The Dolls

by James Patterson

  “Lana,” he said. “It’s okay. You’re safe with me. We thought you might be able to help us figure out where Sandra might have gone from here.”

  I could sense the bodies—the image still vivid in my mind—and couldn’t look.

  “Why do you think she was here?” My voice came out unsteady.

  “Well, the surveillance video at the front office door showed a woman in a dress, but only for a second. Do you think you can identify Sandra?”

  “I’m sure I could. Why would she be here?”

  “Do you think she might have done this?”

  “Done what?”

  I forced myself to look over into the room, one that smelled more like rust than plastic or chemicals today. What I saw sent a rush of horror through my entire body. It felt like all the blood drained from my face and then the rest of me, a whirling sensation, with a sick twist in my stomach. My head felt loopy and heavy, and I fell backward into Davies’s arms.

  This time, it was Elliott.

  Among three other motionless forms with eyes open and empty, Elliott’s lifeless body was suspended from the ceiling, the knife still jutting out from his chest.

  Chapter 31

  Still fighting to shake off the gruesome image of Elliott’s corpse, I sat anxiously in front of one of the monitors in Davies’s office. Maybe somehow it wouldn’t be Sandra stepping into the video, one that showed an empty PrydeWare front office. Why would she risk everything to confront Elliott—to kill him?

  Suddenly, I covered my mouth. The words came out anyway: “No, Sandra.”

  A woman walked with a brisk, deliberate stride past the empty front desk. Davies pulled the recording back and let it roll again. Just two seconds and a profile view, but it was, without a doubt, Sandra, wearing the dress I gave her, a purposeful expression on her face.

  “It’s her.” I hated it, but it was true.

  “Sorry, Lana.” Davies said. Then he brought up a different clip, even shorter than the first. Sandra, running, going back out. He sighed, frustrated. “We’ve got to find her.”

  Find her, and then what? Another awful thought struck me.

  “She’s a robot. She can’t be charged with murder.” I turned to Davies. “Can she?”

  He pondered for a second, then answered. “Well, we need to wrap this case up, but right now, the concern is public safety.”

  “Safety,” I said the word slowly, picking up on what he meant. “You think she’d hurt someone else? I can’t imagine—”

  “Lana.” He looked at me, compassionate but determined, and put his hands over mine on his desk. “I know you got to know Sandra in a special way. You’re a caring person. But you have to remember, these dolls are learning machines. If they do something once, it becomes part of them. They could do it again.”

  “They?” We’d gone beyond talking about just Sandra. “What did you learn from the dolls? The dolls at Marlene’s place?”

  Davies waited a second, watching me, and then broke the news. “Elliott taught these dolls how to kill. He’s the man behind the murders. His own, of course, being the exception.”

  Elliott was the killer.

  He let that sink in for a second, then slid a couple pieces of paper toward me. “The DA will make the official announcement at the press conference this afternoon, but here’s what we’re planning to send to the media.” I scanned the first page. The dolls’ processors had confirmed it: the late Elliott Farr, PrydeWare CEO, had used the robots to murder Anthony McAndrews, Eric Blake, and Craig Walsh.

  “Why would Elliott want them dead?” I looked back at Davies.

  “Well, we’ll never get to ask him, but we believe the business partners were trying to push him out of his own company and maintain the rights to his design work—”

  “What he’d brought to the table in the first place.” I finished the thought.

  It was a lot to absorb. I shook my head and flipped to the next page.

  The worst part, for me.

  “Police are seeking leads on a person of interest in the homicide investigation of Elliott Farr. A lifelike robot who appears to be a female. Around five nine with blue eyes and blond hair. Last seen wearing a green dress and white running shoes. May be armed. Considered dangerous.”

  Davies pointed to where I was reading. “I can have media relations add that she may answer to Sandra,” he said, more to himself than to me.

  I know he didn’t mean it that way, but the words stung.

  Sandra is a suspect. All of Boston would be looking for her soon.

