The Secret Friend

by Unknown

  There’s no reason to be afraid. I love you so much. Come here and let me hold you.

  Walter obeyed the Blessed Mother. He left the pew and went to Mary and she held him in her arms.

  You’re a brave boy. I’m very proud of you.

  Surrounded by Mary’s love, Walter cried.

  You’ll never be alone, Mary said, kissing the top of his head. I’ll always be with you. I love you so much.

  Walter came back to the chapel and visited Mary often. When they were alone, she would reveal herself to him. The crippling loneliness, the pain, fear, isolation and loss – it vanished every time Mary held him in her arms.

  In time, Mary shared all of her secrets. They had many wonderful conversations. When the hospital closed, Walter found a way back to his Blessed Mother.

  Walter walked through the abandoned hallways of paint-chipped walls. He didn’t like the dark but he wasn’t scared. Mary was close; he couldn’t hear her voice yet but he could feel her love stirring inside his heart.

  He put the flashlight in his back pocket and climbed the rusted ladder bolted to the wall. When he reached the top, he ran through the cold hallways. He was almost in tears when he slipped through the final door and into the last hallway.

  Mary’s love swelling inside him, Walter picked up the wooden ladder and walked carefully over the debris to a hole in the floor. He slid the ladder through, and when he set foot on the gravelly bottom, he pushed open the door and moved inside the chapel. He grabbed his flashlight.

  His Blessed Mother stood at the end of the aisle. Her expression of eternal sorrow disappeared, turning into a smile when she saw him.

  Walter, you came.

  Sweet relief flooded through him. His legs buckled. He grabbed the edge of a pew to keep from falling.

  I’m so glad you’re here. I missed you.

  ‘I missed you.’ His eyes were burning, wet.

  Come talk to me about Hannah.

  Walter stumbled down the aisle. He couldn’t hold his Blessed Mother’s love any longer. It was too strong, too powerful. He dropped to his knees, weeping. He closed his eyes.

  Hail Mary, full of Grace, I am with thee…

  Mary screamed. Walter blinked, and through his tears saw a bright light aimed at him. Walter raised his hands.

  ‘Down on your stomach and put your hands behind your head.’

  The voice came from the man holding a flashlight and moving up the aisle fast – a short, wide man wearing a knit hat. He was holding a gun.

  Walter looked over the man’s shoulder, at Mary standing tall, her face twisted in anger.

  Don’t let him take you away, Walter. The doctors will pump you full of those awful chemicals and you won’t be able to hear me and they’ll take you away and you won’t be able to see me.

  The man with the gun spoke into a walkie-talkie pinned to his jacket. ‘Brian, it’s Paul, I need backup.’ Then to Walter: ‘Lie down on your stomach and put your hands behind your head.’

  Walter felt his mother’s love bleeding away. The man with the gun was going to take him to a hospital room and the doctors would pump him full of the medicine and he would never see Mary again and without his Blessed Mother he would be lost in limbo for eternity – he would die without her.

  Walter turned off the flashlight and tossed it into the air as he rolled into the pew.

  A gunshot, the muzzle flash jumping like lightning inside the chapel, and Walter was on his feet.

  ‘Brian, get in here, he’s running!’

  Walter knew every inch of the chapel by heart. His hand was on the back of the pew and he saw the beam of the man’s flashlight moving through the chapel. Another man was shouting, another flashlight beam crisscrossing through the darkness. Walter ran up the centre aisle, heading for the back of the chapel, and heard another gunshot, the muzzle flash lighting up the door to the room holding the ladder, and he ran inside and threw the door shut.

  A gunshot splintered the door. Walter climbed the ladder, legs shaking, rubbery. He reached the top and scrambled to his feet as another gunshot blew apart the wood. Walter gripped the ladder and pulled it up. Below him, the door flew open, banging against the wall. Walter tossed the ladder into the hallway. The man with the knit hat moved into the room, saw the hole in the ceiling and fired. The man started to climb the mountain of debris and Walter grabbed a brick and threw it down the hole, the man screamed and Walter threw another brick, then another. A gun fired again but Walter was gone, running through the dark.

  78

  ‘Walter Smith isn’t here,’ Darby said.

