The Secret Friend

by Unknown

  ‘I told Hannah I couldn’t afford to send her to the local college, which was the truth. We don’t make much. Getting a degree up here would open all sorts of doors for her. Hannah didn’t like it much – she missed her friends, didn’t care for the weather here. Too cold, she said. My wife, she sort of relented, said she’d pick up an extra job to help see Hannah through a local college but I said no. I kept pressing Hannah to come here. My daughter’s shy – she’s been that way since she was wee-high – and I thought, my thinking was being up here, surrounded by all these smart people, it would do Hannah a world of good, help break her out of her shell. She may be shy but she’s a persistent bugger when it comes to studying.

  ‘Hannah kept on telling me how unhappy she was, how she wanted to come home, and I kept telling her no. I’d hang up and every time there’d be a knot in my stomach. I always shook it off. Maybe God was trying to tell me something.’

  ‘Mr Givens, I know this is easy for me to say, but you can’t blame yourself for what’s happened. Sometimes…’

  ‘What?’

  Sometimes things just happen, Darby said to herself. Sometimes God doesn’t care.

  ‘We’re all working real hard on this, sir.’

  Michael Givens stood with his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to say or where to look.

  ‘What do you think of her?’ he asked.

  ‘I think your daughter is –’

  ‘No, I meant Nancy Grace. She wants us to come on TV and talk about Hannah, says it will help find her. My wife wants to do it, says anything we can do to help Hannah we ought to. Truth be told, I don’t feel too good about it. There’s something about the way that woman carries on that gives me a bad feeling all over. If we go on TV, you think it will make this person who’s got Hannah decide to… hurt her?’

  Darby told him the truth. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What would you do, if you were in my situation?’

  ‘I think you should do what you feel is right.’

  ‘What’s your opinion of that Nancy Grace woman?’

  ‘Personally, I think the only thing she gives a shit about is ratings.’

  ‘You’re blunt. I admire that. You and Hannah would get along real good. Thank you, Miss McCormick.’

  Hannah’s father turned around but he didn’t open the door.

  ‘She’s our only child. We couldn’t have any other children. It was a miracle we had her. I don’t know what we’d do if she… Just bring my baby girl home, okay?’

  His hands fumbled for the doorknob. Michael Givens stumbled back inside, forgetting to shut the door behind him. He took the seat next to his wife and stared at the phone, willing it to ring.

  68

  Keith Woodbury had taken the cassette tape and created an mp3 file which he burned onto a CD.

  The first time Darby had listened to it she had to excuse herself. She went outside and walked around the building several times until the fresh air had purged the sick, clammy feeling that wrapped itself around her skin.

  The second time was just as difficult, but with the initial shock over, Darby concentrated on the recording, forcing herself to ignore the woman’s screaming and listen for background noises. Darby listened to the CD again as she drove back into the city.

  Jennifer Sanders screamed out in pain, screamed for it to stop, begged for it to stop. The man on the tape grunted and moaned. Sometimes he laughed. He didn’t speak. If he had said something, then maybe Dingle’s sister could have identified her brother’s voice. At least then Darby would know for sure that the man on the tape was, in fact, Sam Dingle.

  The traffic leading into Boston was awful. There was some sort of road construction. Darby took the nearest exit, her mind focused on the sounds playing over her car speakers. She didn’t hear anything in the background. The tape needed to be analysed by an audio expert, a process that would take months.

  Half an hour later she found herself driving through the Back Bay. Trinity Church, one of the oldest in Boston, stood in the shadow of the Prudential Center. Every Christmas season, for as long as Darby could remember, her mother had brought her here to Copley Square for the candlelight carols. Sometimes the Trinity Chamber Choir sang.

  Darby spotted an empty parking space and, without a moment’s thought, pulled in as daylight died behind the Prudential Tower.

  A Catholic church is a sinister place. Sin and salvation. A life-size statue of Jesus hanging on the cross was mounted on the wall behind the altar. In the dim light Darby saw the painted drops of blood running from his crown of thorns and the nails driven through his palms and feet.

  The original church, founded in 1733, was burned in the Great Boston Fire of 1872. The architect H. H. Richardson rebuilt the church in the style which became popular in a number of European buildings – massive towers of stone with clay roofs and arches. Darby was always mesmerized by the stained-glass windows behind the altar. She saw David’s Charge to Solomon, designed in 1882 by Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris.

  Darby sat in a pew, wondering about the generations of people who had sat in this same spot and prayed to God out of desperation and fear. Please, Jesus, my son has cancer. Please help him. Mary, Mother of God, please keep my children safe. Please don’t let anything happen to my family. Please help me, God. Jesus, please help me.

  Did God hear their prayers? Did he listen? If he did, did he pick and choose at random? Did he even care?

  Did the victims go to church?

  Darby set her backpack on the pew and removed the copy of Emma Hale’s murder book. She hunted through the text with the aid of a pen light.

  Emma Hale was born and raised Catholic. She went to Mass every Sunday with her father. What about Judith Chen? She, too, had been raised Catholic. Her roommates didn’t know if she attended church.

  Darby called the number for Hannah’s apartment. Michael Givens answered.

  ‘What is your daughter’s religious affiliation?’

  ‘We raised her Catholic,’ Hannah’s father said. ‘That was my wife’s doing. Me, I didn’t really have much use for it.’

  ‘What about Hannah?’