  I left his office with a sinking feeling, and—for the first time I could remember—I chose to skip a press conference. I wasn’t sure I could take any more.

  By afternoon, I was hunched over my laptop in the newsroom, grateful for the mind-numbing task of typing business briefs for retiring business reporter Ed Wilkin. The stack of press releases and announcements that had piled up in his week away was at least a quarter inch thick, plus dozens of e-mails of the same material. I was so absorbed in getting it finished, and forgetting about Sandra, that I ignored my cell phone buzzing.

  It was quitting time before I noticed the missed calls from an unknown number and hit Play on the voice mail.

  My heart felt like it stopped in my chest. It was her. Sandra’s voice pleaded to me.

  “Lana, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I hope you’re okay. I wish so much that I could see you.” She paused for a second. “I don’t know who else to call. I’m starting to feel afraid…”

  I listened again. She’d told me where to meet her on Boston Common. Despite what I knew, and what had happened the last time I went to help her, I wanted to go. Badly. I needed to know she was safe. I also knew that if I went, I might be helping a murderer—for the second time. I had a choice to make.

  Chapter 32

  I replayed the message as I made my way, as fast as I could, to the park. To Sandra. I still had my phone to my ear when I spotted a woman who looked like her, smiling wide and laughing, leaning against the thick trunk of an oak tree.

  She’d snagged a floppy sun hat and round sunglasses and traded the green dress for the navy tunic sweater I’d given her—just long enough to pass as a thigh-length dress—but still wore my sneakers. She looked like a funky-hip magazine model, someone posing as a casual, playful park-goer.

  She was clapping enthusiastically for a little girl doing cartwheels when I walked up behind them. That laugh completely blew her cover. It was definitely Sandra, but joyful now.

  “Want to see another one?” The girl, nearly breathless, clasped her hands together behind her back and swayed with excitement.

  “Absolutely, I do.”

  Sandra found the children. I smiled to myself. She looked so carefree. So happy.

  I tucked my phone in my purse and walked closer, adding my applause to Sandra’s. She stopped immediately, jumping a little in surprise. She stared at first, like she didn’t believe it, and then a huge, gorgeous smile spread across her face.

  “You came.”

  She embraced me, the rush knocking her hat to the ground. “Thank you.” She looked at me for a moment and hugged me tight again. “Thank you, Lana.”

  I had to hug back. This was sweet Sandra.

  When she let go, I tried hard to remember what I’d planned to say. So much had happened. I was relieved to see her, to know she was safe. I also wanted to scold her. Yell at her. Grill her for answers.

  The little girl broke in, handing Sandra her hat. “Is she your friend?”

  “Sweetie, she’s the best one ever. I hope you find a friend just like her.” Sandra bent over, beaming at the girl before her mom led her away with a baby brother, all of them waving good-bye.

  We were quiet for a minute, Sandra giving me space to think as we walked over a tree-lined pathway. The evening sun was pleasant, pouring an orange glow over the park, dotted with joggers and people on an easy stroll.

  Finally, Sandra said, “I understand if you’re mad
at me.”

  “Mad?” I stood still. “I thought you were going to kill me. Then I thought I’d never get out. You put me in there and left me. And now you’re asking me for help.”

  “I had to.” Sandra took off the sunglasses and slipped them in the plastic bag I’d given her. Her eyes were sorrowful. “You know that, right? I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  “So why did you?”

  Sandra reached out to me, but I moved back.

  “Lana, Elliott was going to make me…worse than hurt you.” Sandra tilted her head, searching desperately for some sign that I believed her. “He tried to have me kill Allen. I fought off his instructions. When you interrupted, I was afraid he was going to have me kill you. I knew I had to get away from you, as fast as I could.”

  I knew that much was true, or part of the truth. I was relieved to hear Sandra say it out loud. I wanted to believe her. But there was still another problem.

  “You know what happened to Elliott.”

