by Unknown
84
Jonathan Hale stood in the cold room of an old mill building just outside of Vernon, Connecticut. Malcolm Fletcher had selected the location for its privacy. There were no surrounding buildings, no street lights. The nearest house was ten miles away.
Dr Karim had seen to the travel arrangements. One of his men had driven Hale from his hotel to this location. As far as the authorities were concerned, Hale was sleeping inside his New York hotel room.
‘Nobody knows you’re here,’ Fletcher said. ‘Walk straight down this hall and turn to your left.’
The abandoned building had no lights but Hale could see well enough in the moonlight. He took off his overcoat and handed it to the former profiler.
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘This is something you have to do alone,’ Fletcher said.
Jonathan Hale wore sneakers, jeans and an old Harvard sweatshirt similar to the one Emma had given him for his birthday. Fletcher had instructed him to wear old but comfortable clothes. The former profiler had also given him latex gloves to wear underneath his leather ones. The clothes, gloves and jacket, everything he was wearing, would be collected in a trash bag and given to Malcolm Fletcher to be thrown into an incinerator.
The hallway ended. Hale turned left and stepped inside a cold room lit up by patches of moonlight.
Walter Smith, the man who killed Emma, was bound to a chair set up on a large plastic tarp, the corners weighed down by rocks. A blindfold covered his eyes. He mumbled underneath the gag secured across his mouth.
The man’s face was horribly scarred. He looked like a monster.
He is a monster, Daddy. He abducted me, he abused me and shot me in the back of the head and dumped me into the Charles River. He killed Judith Chen and he was going to kill that other woman, Hannah Givens. He’s a monster.
A hammer, revolver and hunting knife were lying on the tarp. The gun, Malcolm Fletcher said, was the same one used to kill Emma and the second college student, Judith Chen.
Hale picked up the revolver. It felt incredibly light in his hands.
For weeks now, he had rehearsed this moment in his mind, playing out different scenarios to see which would be the most rewarding. Shooting the thing in the back of head was too merciful. Hale wanted him to see the gun, wanted to see the look of terror and hopelessness in the thing’s eyes and drink it all in until the pain faded. Then he would say Emma’s name and shoot the thing in the face.
Or maybe he would prolong it a bit.
Hale walked across the tarp. The thing didn’t move its head at the sound but it kept mumbling underneath the gag. Hale pulled off the blindfold.
There was something wrong with the creature’s expression. Its eyes were wide, unblinking, staring off in the distance. Hale turned around and saw the corner of the room. There was nothing there.
The thing didn’t move, didn’t look up, but kept talking underneath the gag. Hale untied it.
‘Hail Mary full of grace I am with thee blessed is me and blessed are you among mothers and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Walter –’
It was praying – a bastardized version of Hail Mary.
‘– Holy Mary Mother of God and Walter pray for the sinners now at the hour of their death amen. Hail Mary full of grace I am with thee –’
Hale pressed the gun against the monster’s head. It didn’t flinch; it didn’t scream or cry. It had no reaction. Every muscle in its body was rigid, frozen, but it kept praying.
‘Look at me,’ Hale said.
The creature didn’t look.
With his free hand, Hale reached underneath his sweatshirt and clutched Emma’s locket in his fist. The hate he had been nursing over the past year burned inside his chest along with his love for his daughter. His love for Emma would not go away. His loss would not go away. His hatred for this man – this monster, this thing… It had to suffer. It deserved to suffer.
Kill it.
Hale’s heart was beating so fast he felt dizzy.
That thing killed me, Daddy. It put a bullet in my head and dumped my body in the river. You saw the picture. You saw what he did to me.
Hale stared at the gun. His gloves were covered in blood.
Startled, he dropped the gun and instead of picking it up stumbled back through the hallway.
Malcolm Fletcher stood with his back to him, staring out of one of the broken windows.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Hale said.
‘He’s catatonic.’
‘He wouldn’t look at me but he kept praying.’
