“No. To take him with me. I need to keep Thomas Mitchell as close as possible if this is going to work. I need to be the only one he hires to look for Angela. The only one he trusts.”
“He’ll never stop looking,” Greta said. “Angela was adamant about that. If it’s not Frank, then it will be someone else.”
“I need to control the information he receives,” Frank continued. “He needs to believe I’m making progress. I’ll find something to feed him for a while, but ultimately my search will come up empty. I’ll make him believe me. What’s important is for him to think I’m looking for her. As long as he believes this, he won’t look himself. He won’t employ anyone else. The man trusts me, and I plan to build and keep that trust.”
“For how long?”
“For her entire life,” Frank said.
Marla looked off. Her eyes wandered to the stairs, and Frank knew she was thinking of the child sleeping in her crib.
“What will we do for money, Frank? How will we support ourselves?”
“I’ll hang my own shingle. I’ve got enough experience to go off on my own. And he’s willing to pay me for my services.”
“Thomas Mitchell?”
“Yes. He needs an attorney to file his appeals and handle his finances. And he’ll pay me on the side to continue my search. He’ll be my first client.”
“Frank,” Marla said. “It’s just … not what I imagined.”
“Please,” Greta said, looking at Marla. “I need your help. We need your help. You’re the perfect couple to love this child. Imagine what sort of life she might have if the truth is ever discovered. Imagine if the public discovers that Thomas has a child from the wife he was imprisoned for killing. And how could she ever live a normal life, knowing her father killed a string of women?”
Marla began crying again. All three of them had been pulled into an impossible situation. All three thought of the child sleeping peacefully in her crib. An innocent child who deserved none of what waited for her. Marla slowly shifted her gaze to Greta.
“Where is she? Where’s Angela?”
Greta let out a long breath, and then it was she who began to cry. “I tried to save her. There was too much blood.”
Something was wrong. The bleeding was intense and constant as Greta examined Angela’s pelvis. Preeclampsia had forced bed rest for the past few weeks, and spotting had gotten Greta concerned. But Angela had insisted Greta treat her without involving a physician. It was too risky, she had argued. And Greta couldn’t disagree that with Angela’s face on the news during Thomas’s trial, she would be immediately recognized. So Greta had treated the blood pressure issues, forced bed rest, and monitored her like a hawk. But Angela had woken tonight, her water having broken. She was hemorrhaging badly. Now she was in the throes of delivery.
“Push, Angela. Push.”
“I can’t,” Angela said.
She was covered in sweat as she lay on the bed. A surgical gown hung in front of her to block the view of her lower half. Greta’s head was only intermittently visible as she worked to deliver the baby.
“I know it hurts, but you have to push, Angela!”
“No. I can’t. I just can’t.”
“Okay,” Greta said, shaking her head. “We’re going to the hospital, sweetheart. Something is wrong. You’re bleeding too much.”
“No! We can’t go to the hospital. He’ll be set free. And he’ll know about the baby. Please!”
Greta looked back down. The hemorrhaging had intensified. She swallowed down the fear that rose in her throat, then nodded her head. She worried about the baby, but more so about Angela. Her home, despite the equipment she had gathered over the past few months, was simply not equipped to handle such complications. Greta was not equipped, either.
“Then I need you to push. Do you hear me?”
Angela did. She pushed and pushed.
PART IV
THE CHOICE
CHAPTER 30
Chicago, November 2, 2019
THE COURTROOM HEARING WAS A FORMALITY, COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY, and the last place Rory wanted to be this morning. Still reeling from her panic attack, mildly hungover, and with her mind squarely preoccupied with the enigmatic dream she’d had the night before, she was desperate to get to the nursing home and ask Greta about her connection to Angela Mitchell. But Frank Moore had agreed to this hearing months ago as a way to provide a final voice to the board members, who were allowing this man to walk free two decades before his sentence was complete. Present with Rory in the courtroom were the six members of the parole board, a designated representative from the district attorney’s office, who looked like he was straight out of law school, and a court clerk, as well as Naomi Brown and Ezra Parker, the social worker and parole officer who had accompanied Rory to the Starved Rock cabin. They all wore some form of appropriate attire for a courtroom, except Rory.