  Dr Tobias looked over his bifocals. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Walter Smith’s entire pharmaceutical history is listed in the pharmacy database but his name doesn’t appear in your patient database.’

  The hospital director groaned as he got out of his chair. Darby handed him the printed sheets listing Walter Smith’s medications.

  At the beginning of the year a physician named Dr Christopher Zackary had renewed Walter Smith’s prescription for Lycoprime. Walter Smith had been using the product for the past year and a half. He had used the Derma camouflage concealer steadily since the early eighties. The medical entries for Derma stopped in 1997, the time when it no longer required a prescription.

  Tobias scanned the pages then set them aside and typed on the keyboard ‘Smith, Walter’. The search came up empty.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Tobias said. ‘If he’s in the pharmacy database, then his patient file should be in our system.’

  ‘I’d like to see his paper file.’

  ‘Dr Zackary has most likely gone home for the day. Let me see if I can find someone to unlock his office.’

  Darby leaned back in her chair, stretching as she stared up at the ceiling tiles. It was after 10 p.m.

  Why was Walter Smith’s patient file missing? Was it some clerical oversight or computer glitch? A hospital of this size would have a system in place to perform weekly if not daily backups of its computer systems.

  Her cell phone rang.

  ‘You were right,’ Bill Jordan said. ‘He came back to the chapel.’

  Darby stood, almost knocking over the chair. ‘You’ve got him in custody?’

  ‘Not yet. Look, I don’t have much time, so let me give you a quick rundown. Quinn – he’s one of the guys I have stationed inside Sinclair – Quinn said someone entered the chapel about half an hour ago. The guy he saw, his face was all messed up, like it was burned. The guy decided to run. Shots were fired and the guy made it into a room located in the back, behind the pews. There’s a hole in the ceiling.’

  Darby knew the room. She had seen it after she crawled through the vent.

  ‘Quinn and his partner, Brian Pierra, they swear they saw a ladder,’ Jordan said. ‘Next thing they know, the ladder is pulled up. Quinn fired a shot and got a brick thrown at his head.’

  ‘Can you cover all the exits?’

  ‘We’re covering all the exits we know about. Danvers PD is here and they’re pissed. One of Reed’s security guys heard the gunshots, panicked and called in the locals. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘No, I want you to stay right where you are. This place is a goddamn zoo, and I’ve got a tactical nightmare on my hands. I’ll call you as soon as we have this guy in custody, I promise. Good work, Darby. You were right.’

  And then Jordan was gone.

  Darby wanted to run for her car, tear up Route One North and then what? Jordan’s men had SWAT experience. If she drove up to Danvers, what could she do? She couldn’t do anything.

  She paced the cheap carpeting, surrounded by papers and steamed heat. She wanted to be there when they dragged this person out of the hospital. She wanted to see the face of the man who had shot Emma Hale and Judith Chen – and what about Hannah Givens? Was the college student still alive or was her body at the bottom of a river?

  Darby was staring out the office window when Dr Tobias walked into the
office. He handed her three bulky folders. Tobias checked his watch and excused himself to get coffee.

  Darby leaned back on a desk and read the patient file.

  Walter Smith had been admitted to Shriners during the early morning hours of 5 August 1980 with third-degree burns covering ninety per cent of his body. His mother, who had died in the blaze, had doused his bed in gasoline and set him on fire because he was ‘the son of the devil’. Walter Smith was eleven years old.

  Walter had undergone psychiatric evaluation and been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. An orphan, with no access to medical insurance, Walter was refused acceptance at the McClean Hospital, famous for its treatment of mental illnesses. The Sinclair Mental Health Facility, a well-regarded psychiatric institution run by the state, offered the boy free treatment.

  Darby looked back to the pharmacy records. Walter Smith had moved well over a dozen times during the past twenty years. His most recent address was in Rowley – two towns away from Danvers, where Sinclair was located.

  She called Neil Joseph and gave him a quick rundown of Walter Smith.

  ‘The name isn’t appearing in any of our local cases,’ Neil said. ‘Do you have any other names for me?’

  ‘No.’ Darby told him what was going on with Sinclair.

  Next she called Coop and relayed the same information. He was still searching through patient records.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘You might as well keep looking.’