‘Walter is waiting for his mother, Mary, to come to him. Incidentally, Walter told me Mary chose Emma and the other women for him.’
‘Why?’
‘The Blessed Mother promised him love.’
Hale looked back down the hallway. ‘When will he come out of it?’
‘Impossible to say,’ Fletcher said. ‘Walter could remain in his current catatonic state unless he’s given the proper medication. Even then, there is no guarantee.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’
‘Would it have made a difference?’
Hale looked at his gloves. There wasn’t any blood.
‘I can’t do it.’
‘Do you mean you can’t kill him yourself or you don’t want him killed?’
‘I can’t kill him myself.’
‘Would you like some time to reconsider?’ Fletcher asked. ‘We have all night.’
‘No. I’ve made up my mind.’
‘What would you like me to do?’
‘You told me what you did to Sam Dingle. You said you had the same thing in mind for Walter.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you made the necessary preparations?’
‘I have.’
‘Then take care of it,’ Hale said, tossing his gloves to the floor.
At 4 a.m., Darby sat on the unmade bed where Hannah Givens, Judith Chen and Emma Hale had slept and checked her watch. Bill Jordan still hadn’t returned her phone call. She tried calling Neil Joseph but there was no answer. Was he still looking for Jordan in the maze of crumbled rooms where no cell-phone signal could penetrate?
An investigator had found a spiral notebook wedged underneath the seat cushion of the leather chair. Darby read Emma Hale’s diary as crime scene investigators processed the room, tagging potential evidence.
The spare bedroom on the top floor held stacks of barbells and a lifting bench. Walter Smith had taped several photographs of Hannah Givens to a full-length mirror.
In the corner was a desk with a computer and a multifunction printer that operated as a fax machine and scanner. Darby made a copy of the diary. She placed the folded sheets inside her jacket pocket and grabbed her car keys.
85
Jonathan Hale woke to bright sunlight. The breeze coming through the hotel window was pleasantly cool. He wondered if spring was coming early this year.
Inhaling deeply, he remembered the dream where Emma stood on the front steps of the ranch-style house where he grew up. The front door was open. He heard his dead wife’s voice as he walked up the porch steps. There were other voices whispering in the darkness, voices he didn’t recognize. Emma was standing next to him. When he saw her face, he realized he didn’t need to be scared. She held his hand and the fear disappeared. He remembered feeling content, at peace.
That feeling was still with him as he rolled over and checked the clock. 7:15 a.m. Despite having slept for only a few hours, he felt remarkably rested. Hale called his driver. When he checked out of the hotel, the limo was waiting. Hale drank coffee and on the way home read newspapers and listened to the news.
The limo’s privacy screen was up. Hale took out the phone Malcolm Fletcher had given him. There was only one number to call now. Hale didn’t speak, just listened.
Tony carried the bags into the house. Today was Sunday. Hale checked his watch. If he hurried, he could still make the noon Mass. He drove alone to the church.
&nb
sp; Showered and shaved and dressed in a suit, Jonathan Hale sat in a pew surrounded by his neighbours and their children, some grown, some still growing. Father Avery gave a sermon on the importance of helping the less fortunate. God had blessed everyone here with good fortune, he said. Hale listened, his attention fixed on the cross hanging on the wall behind the altar.
After Mass, friends and neighbours stopped to shake his hand. Some pulled him aside and asked how he was doing. Do you need anything, Jonathan? We’re here for you.
Father Avery also wanted a private word with him.
‘It’s good to have you back, Jonathan. Your daughter was a very special young lady. I miss her terribly – the whole community does. The church’s fundraising committee was thinking of doing something special to honour Emma’s memory. Maybe you’d like to talk to them?’
What Father Avery wanted was access to his list of friends and business associates who would come out for a good cause. By using Emma’s name, the church would most likely double if not triple last year’s charity contributions. Tragedy always made people reach deep into their wallets.