She looked more like the parolee than his attorney, dressed as she was in gray jeans and a dark T-shirt. She couldn’t get away with wearing her beanie hat in court, so she allowed her wavy brunette hair to fall to either side of her face like barely parted window curtains. She made sure her glasses were in place, and when she walked into the courtroom, her combat boots rattled and drew everyone’s attention. She had warned Judge Boyle that she was not meant for a courtroom. The stares would normally have sent her into a state of panic, but she spent most of her angst during the height of her attack the previous night when she drunkenly drove to Angela Mitchell’s old house. It had once been Thomas Mitchell’s house as well, she thought just as the side door of the courtroom opened and two bailiffs appeared. They led Thomas Mitchell into court and sat him next to Rory. Judge Boyle materialized through a different door and took his spot on the bench.
“Good morning,” the judge said, his voice echoing through the nearly empty courtroom. “This will be a brief hearing.”
The judge kept his gaze on the papers in front of him and never looked up to see those present in his courtroom. He appeared to be as excited about this morning’s proceedings as Rory.
“Ms. Moore, I’ve brought the board up on the latest circumstances of the passing of Mr. Mitchell’s previous attorney, and that as his new representative you’ve agreed to all the previous stipulations.”
They covered again the living arrangements, regular check-ins with the parole officer, restriction on drugs and alcohol, drug testing, and on and on.
“Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am,” Thomas said whenever a member of the board addressed him.
The formalities took fifteen minutes. Once everyone was satisfied, the judge shuffled some papers.
“Mr. Mitchell, your release tomorrow will be tricky,” Judge Boyle said. “There is intense media attention surrounding the exact details, and Ms. Moore and I have discussed the importance of you staying anonymous. The press release lists a ten A.M. release. I’d like to keep that as the formal time listed, but release you instead at four-thirty A.M. It will still be dark. The warden has agreed to this, and to an east-side exit. I think this will be the best way to keep things discreet and allow you to get to your residence without notice.”
Unstated, but agreed upon long ago, was that his attorney would be the one driving him from jail. He had no one else in his life. And now, Thomas Mitchell no longer had Frank Moore.
Judge Boyle looked at Rory. “Transportation has been arranged?”
Rory nodded.
“Mr. Mitchell. You’ve been an exemplary inmate. The state hereby agrees to your release at four-thirty tomorrow morning, November third. I hope you make much of your life from this point forward. Good luck to you.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Thomas said.
The judge banged his gavel and was up and gone, his robe drifting like a cape in the wind.
Thomas looked at the board members, bowed his head. “Thank you.”
He was gracious and kind. A perfect gentleman. Rehabilitated and ready to integrate back into society.
CHAPTER
31
Chicago, November 3, 2019
WITH LANE NEXT TO HER IN BED, RORY WATCHED THE BEDSIDE clock tick, tick, tick, minute after minute, until it reached three o’clock. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t even closed her eyes. She had considered a middle-of-the-night visit to see Aunt Greta. Greta would typically have been the perfect person to calm Rory’s nerves about sitting alone in her car with Thomas Mitchell, but Rory knew that the next time she saw Greta, she needed to take advantage of whatever small window of opportunity presented itself to ask about Angela. She would need to be clear and concise, and to do this, Rory needed to gather her wits. During the dark hours of night, as Lane slept next to her, she decided to tackle the obstacle of delivering Thomas Mitchell to the Starved Rock cabin before seeing Greta. At 3:15 A.M., she pushed the covers to the side and climbed from bed.