  ‘She went through the motions for her mother, but I don’t think it really took hold.’

  ‘Do you know if Hannah ever attended Catholic services in or around Boston?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Michael Givens conferred with his wife for a moment. Tracey Givens mumbled something to her husband and then she came on the line.

  ‘Hannah hasn’t attended church for a while now. I wasn’t too happy about it, but Hannah wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. She wasn’t real religious, and whatever faith she had left went out the window when that awful sexual abuse scandal broke out here – you know the one I’m talking about, where the priests molested those boys and Cardinalwhat’s-his-name covered it up?’

  ‘Cardinal Law,’ Darby said. ‘What about any local charity work?’ Bryson hadn’t investigated that item.

  ‘My daughter didn’t have a lot of free time between her classes and two jobs – Hannah kept complaining about it to both me and her father, saying she wished she had more of a personal life. If she was doing any charity work, she didn’t tell me.’

  ‘What about a boyfriend? Was she seeing anyone?’ Darby felt desperate, reaching for straws.

  ‘Hannah was seeing a nice boy back home but that fell by the wayside after Hannah left for college,’ Tracey Givens said. ‘She wasn’t dating anyone here. It was a real sore spot for her.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Givens.’

  Darby stared at Jesus’ sorrowful expression and for some reason her thoughts drifted to Timothy Bryson. His body was lying inside a casket at a funeral home in Quincy. Tomorrow morning he would be buried. She wondered who had made the arrangements.

  Darby recalled the framed picture of his daughter and held it in her mind’s eye while she examined her feelings.

  I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter, that cold, analytic
al part said. But I don’t feel sorry for what happened to you, Tim. I know I should, but I don’t.

  Darby thought of her own mother. Out of habit, or maybe out of faith, she knelt, and with her back ramrod straight, just as the nuns at St Stephen’s had taught her, made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes. First she said a prayer for Sheila. Then she prayed for Hannah.

  Her phone vibrated against her hip. The display said unknown caller. Darby let her phone ring three more times before she answered.

  69

  ‘Are you praying to God to help you find Hannah?’ Malcolm Fletcher asked.

  Darby reached inside her coat pocket and undid the strap of her shoulder holster as she looked around the church. The pews were empty, the walls with their stained-glass depictions of the stations of the cross covered in shadows.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d hear from you again, Special Agent Fletcher.’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Jonathan Hale told us everything.’

  ‘A clever lie,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘I know what you’re doing. I know why you’re here.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask me about Detective Bryson?’

  ‘You’re admitting you killed him?’

  ‘I did you a favour. Who knows what sorts of schemes he was planning? You might want to check your evidence locker.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’

  ‘I wanted Timmy to deliver a message and decided to send it air mail.’ Fletcher laughed, a deep, guttural sound that made her feel cold all over. ‘Aren’t you glad he’s dead?’

  ‘I don’t think he deserved to suffer.’

  ‘Another lie. That’s part of the reason you’re at church now, isn’t it? You wanted to lay down your guilt at the altar and beg the Almighty for mercy. I forget how much you Catholics enjoy the rack. Did He decide to end his insufferable reign of silence and answer your prayers?’

  ‘I’m still waiting.’

  ‘Don’t you know your god deals in silence and ash?’

  ‘We identified the remains.’

  ‘I’m sure Tina Sanders is relieved. She’s been praying for this moment for a long time.’

  ‘She still won’t speak to us.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  ‘Let’s talk about Sam Dingle.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to end this conversation. I don’t entirely trust the phone. You never know who might be listening in. Oh, and Darby?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Despite what you’ve read or heard about me, I have no intention of harming you now or anytime in the future. Hannah is in excellent hands. I hope you find her soon. Goodbye, Darby.’

  Click.

  Darby was standing outside the church, looking around the streets when her phone rang again. It was one of the surveillance technicians.

  ‘We couldn’t trace his call,’ the tech said. ‘If he calls again, just keep him talking. At some point he’ll slip and we’ll find him.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ Darby said.

  70

  Hannah Givens was thinking about the letter again, wondering if she had made a mistake.

  Three days ago Walter had presented her with a nice sheet of stationery and matching envelope with postage. He gave her a pen and told her to write a letter to her parents. He promised to mail it.

  Hannah knew full well Walter would never mail the letter. It was too risky. The way forensics worked now, the police could trace a postage stamp to the exact post office where it had been purchased. She had seen it done on a TV show.

  The letter, Hannah knew, was a peace offering, a way to get her to speak. Walter needed her to talk. He had tried to get her to open up by sharing a horrible story about how his mother had almost burned him to death and then followed it up with all that religious talk about the importance of forgiveness.

  When she didn’t speak, when she continued to sit there, silent and staring, she could tell he wanted to hurt her. To his credit, he didn’t, but that didn’t mean Walter would wait forever. He’d hurt her once. There was no question in her mind he’d do it again.

  Walter had left the felt-tipped pen. For a good amount of time she had played with the idea of using the pen as a weapon – stab him in the throat, if possible. At the very least, she could take out an eye. She had played through the scenarios in her mind and noticed that not once did she feel any fear. She had never injured another human being before but felt certain, if and when the time came, she could do it.

  Walter, though, was smart. He wouldn’t forget the pen. At some point he would ask for it back.

  Another idea had taken root in her mind, one with possibly even greater potential: What if she could use the letter as an opportunity to gain some leverage? The question consumed her waking thoughts.

  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