  Darby hung up and stared at the close-up photographs taken of the boy’s burned face. Was Walter Smith the man who had killed Emma Hale and Judith Chen? On paper, he looked like the perfect suspect. Was the man trapped inside Sinclair?

  She checked the clock. 11:35 p.m. Forty minutes had passed since her conversation with Bill Jordan. Was Walter Smith in custody? Or were Jordan’s men still hunting for him? It was maddening to wonder.

  A search warrant would be needed to get inside Walter Smith’s Rowley home. That would take time.

  Was Hannah Givens inside the Rowley house or was she being kept somewhere else? Did Walter Smith live with someone? A roommate or a girlfriend? If he did live with someone, this person might be able to provide additional information about him.

  Darby made a copy of Smith’s medical files. She stuffed the pages inside her backpack and ran through the corridors, heading for the front door.

  Walter looked around the motel parking lot. The police hadn’t followed him here – they hadn’t followed him through the access tunnel but they were all over the hospital. He had locked the gate behind him and was off and running through the woods when he heard sirens. A moment later, blinking blue and white lights pierced the darkness.

  The police hadn’t found him but they had found Mary and she was gone, his Blessed Mother was gone.

  Sitting behind the wheel, his clothes soaked with sweat, Walter rocked back and forth, back and forth, telling himself he wasn’t going to cry.

  He couldn’t hold it any longer. He let it out, sobbing like a little boy, his whole body shaking.

  Can you hear me, Walter?

  Mary’s voice was loud and clear. Walter stopped rocking, listened.

  ‘I can hear you.’

  I want you to listen to me very carefully. I’m going to help you. Are you listening?

  Walter wiped his face. ‘Yes.’

  Mary explained what he needed to do.

  ‘I can’t,’ Walter said.

  There’s no reason to be afraid. I’ll be with you at every step. You’re my special boy, and I love you so much. You can do this. Now drive home and get Hannah.

  His Blessed Mother’s love strong inside his heart, Walter started the car.

  79

  Hannah sat on her bed, a statue of the Virgin Mary clutched between her hands.

  Mom was the believer, the one who had pushed the family into Mass every Sunday and sacrificing during the season of Lent. Dad didn’t have much use for church. He confided in her once, when it was just the two of them: ‘You want good things to happen in your life, you’re not going to find it sitting on a pew. You’ve got to use that thing sitting between your ears.’

  Still, Dad went along for the ride, paying the usual lip service – bow and stand, kneel, stand and bow, give thanks for all the wonderful things in your life, now go off and be good and don’t you dare question the Good Lord’s motivations. Hannah always felt caught in the middle – wanting to believe in some higher purpose or calling but not really buying into the whole invisible man in the sky thing watching everything you did, good and bad, and marking it in the appropriate columns.

  The last time she prayed was the summer before college. Her cousin Cindy had a baby boy born with a heart defect. Little Billy lived in an incubator for six months and had undergone every type of procedure imaginable, including the installation of a pacemaker. A company made one specially to fit inside Billy’s tiny chest. Donations were raised, churches prayed for Billy’s recovery, and in the end God said no, sorry, Billy’s got to go. All part of God’s divine plan, the priest said.

  Bullshit.

  What part could an infant play in God’s mysterious divine plan? Why let Billy be born in the first place? Why would a loving God make an infant go through all that pain and suffering? And why would a caring God turn a deaf ear to the thousands of starving Jews in the concentration camps? To the Jews who were marched into the ovens and shot in the head as they stood over a mass grave? How did that fit into the Almighty’s divine plan?

  Hannah didn’t know the answers, but she couldn’t deny that holding the statue brought some measure of comfort. The Blessed Mother of Jesus Christ kept the tears at bay and provided a sliver of hope.

  Maybe there was a purpose to suffering, but if she was going to survive, Hannah knew she was going to have to use that thing between her ears.

  The locks to her room clicked back and the door opened.

  Hannah jumped off the bed and saw Walter holding the clothes she had worn the night she was kidnapped. The jeans and sweatshirt were neatly folded in his hands. A plastic shopping bag holding her boots was wrapped around his wrist.

  Walter tossed the bag and clothes onto the floor. ‘Get dressed.’

  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 thre
e 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.