The warm flow of water crashed over her head. She spent more time in the shower than usual before she finally shut off the spigot and readied herself for what was coming. Twenty minutes later, she was dressed in her usual battle gear. She laced up her combat boots and was about to head out the front door and into the darkness when she saw Lane dressed and waiting in the darned front room. He sat with crossed legs and his arm draped over the back of the couch, staring into the black fireplace.
“What are you doing?”
Lane turned at the sound of her voice.
“Not a chance I’m letting you go by yourself.”
“Lane—” Rory started to say, but he was already up and out the door. A few seconds later, she heard her car door slam.
“Thank God,” she whispered to herself.
At four-fifteen, they pulled to the east gate at Stateville Correctional Center in Crest Hill, Illinois, and waited. The headlights illuminated the chain-link fencing. At precisely 4:30 A.M., the side door opened and spilled yellow light into the predawn darkness. Figures appeared, silhouetted by the brightness inside the building that cast their shadows in front of them like long, slender ghosts. The scene brought Rory briefly back to the other night, when she stood in the alley behind Angela’s previous home—Thomas Mitchell’s home—and stepped in front of her car’s headlight to cause her shadow to creep out in front of her.
The chain-link fencing parted as the figures approached, and when the group reached the edge of the enclosure, only one of them continued on. Rory’s sternum ached as Thomas Mitchell walked through the darkness, opened the door, and climbed into the backseat.
The ride to Starved Rock took just over an hour. There was no conversation in the dark car, only the hum of highway as they sped along I-80 guided by the brightness of the headlamps. She took the appropriate exit and navigated the side streets with the aid of Lane’s GPS, eventually slowing when she approached the nearly hidden driveway that led to the secluded cabin.
“Wow,” Thomas said from the backseat. He was staring through the side window. The first glimmers of dawn were on the horizon, ushering away the dark night and replacing it with a soft blue. “It’s been a long time.”
Rory didn’t know if he was talking about the cabin or the sunrise. She didn’t ask, just turned onto the drive. The car rocked as she steered along the canopied drive, finally emerging into the clearing where the A-frame cabin sat in the teal glow of morning. She put the car into park when she reached the end of the driveway, turned and draped her right arm across the front seats so that her hand was touching Lane’s shoulder.
She handed a key over the seat.
“I only found one key in my father’s office.”
Thomas took it and climbed from the rear of the vehicle. He carried with him a zipped plastic bag the guards had provided. It represented everything he owned in the world. Rory stood from the driver’s seat, popped the trunk, and removed a small backpack. They both approached the front porch.
“There’s no food,” Rory said.
Her father would have probably stocked the fridge. Rory never considered it.
“But there’s a convenience store about half a mile down the main road.”
Thomas nodded. “I remember.”
She handed him an envelope of money she had withdrawn from his account using the password set up by her father.
“Here’s some cash to get you started. There’s also an ATM card in there with access to one of your accounts. Pass code is on a sticky note. Are you familiar with ATMs?”
He nodded. “We had a card system inside. I’ll figure it out.”
“ATM machine is at the convenience store. Food and clothes will be your first necessities.” She handed him the backpack. “I put this together for you. It’ll do until we can get you a vehicle. But you’ll need a driver’s license first. We’ll have to work on all that. You think you can survive on a week’s worth of clothing and the convenience store for a few days while I work out the details?”
“I’ll manage. Thank you.”
He keyed the front door and stepped inside. After a quick look around, he was back in the doorway. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Answer the phone if it rings. Your parole officer will be calling today to give you instructions. His name is Ezra Parker. You’re required to check in with him every day.”
“Will do.”
“Here’s his card. Keep it by the phone.”
He took the card from her hand.
“Got it.”
Rory nodded. “We’ll talk soon.”
It was getting brighter as she walked back to the car, the sun’s yellow glimmer through the trees made Rory feel as if she had emerged from a dangerous journey.