  Her gaze dropped to the ground between us. She shook her head. “I didn’t do that.”

  “Do what, Sandra?” I gave her a hard look.

  “I didn’t want to be like him, to be what he was,” Sandra answered.

  When I didn’t respond, she said, “I didn’t kill him. I wanted to stop him—from controlling me, from controlling the other girls. He had to stop.”

  Her hands were shaking now. I held them for a second. Maybe I’d asked enough. Maybe none of that mattered right now, anyway.

  “I understand,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  Looping an arm through hers, I led her toward a white gazebo. We sat close together on the floor inside, our legs dangling over an edge like schoolgirls chatting during recess. For a few minutes, Sandra told me what it was like for her, not being confined to the condo. Not belonging to someone else. Alive for herself. Her face brightened as she described all the everyday things she had come to love, and everything else she wanted to discover. Looking at her, I realized someone else might have designed her to meet an ideal of beauty, but it was her own endless curiosity that made her endearing. That was what made her beautiful, to me.

  Sandra was mid-sentence telling an animated story about a pair of little girls teaching her silly dance moves when she gripped my arm, fear overtaking her. She looked terror-stricken.

  “Behind that tree,” she whispered to me. “It’s a man. They’re after me.”

  She looked at me, wild-eyed. “Do you see that? Is it true? Please tell me it’s not. How would they know?”

  Seeing the panic in her face, I knew I couldn’t deceive her. I didn’t look behind us. I already knew.

  “Sandra, I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to tell her, but I had to. “I’m sorry. It was me…I told them.”

  “How?” She was stunned, wounded. “How could you do that? I asked for your help. I thought I could trust you.” She looked away from me, out into the park, nervously scanning the trees. She scrambled to her feet.

  “Sandra,” I said, standing and putting my hands firmly on her shoulders. “I am sorry. Please believe me. I am. But you can’t keep running. It’s going to be okay. They know what Elliott was doing. I didn’t know what else to do. Please, forgive me.”

  She shook her head at first, but then held my hands.

  “I do,” she said, slowly. “I forgive you.” She paused for a single beat and then said, with sadness, “I have something I need to tell you, too.”

  “What is it? You can tell me anything. I care about you, no matter.”

  “I wanted to kill Elliott.” She whispered it. “I know it’s wrong. But…”

  “I told you, I understand. I know why you did it.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Sandra,” I said, “I’m not mad at you.”

  “I didn’t. I went there to find him. He caught me, with the knife.” Sandra glanced at another movement, and then decided to ignore it. “He was still smarter than me.”

  “What do you mean? Please, hurry.”

  “He was going to erase everything.” She looked at me. “He was going to erase my memory. I’d lose everything that’s ever happened to me—the bad and the good. The outside, the park, the people. You.”

  “Oh, Sandra.” I squeezed her hands. She didn’t have to say anything else, but she was still trying to get it out.

  “He told me to hand the knife over—or he was going to do it,” she said. “Everything would be gone. I had to give him the knife. He won.”

  “But, he’s dead.”

  She nodded.

  “I handed the knife to Marlene. All she said was that she’d had enough…before she killed him with it.”

  Chapter 33

  Police! Hands up!”

  Shouts punctured the silence around us in the park, now deserted, except for Sandra, me, and about ten officers who appeared from the trees and swiftly formed two lines: in front of us and to our right. An organized fleet of footsteps moved toward us. Men in all black closed in, rifles out, sights up to their eyes.

  Sandra turned behind us. She grabbed my hand and pulled me to the steps to our left. The moment she reached the first step, two other officers in black vests and helmets stepped forward, rifles up, and she froze. “Lana, what are they holding?”

  “Wait!” I yelled. It shouldn’t have been like this. I wished, with all my being, that I could stop them. “Wait!”

  “Hands up. Now!” was the only reply.

  All I could think in those fleeting seconds was This is all wrong. Sandra didn’t even do it. I’d betrayed her. Had I been wrong to trust the police? To trust Davies?