‘I’ll be more than glad to help out,’ Hale said. ‘Thank you so much for thinking of me, Father.’
Hale pulled onto his street and saw a young woman with pale skin and shockingly dark red hair leaning against a black Mustang parked a few feet from the main gate. Hale pulled the Bentley up next to her and rolled down his window.
Up close and in the sunlight, Darby McCormick’s green eyes were striking. She didn’t seem that much older than Emma.
‘May I talk to you for a moment, Mr Hale?’
‘Of course,’ Hale said. ‘I’ll drive you up to the house.’
‘Let’s talk out here. I’m enjoying the weather.’
Hale stepped out of the car but left it running.
Dr McCormick’s face was friendly when she said, ‘I want to talk to you about Malcolm Fletcher.’
‘The former FBI profiler.’
‘You know who he is.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘It’s been all over the news. He killed Detective Bryson and now they’re saying he abducted Walter Smith.’ Hale placed his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Did that man kill my daughter?’
‘I think you already know the answer to that question.’
‘I’m sorry?’
The young woman turned her attention to the house, to the limo and vintage cars parked in the driveway. The maintenance staff, taking advantage of the warm weather, were cleaning and waxing the vehicles.
Hale remembered the day of Emma’s high-school graduation. He had given her a car, a convertible BMW, as a gift. A big red bow was affixed to the car roof. He could remember her breathless gasp when she saw it, the sound of her laugh. He remembered lots of things now.
‘Someone I know decided to take the law into his hands,’ Darby McCormick said. ‘This person believed, deep in his heart, he was doing the right thing. At first, this person felt good about having his revenge, but over time, the guilt of what he did ate him alive.
‘Mr Hale, what you’ve done or whatever it is you’re doing, I know it feels right. Now. But this feeling of peace or justice or whatever you’re calling it, it will turn on you. Time won’t wash it away, and you can’t pay someone to remove it for you. It will be with you forever. It’s a heavy burden to carry, that guilt. You’re not equipped to live with it. It will eat you alive.’
The dream from this morning came back to him and he saw Emma’s face clearly in his mind’s eye. He felt her hand gripped in his.
The young woman’s next words were startling.
‘If you tell me where Walter Smith is, I’ll blame it on Fletcher,’ Darby said. ‘I’ll say he called me again and told me where to find Walter’s body. This conversation stays strictly between you and me. I give you my word.’
‘With all due respect, Miss McCormick, you’ve overstepped your bounds.’
‘I’m trying to save you from making a terrible mistake, sir. This is a one-time offer. When I leave, it’s off the table.’
‘I can’t help you.’
‘So you don’t know where Walter Smith is?’
‘No.’
‘For your sake, Mr Hale, I hope you’re telling the truth. The FBI will be paying you a visit. I hope you have a good lawyer.’
‘Enjoy the rest of your day.’
‘Before you go, I wanted to give you this.’ She handed him some folded papers. ‘It’s Emma’s diary. We found it at Walter’s home. I made you a copy.’
Hale took the folded pages and held them gently in his hands.
‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Mr Hale?’
‘Please let me know when you find Walter Smith. I’d like to speak to him. Thank you for this.’ Hale held up the pages as he opened the car door.
Hale went to his office and shut the door.
After he finished reading, he sat in the chair, staring out the back windows. He sat for a long time, thinking.
He stood slowly, using the chair for support, lit a fire and filled a glass with bourbon. He drank the first glass empty and poured himself another.
He was on his third glass when he took out the cell phone and dialled the number he had called inside the limo.
The line rang once. The phone on the other end picked up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Walter Smith said. His voice was raw from screaming.
The thing’s cell phone could only receive calls. It couldn’t call out for help.
‘I loved Emma. I loved her so much.’ It was sobbing again. ‘Do you know what that feels like? To love someone so much you can’t breathe? Like your heart is about to burst?’
I do, Hale thought.
‘I want to see my mother.’