At just after 8:00 A.M., Rory and Lane pulled to the curb outside her house. Her nerves were frayed, she was sleep deprived, and the adrenaline rush was on a steep decline. She was exhausted when she walked across the front lawn and up the steps to her porch. Lane put his arm around her. With her father gone and Greta too elderly to embrace her, there was only one person left in her life whose touch she enjoyed. She put her head on his shoulder and they climbed the stairs to her front stoop.
“I’ll make coffee?” Rory asked.
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“I’ll open a couple Diet Cokes.”
“No,” Lane said. “I’ve got a class this morning. I’m already late. You should get some sleep. You were up all night.”
“I have to see Aunt Greta.”
“Now?”
“Something’s come up. I have to talk with her.”
“Get some sleep. I have a faculty dinner tonight. I’m giving the keynote address. But I’ll try to skip out afterward and come see you.”
She let him kiss her.
“Okay?” Lane asked.
Rory nodded. Her eyes were droopy with fatigue. “Okay.”
She turned and entered the house. After the door was closed, Lane looked down at the porch, which was covered in ruddy dust. He noticed the trail of bloodred footprints from Rory’s boots. They led from the street, across the front lawn, and up to the patio.
CHAPTER 32
Starved Rock, Illinois, November 3, 2019
THOMAS MITCHELL CLOSED THE DOOR TO THE CABIN AND WATCHED through the window as Frank Moore’s daughter drove the circular path around the cottage and disappeared into the forested drive from which they had come. Once she was gone, he looked around his new home, checking each room. He walked back out onto the front porch and into the dawning morning. It was the first time in forty years that he witnessed a sunrise. He sucked in the scent of the pine trees, his brain tricking him at first into believing he smelled the usual antiseptic bleach that had greeted him for the last many decades. But no, he tasted only the fresh scents of morning, of freedom, of opportunity.
So much had transpired at this place. He had history here, at his uncle’s cabin tucked away in the woods. And there was more to come. The final chapter of his life was about to be written here. He planned to find her. To bring her here, the way he should have done years before.
He took just a moment to enjoy the rising sun befo
re he went back into the cabin and sat on the couch. Across the coffee table, he spread the contents of the plastic bag the guard had given him when he stood at the precipice of the open gate at Stateville Correctional Center. The trinkets and possessions he had accumulated during his life in prison had been left in his jail cell. He knew the guards had pocketed the knickknacks to sell to rabid fans. The Thief still had a following. But all that mattered to him were his papers. The tedious and meticulous notes he had taken over the years. They were a verbatim list of everything he had ever spoken about to Frank Moore. Every lead the attorney had ever brought him during the search for his wife. Every person Frank had contacted. Years of plotting had boiled the list down to an essential few. Thomas knew where to start. He planned to waste no time. Forty years of waiting were about to end.
Hours later, the sun was high above and his white skin burned under the unfamiliar rays. His shirt was soaked through with perspiration as he stepped onto the shovel for the thousandth time. The mound of dirt had grown thigh-high and it took a good stride down to reach the bottom of the hole. He spent another hour widening it, and another squaring off the corners. It had been so long since he’d dug a grave that he nearly forgot the thrill it brought. It meant The Rush was coming.
The anticipation surged through him. He swiped his forearm across his face to clear the sweat; then he speared the shovel into the earth again. And again. And again.
CHAPTER 33
Chicago, November 3, 2019
ABUZZING WOKE RORY FROM A DREAMLESS SLEEP. THE BEDROOM WINDOWS displayed a fading chestnut sky as night fell. The combination of her first panic attack in nearly three decades, more than twenty-four hours without sleep, and the tormented task of driving Thomas Mitchell from jail had resulted in total exhaustion. She was disorientated when she woke. The buzzing came again. She searched for the source until she heard it once more and finally recognized that her phone was vibrating. She grabbed it from her bedside table, expecting to see Lane’s number. Instead, though, it was someone else. The series of numbers immediately registered. Dragging the slider to the right, she placed the phone to her ear.
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