by Tom Barber
The coffin had a framed smiling image of Isabel resting on top, her school photo from the previous year.
‘The ones we love will never be in our lives for as long as we’d like,’ the clergyman said from the lectern. ‘They come in and then one day, they are gone. But what matters is to make the time we share together count. And when it’s all over, and that person is no longer here, to cherish and remember the good times, the qualities of that person and all the things they taught you. Because they live on through you. Like the best parts of Isabel Vargas will live on in each and every person gathered here today.’
Archer glanced over at the opposite aisle and saw kids from both her academic and theater schools had attended, touched to see some of her friends were genuinely upset, girls who he’d often heard her talk about and whom he’d met when he’d lived with Vargas.
If Issy made it back to New York, would they still want to be friends with her, having mourned her loss? Being conned, even for the best of reasons. He didn’t know. He’d never been in a situation like this before.
As the clergyman at the lectern went on to talk about Issy’s short life, Archer thought about Dr DiGregorio’s advice, that Vargas and the child should leave New York for good. Several years of progress, of overcoming huge obstacles, just to have it all whipped away. Forced to leave her home city, always having to look over her shoulder. She’d never committed any crime, yet was paying such a high price for her parents’ and family’s actions from when they were alive.
He glanced at Vargas beside him and saw that she too was affected by the atmosphere. She didn’t seem to be having any difficulty looking grief-stricken. The priest said one of Isabel’s friends called Monica would be reading a poem. As they all sat down, Archer saw she was one of the girls who’d been crying; however, she composed herself and walked up to the lectern before unfurling a piece of paper, clearing her throat quietly.
‘You’ve just walked on ahead of me, and I’ve got to understand,’ she read. ‘You must release the ones you love, and let go of their hand.
‘I try and cope the best I can, But I’m missing you so much.
If I could only see you, and once more feel your touch.’
Archer glanced at Vargas again. Her hand twitched to move to his, but she used the other to cover it and kept them both in her lap.
‘Yes, you’ve walked on ahead of me, but don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ the girl recited. ‘But now and then I swear I feel,
Your hand slip into mine.’
‘I’m so very sorry, Sam,’ Isabel’s middle school principal told Archer at the reception afterwards. When he and Vargas had been together, they’d both been involved in her transition to a new school in Queens, and had formed a good relationship with the principal, who’d been made aware of the traumas she’d been through and had become hugely sympathetic as a result. ‘You and Alice couldn’t have done more for that child. She was wonderful.’
She paused, then leaned in close.
‘Catch the monster who did this,’ she said quietly. ‘Make him pay.’
Archer recalled the knives that had punctured Issy’s bed at Vargas’s apartment; the aftermath of the tall man’s assault on the theater, the torn up stage curtain and shredded floorboards and walls from the Crucible set.
He kept the thoughts to himself and gave her a nod. ‘We will.’
He caught sight of Vargas across the room, and saw she too was talking with mourners, maintaining the act; he recognised from her body language she was tired, the stress and anxiety of the last few days taking their toll. Marquez, Josh and Ledger had left after the service, getting back to the real work but Archer and Vargas knew they each had to stay to the end. To leave the reception early would certainly raise comment. Shepherd had stuck around too, wanting to take some of the load off his two detectives, and was also talking with mourners, thanking them for attending.
‘My deepest condolences, Detective,’ a voice said, and turning, Archer recognised the theater director from the school in Chelsea. Pete, he recalled.
Archer shook his hand. ‘Thank you. What’s the latest with the program?’
‘I’ll keep the rehearsals going with the children. Hopefully we can get the stage and set…repaired quickly. I’ve had to recast some part-’ He caught himself. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was, some of the children have been withdrawn from the program. Parents didn’t want their kids associated with what happened.’
‘They’ve got no need to be scared anymore. She’s dead.’
Pete paused for a moment. ‘I think she would have gone on to be a fine performer. She needed to find her voice and own her presence on the stage more, but she was a talented young actress. I was looking forward to seeing what she could achieve with her makeup skills too. She had a real gift for that. Would’ve done well on stage, or off. Hope it helps a bit to know.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Archer said, thinking she’s an even better actress that you know, Pete. He saw the two people talking to Vargas move away, and Archer took the opportunity to approach her, the pair momentarily alone.
‘This is exhausting,’ she said quietly. ‘Sorry about choking up during the service. Embarrassing.’
‘No, it wasn’t.’
‘It’s like a window into a different universe,’ she whispered. ‘One where we failed.’
‘I know what you mean.’ They both looked at the remaining mourners. ‘Ever wonder what they’d say about you?’ he asked.
‘Hopefully not this was too soon,’ she replied, and he smiled briefly. ‘Kinda sucks, really. The nicest things people will ever say about you, and you’re not there to hear it.’
She looked around the room.
‘We’ve got to stop him, Sam. This can’t become a reality.’
Shepherd joined them, and they walked to one side with him. ‘I’ve put the word out that you’re taking bereavement time,’ he told Vargas. ‘But if we’re gonna sell this, you gotta maintain the look. Don’t forget that.’