Looking at the back lawn, at the patches of wilted grass peeking out from the melting snow, Hale saw Emma chasing after a ball – she was two, her legs wobbly, uncertain. She wore a beautiful pink dress. The expression on her face was pure joy.
I wish I could reach down and pick you up, Emma. I wish I could hold you in my arms and hold you and kiss you and tell you how much I love you just one more time, just one more time, one last, final time. I wish…
‘Please, Mr Hale, please let me see my mother.’
‘I suggest you pray to God. He’s the only one who can help you now.’
Jonathan Hale disconnected the call. He removed the cell phone battery, threw it in the trash, and then tossed the phone into the fire. He opened the balcony doors to get rid of the unpleasant odour.
86
Bill Jordan called as Darby was pulling onto the Mass Pike. Darby explained what she needed.
‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘The panic button is transmitting. The GPS signal is about a quarter of a mile north of number eight Old Post Road in Sherborn.’
The town, located south of Boston, was less than a half-hour’s drive from Weston.
‘That’s all I can tell you right now,’ Jordan said. ‘When I get closer I can lock onto the signal and we’ll walk right up to him – or whatever’s left of him.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m already on the road. I should be there in Sherborn in forty minutes.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’ Darby pulled over to enter the address into her car’s GPS unit.
‘I don’t think we have to rush,’ Jordan said. ‘The signal hasn’t moved in fifteen minutes.’
Like Weston, the small town of Sherborn was another high-end suburb of cold McMansions and renovated antique farmhouses separated by miles of trees and dense woods to give owners the illusion of privacy.
Old Post Road was long and steep, bordered by rolling fields of melting snow. Darby drove ten miles and passed two homes.
The mailbox for number 8 was still standing, but the home at the end of the driveway had been demolished to make way for a new foundation. An excavator, backhoe and two dump trucks sat in a wide open field across from a pair of horse barns, the wood grey and rotting.
Standing under the warm afternoon sun, listening to the tick of her car engine, Darby shielded her eyes and stared into the distance at the woods. Jordan said the GPS signal was a quarter of a mile away from here, but which route had Fletcher taken?
Walter Smith was too heavy to carry. Did Fletcher drive him somewhere into these woods? A car couldn’t drive out here, not with all this snow, but a truck might work.
Darby walked into the open field. Tyre tracks left by a heavy piece of machinery were in the snow. The tracks led back to an excavator. The ignition had been hotwired.
Weapon in hand, she followed the tracks into the woods, wading through the wet, knee-high snow. The overhead tree branches were bare, and she could feel the sun on her face and hair.
A quarter of a mile in, she found a large open space of recently overturned dirt. Darby looked around the woods and didn’t see any additional tyre tracks. They ended here. She called Bill Jordan.
‘I think I found the spot where Fletcher buried the body,’ Darby said. She told Jordan about the excavator tracks and poked the ground with her boot. The dirt was loose. ‘We’re going to need shovels.’
‘See you in twenty.’
Sticking out of the ground was an inch of white PVC pipe. In the slant of sunlight, Darby saw that the white tubing extended deep into the earth. Kneeling, she took out her flashlight.
A ruined eye stared back at her.
‘Help me,’ Walter Smith croaked. ‘I can barely breathe.’
Darby backed away, stumbled, and fell against the cold ground.
‘I’m sorry!’ Walter’s raw, terrified voice echoed up the pipe from his crudely made coffin. ‘I don’t want to die in here. PLEASE!’
Darby tried to get to her feet and stumbled again. She knelt on all fours, heart hammering as she gasped for air.
Malcolm Fletcher had cut a hole into the coffin and fitted it with a PVC pipe that ran up to the surface so Walter wouldn’t suffocate. He could breathe until he died of starvation or insanity.
‘I told Mr Hale I was sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!’
Did Hale know Walter was buried here? Did he plan to come out to this spot and drop food down the pipe to prolong Walter’s torture?