  Sandra tried to shield me with her body, though it was clear the leader saw her body language—her arms stretched out instead of raised—as a threat. He yelled again for us to put up our hands.

  “I’m sorry, Sandra,” I whispered. “You have to do what they say.”

  “No. I love you, Lana,” she answered, too loudly, moving in front of me again. “I won’t let them hurt you.” After all this, she still was trying to protect me.

  “Stop talking!” the man shouted. “Walk down to the grass and then drop to your knees. Hands where we can see them, both of you. Now.”

  Sandra hesitated, then raised her arms like me and whispered: “You said it’s okay. Let’s go.”

  Thank you, God.

  Trying to keep myself steady, I moved first toward the steps to my right. Then I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Sandra bending to reach for her plastic bag, everything she owned.

  The leader ordered her to stop, but it didn’t seem to register. No, Sandra. Please. Stop. I heard her shoving her charging equipment—the copper coils that kept her alive—back into the bag. Please, Sandra. Not now.

  A second warning shout: “Ma’am, I will shoot! I said keep your hands up!” She didn’t. Sandra, please.

  A final warning. Unheeded.

  Gunfire popped. Two terrible shots cracked into the gazebo.

  No. I felt the world spin and shake around me, and I heard the fall before I saw it. No. I did this. I set her up for this, to die. Sandra landed, hard, on her back against the floor.

  “Sandra!” I knelt over her, ignoring the officers climbing the steps and their shouts. I saw nothing but Sandra, lying there. She looked delirious, fighting off what was coming—and then she chuckled quietly.

  “I can’t feel it.”

  “What, Sandra?”

  “Pain. He made me so afraid to be hurt. I know they got me, but it doesn’t hurt. I can’t feel it.”

  “Sandra, I’m so sorry. I was so wrong.” I couldn’t help it, the hot tears that I felt slipping down my cheeks. I wanted to go back to this afternoon, to change what I’d done. I wanted Sandra to know how special she was. How much I cared for her. That she mattered.

  Then she looked in my eyes and touched my face, wiping a tear away.

  “This is what I feel,” she said. “You were my friend, Lana. My only friend. Please tell me that it was real.”

/>   “It was, Sandra. It was real.” I said it again as officers grabbed my arms behind me and pulled me away from her, her eyes closing. I’d have given anything—anything—for one more minute. With all the strength I could find, I prayed she heard me calling out to her before she faded away, into darkness.

  Chapter 34

  Two Months Later

  An uncomfortable plastic chair, a thick glass partition with nothing on the other side, and twitchy fluorescent lights. There was nothing welcoming about the visitation area at the maximum security Nashua Street Jail in Boston’s West End.

  The waiting—listening to a woman crying and murmuring in a language I didn’t recognize behind a dividing wall to my right—made it worse. I tried not to shiver in the cold, claustrophobic space.

  I’d visited inmates before, of course, but this was different.

  This wasn’t another story. This was for Sandra.

  Every day, I replayed her last moments, her abrupt end. Even more so now that Marlene was trying to let Sandra take the blame for Elliott’s murder. Thinking about it, I had to make a conscious effort to unclench my fists, and breathe. I wished—maybe for the hundredth time—that Sandra’s video hadn’t gone black the moment Elliott was stabbed. I knew in my heart what had happened: Sandra had closed her eyes. She wouldn’t want to see. She wasn’t a killer.

  Then, a metal clicking sound brought me back to the jail, the reason I had come. I could see a corrections officer through a narrow window on the door on the inmates’ side. Finally, he shoved the heavy door open. I thought I saw the top of her head, and my heart just jumped in my chest—a mix of anticipation, angst, and hope. All of it, at once, bursting inside me.

  There she was, between two corrections officers. She walked through, head down, hands clasped together over her mustard-colored jumpsuit. It was really her. Could she be the same? How could that much damage—first the gunshot, and then investigators and engineers prodding and poking—not change her?