‘I’m not sitting off this,’ Vargas said. ‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you’re not. You’re only on bereavement because that’s what people would expect. You’re gonna be involved, but you have to keep a low profile. We can’t raise any suspicions.’ Shepherd reached into his pocket for his cell phone, which was set to silent but was vibrating with a call, and he walked away, leaving them alone as he answered.
‘I don’t know how much more of this I can do right now,’ Vargas said.
Archer didn’t reply. He was watching Shepherd, whose body language had changed.
The sergeant looked back at his two detectives while the phone was still to his ear.
This time, the expression on his face was genuine.
When Archer, Vargas and Shepherd arrived, a small fleet of squad cars had cordoned off the street and area around the house in Woodhaven, Queens, their lights flashing silently.
Sniffer dogs with handlers were outside, and the three detectives, still in their dark clothes, saw a Coroner’s vehicle parked by the mailbox.
They stepped out of the car, and walked towards the house. When they got there, they met Marquez on the front porch, also still wearing her black outfit. She’d had a head-start on them to get here, coming from the Bureau which was closer.
All three noticed she looked pale, which was unusual; she wasn’t a woman who was shaken easily.
Archer pushed up the police tape, and the trio entered the home, Marquez behind them.
Each of them had been through extremely testing experiences; they’d attended some distressing crime scenes, and witnessed violent deaths. But Vargas gave a sharp intake of breath when they walked into the living room.
Even Archer stopped in his tracks.
‘Jesus,’ Vargas whispered.
Archer looked at Dr Jerome Wyzyck’s naked body, pinned to the wall as if it was a giant bulletin board.
The black hilts of around a dozen knives jutted out of his
wrists, arms, throat and feet. His eyes. His groin.
The carpet beneath him was soaked with blood
‘The trick didn’t work, despite everything we did,’ Marquez said quietly, breaking the stunned silence. ‘Our man knows Issy’s still alive.’
EIGHTEEN
In a pub called The Lamb and Flag in Oxford, England, the time was close to 6pm, but the warmth of midsummer and the fact the sun was still shining meant the doors were propped open as drinks continued to flow. Among the patrons, in the front portion of the pub two young women in their early twenties were deep in conversation at a table, each with a partly drunk half pint in front of them.
Neither noticed an eleven year old girl at a nearby table looking in their direction, their accents having caught her attention. ‘They’re American.’ Isabel whispered to Chalky, who was sitting with her.
‘The university has students from all over the world. It’s one of the best out there.’
‘Could I study here one day?’
‘Maybe, if you get the grades. You like the city?’
‘Yeah. It’s so…old.’
‘Like me, right?’
‘Vargas said the police were talking about moving us to California,’ she said, avoiding answering but giving him a mischievous smile.
‘You don’t want to go?’
‘One of the girls in the play went on vacation to LA. She said a load of people there are fake.’
Chalky smiled. ‘I’m sure not everyone is, though.’
‘She said, they’re all so nice to each other face to face, yet say bad things behind their backs. In New York, it’s the opposite.’ Then she faltered, remembering her exchange with that same girl, Britney, in the cafeteria in Chelsea before she was attacked in the auditorium. ‘Hmm. Maybe that’s not quite true.’
Chalky smiled again and glanced over at the door, which he was doing periodically. He was more relaxed than he’d been in the US, the three thousand miles between the two countries giving him an increased sense of security, but not to the point he was letting his guard down. The pub was very old and full of character; it was also comfortable and a good place to kill time. Ahead of where he and Issy were sitting, the interior extended down to more seating, another bar area and the toilets, but Chalky liked the spot he’d chosen; his back against the wall and out of sight of the window, the doors offering two separate exits if they needed to get out fast.
His idea of faking the girl’s death had come to him after seeing her acting skills and then recalling a conversation he’d had with Archer, on the night of the knife throw and discovering the Venus flytrap. Archer had mentioned the possibility of getting Issy out of the country, going on to tell Chalky that she had an entire set of alternative, legitimate documents, and that temporarily securing her far away from New York until they could find out who was attacking her maybe was a good idea. Chalky had been curious how she’d been issued with an alternative passport; Archer had explained that after the massacre which killed the Lombardi family and the attacks which followed when Issy was under US Marshal Witness Protection, Vargas had lobbied the FBI hard to get the girl another set of documents in case she needed to go into hiding again fast.
They’d been reluctant at first, never enthusiastic about providing false but official documents such as this, but she’d persevered and with support from her immediate superiors, had finally succeeded; a set had been issued. The substitute United States passport gave Isabel Vargas another identity, ‘Olivia Garraty’, born in Rhinebeck, NY four years before Issy’s actual birthday. Vargas had wanted to make the details as different as possible from Issy’s real ones, and because people often assumed the girl was older than she was, Vargas felt she could get away with adding the extra years to Issy’s actual age. The girl’s height, which she’d inherited from her father, and her maturity, a direct result of her life experiences, had played a significant part in that decision.
