answering.
Darby sat on the floor with her arms behind her, wrists cuffed and fastened to the armoire's leg. Fletcher was talking to Hannah. He was speaking too softly. Darby couldn't hear what he was saying.
On the fireplace mantel was a small clock. Darby watched the time, hoping Bill Jordan or someone from his team had noticed she had set off the panic button. Driving from Danvers to Rowley would take an hour. Jordan wouldn't wait; he would call the locals. Had he already placed the call? How long would it take Rowley PD to arrive? She would have to try and stall Fletcher.
Ten minutes later Fletcher came back into the room carrying Hannah Givens in his arms. She was still blindfolded and handcuffed. He gently placed her on the couch, then grabbed an old afghan from a chair and draped it over her. He turned to Darby.
'You won't be here long. I'll call nine-one-one from the road.'
'Why don't you just ki
ll Walter now?' Darby said. 'That's why you're here, isn't it?'
'Why didn't you kill him? Isn't that what you wanted?'
'You don't have the right -'
'I watched you in the bathroom. You wanted Walter to suffer, Darby. Were you hoping to turn him into a paraplegic? Or did you want to kill him because, deep down, you know he's beyond redemption?'
Fletcher knelt on one knee, his strange black eyes hovering in front of her face. Behind them was infinite darkness.
'That appetite, you'll soon discover, is hard to suppress.'
'Are you speaking from personal experience?'
'We'll have to discuss the matter another time.' Fletcher's eyes roamed over her face and body. 'Maybe one day we can talk about it. Privately.'
'Let's talk about it now.'
Fletcher stood. 'When you think back to that moment inside the bathroom, you'll wish you'd pulled the trigger.'
'Where are you taking Walter?'
'I'm going to give him what he truly wants,' Fletcher said, tossing the handcuff keys on the table. 'I'm going to deliver him to his mother.'
'I'll find you.'
'Better men have tried, mate. Goodbye, Darby.'
83
Walter was trapped in pitch-black darkness. There was no floor beneath his feet, and he didn't feel anything as he waved his hands around in the air – it was like he was floating in outer space, without stars, without sound.
He had been to this place, whatever this place was, once years ago, after the fire. At first he thought he was trapped in hell and then a woman's voice, soft and reassuring, had called out from somewhere in the darkness and told him not to be scared. He wouldn't be here for long. Great and wonderful miracles were about to happen.
Walter didn't know the voice belonged to Mary. It was only when the Virgin Mother of Jesus revealed herself inside the chapel had he realized that the voice belonged to Mary, his Blessed Mother.
Walter came to his senses as he was dragged out of the bathroom. His feet bounced down the steps and then he was lifted into the trunk of a car. His body was stiff with terror.
A devil with black eyes and pale skin looked down on him before the trunk shut, plunging him into darkness.