They’d used her fake passport to get her on the last flight to London out of JFK International on July 4th, landing at Heathrow on the morning of the 5th. Still on leave from his position at the Armed Response Unit in the nation’s capital, Chalky had been with the girl on protective detail constantly since they’d left the States. Two of his colleagues and his boss in London had been briefed, the director of the ARU Tim Cobb offering support if needed, with the proviso he had his own priorities and couldn’t guarantee allocating any resources to the operation. With his ARU colleagues close by, the English capital city was the obvious place to keep her hidden, but Chalky had chosen Oxford instead, a place he had no links with but which was only an hour and forty minutes from London if help was needed. Locating him and the girl here would be much more challenging.
He watched Issy as she drank a glass of juice while listening to the two American students, amused by her obvious efforts to try to be subtle so they didn’t realise she was focusing on them. Vargas had come prepared when they went to the morgue in Queens; she’d cut and dyed the girl’s hair, which was now shorter and blonde. Chalky had bought her a navy blue baseball cap as soon as they’d arrived in Oxford that she’d taken to wearing, with the English rugby team red rose logo on the front. They didn’t look sufficiently alike to get away with passing themselves off as father/daughter, especially now Issy had blonde hair, so their story instead was they were uncle and niece. So far, no-one had asked.
Chalky sipped his coffee, and after glancing at the door again, looked at the headlines in The Times newspaper he was holding. He’d bought a copy on their way here from where they were staying, a bed and breakfast twenty minutes away in a part of the city called Summertown. He opened the paper to study a certain report, which was a double spread on pages five and six.
After a few minutes, he folded one page back, the headline catching Isabel’s attention.
‘I’m famous,’ she said quietly.
New York City outraged as eleven year old girl shot dead on July 4th. Chalky continued to read the long article, which went into a lot of detail about the incident and aftermath. A photo showed the initial pile of flowers, soft toys and other tributes placed on the boardwalk near where the girl had gone down, almost a small field of them now. NYPD assure best investigators will catch killer, a smaller sub-article headline said. Another was bringing up the always hot topic of gun ownership, but Chalky was dismayed to see Isabel’s photo had been included in the article, an image of her smiling in what looked like a school photograph.
He’d expected it would be published eventually, knowing now she was ‘dead’ it didn’t matter if her identity was released, but had hoped, perhaps unrealistically, that it wouldn’t happen quite so soon. He flicked an eye around the English pub, but it was quiet and no-one had looked at them twice since they’d been here, despite various folded-up newspapers resting on tables and a chair. Vargas had done a good job with Isabel’s hair, the girl looking very different now from the way she had a week ago; also, although the story had made news in both the USA and UK, and bulletins in the States continued to provide updates and interviews, it was no longer headline news here in England, now only occupying the inside pages, soon to disappear altogether. Each country had its own pressing concerns. And life moved on.
‘Yay, food,’ Isabel said, seeing their order coming, and Chalky folded the paper up as the barman approached.
‘Ham and cheese?’ he said gruffly, the plate holding the sandwich and a side of fries.
‘That’s me,’ Chalky said.
‘Prawn mayo for the young lady then.’
‘Thank you,’ Isabel said, as the man set the food down. After passing them a basket containing knives, forks, paper napkins and small packets of ketchup, mustard and mayo, he returned to his place behind the bar, picking up his conversation with two men planted on stools, both halfway through a pint.
‘Have they caught him?’ Isabel asked Chalky quietly, as he bit into his food. ‘I can handle it,’ she said, seeing him hesitate. ‘Tell me the truth.’
‘N
ot yet.’
‘They had a funeral for me, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You think people are gonna be mad?’ she asked. ‘When they find out we pretended?’
‘I think they’ll just be glad you’re OK.’
‘I can still be in the play though, right, if we catch him? I don’t want them to cast anyone else.’
‘One thing at a time, kiddo. Once we find this man, we can worry about that stuff.’ He saw her look of dismay. ‘We’ll keep running through your lines though. Just in case.’
That made her smile again, before she bit into her sandwich. Chalky’s phone started ringing; he wiped some grease off his fingers before taking it out, seeing it was Archer’s number in New York. ‘Back in a moment,’ he said, having checked out the pub and satisfied it was secure. ‘See anything, start shouting. And don’t touch my fries,’ he added with a smile, watching her hand start to creep across the table.
‘Our composite sketch and Chalky’s description of the suspect has been sent to all major East Coast airports, train stations and to the bigger airports in the UK,’ Marquez told Vargas, standing outside Dr Wyzyck’s residence in Woodhaven after liaising with Josh, Ledger and Ethan back at the Bureau. Further down the porch, Archer was quietly bringing Chalky up to speed, while pulling off his tie and undoing his top button, needing more air.
‘How we doing on leads?’ Vargas replied, now also looking slightly pale. Shepherd was still inside, talking with investigators. The sweet, coppery smell of blood was wafting out to the front porch and was making her feel nauseous, which was unusual for her. She had a strong stomach for things like this, as a rule.
‘No breakthroughs yet,’ Marquez said.
‘How bad was the scene?’ Chalky asked, outside the pub on the Oxford street with his phone to his ear.
