The kitchen clock flipped to three A.M.
Jane reached for the stack of folders that Detective Moore had dropped off last night. She had finished reading all the Ashburn files; now she opened a new folder, and saw that this one was not about the Ashburn slayings; it was a Boston PD file on Joseph Roke’s car, the vehicle he had abandoned a few blocks from the hospital. She saw pages of Moore’s notes, photos of the vehicle’s interior, an AFIS report on the fingerprints, and various witness statements. While she’d been trapped in that hospital, her colleagues from the homicide unit hadn’t been sitting idle. They’d been chasing down every scrap of information about the hostage takers. I was never on my own, she thought; my friends were out there, fighting for me, and here is the proof.
She glanced at the detective’s signature on one of the witness reports and gave a surprised laugh. Hell, even her old nemesis Darren Crowe had been working hard to save her, and why wouldn’t he? Without her in the unit, he’d have no one else to insult.
She flipped to the photographs of the vehicle’s interior. Saw crumpled-up Butterfinger wrappers and empty cans of Red Bull soda pop on the floor. Lots of sugar and caffeine, just what every psychotic needed to calm down. On the backseat was a wadded-up blanket and a stained pillow and an issue of the tabloid newspaper, the Weekly Confidential. Melanie Griffith was on the cover. She tried to imagine Joe lying on that backseat, leafing through the tabloid, scanning the latest news of celebrities and bad girls, but she couldn’t quite see it. Could he really have cared what the crazies out in Hollywood were up to? Maybe a glance at their screwed-up, coked-up lives made Joe’s own life seem tolerable. The Weekly Confidential was harmless distraction for anxious times.
She set aside the Boston PD file and reached for the folder on the Ashburn slayings. Once again, she confronted the crime scene photos of slaughtered women. Once again, she paused over the photo of Jane Doe number five. Suddenly she could not bear to look at blood, at death, any longer. Chilled to the bone, she closed the file.
Regina was asleep.
She carried the baby back to the crib, then slipped into her own bed, but she could not stop shivering, even though the heat of Gabriel’s body warmed the sheets. She needed so badly to sleep, but could not quiet the chaos in her head. Too many images were spinning through her brain. This was the first time she understood what the phrase too tired to sleep meant. She’d heard that people could go psychotic from lack of sleep; maybe she had already passed that threshold, pushed across the edge by nightmares, by her demanding newborn. I need to make these dreams go away.
Gabriel’s arm came around her. “Jane?”
“Hey,” she murmured.
“You’re shaking. Are you cold?”
“A little.”
He wrapped her closer, pulling her into his warmth. “Did Regina wake up?”
“A while ago. I’ve already fed her.”
“It was my turn to do it.”
“I was awake anyway.”
“Why?”
She didn’t answer.
“It’s the dream again. Isn’t it?” he asked.
“It’s like she’s haunting me. She won’t leave me alone. Every damn night, she keeps me from sleeping.”
“Olena’s dead, Jane.”
“Then it’s her ghost.”
“You don’t really believe in ghosts.”
“I didn’t. But now . . .”
“You’ve changed your mind?”
She turned on her side to look at him, and saw the faint glow of city lights in his eyes. Her beautiful Gabriel. How did she get so lucky? What did she do to deserve him? She touched his face, fingers brushing across stubble. Even after six months of marriage, it still astonished her that she shared her bed with this man.
“I just want things to go back to the way they were,” she said. “Before any of this happened.”
He pulled her against him, and she smelled soap and warm skin. Her husband’s smells. “Give it more time,” he said. “Maybe you need to have these dreams. You’re still processing what happened. Working through the trauma.”
“Or maybe I need to do something about it.”
“Do what?”
“What Olena wanted me to do.”
He sighed. “You’re talking about the ghost again.”
“She did speak to me. I didn’t imagine that part. It’s not a dream, it’s a memory, something that really happened.” She rolled onto her back and stared up at the shadows. “ ‘Mila knows.’ That’s what she said. That’s what I remember.”
“Mila knows what?”
She looked at Gabriel. “I think she was talking about Ashburn.”
TWENTY-SIX
By the time they boarded the plane to Washington-Reagan, her breasts were aching and swollen, her body yearning for the relief that only a suckling infant could provide. But Regina was not within reach; her daughter was spending the day in Angela’s capable hands, and at that moment was probably being cooed at and fussed over by someone who actually knew what she was doing. Gazing out the plane’s window, Jane thought: My baby’s only two weeks old, and already I’m abandoning her. I’m such a bad mom. But as the city of Boston dropped away beneath their climbing aircraft, it wasn’t guilt she felt, but a sudden lightness, as though she’d shed the weight of motherhood, of sleepless nights and hours of pacing back and forth. What is wrong with me, she wondered, that I’m so relieved to be away from my own child?
Bad mom.
Gabriel’s hand settled on hers. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t worry about it. Your mother’s so good with her.”
She nodded, and kept her gaze out the window. How did she tell her own husband that his child had a lousy mother who was thrilled to be out of the house and back in the chase? That she missed her job so much that it hurt just to watch a cop show on TV?
A few rows behind them, a baby started to cry, and Jane’s breasts throbbed, heavy with milk. My body is punishing me, she thought, for leaving Regina behind.
The first thing she did after walking off the plane was to duck into the women’s restroom. There she sat on a toilet, milking herself into wads of tissue paper, wondering if cows felt the same blessed relief when their udders were emptied. Such a waste, but she didn’t know what else to do but squeeze it out and flush it down the toilet.
When she re-emerged, she found Gabriel waiting for her by the airport newsstand. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“Moo.”
Leesburg Detective Eddie Wardlaw did not look particularly thrilled to see them. He was in his forties, with a sour face and eyes that didn’t smile even when his lips tried to. Jane could not decide if he was tired or just irritated about their visit. Before offering any handshake, he asked to see their IDs, and spent an insulting length of time examining each one, as though certain they were fraudulent. Only then did he grudgingly shake their hands and escort them past the front desk.
“I spoke to Detective Moore this morning,” he said as he led them at a deliberate pace down the hallway.
“We told him we were flying down to see you,” said Jane.
“He said that you two were okay.” Wardlaw reached in his pocket for a set of keys, paused, and looked at them. “I needed to have some background on you both, so I’ve been asking around. Just so you understand what’s going on.”
“Actually, we don’t,” said Jane. “We’re trying to figure out this whole business ourselves.”
“Yeah?” Wardlaw gave a grunt. “Welcome to the club.” He unlocked the door and led them into a a small conference room. On the table was a cardboard box, labeled with a case number, and containing a stack of files. Wardlaw pointed to the files. “You can see how much we have. I couldn’t copy it all. I only sent Moore what I felt comfortable sharing at the time. This thing has been screwy from the word go, and I needed to be absolutely sure of anyone who’s seeing these files.”
“Look, you want to check my credentials again??
?? said Jane. “You’re welcome to talk to anyone in my unit. They all know my record.”
“Not you, Detective. Cops I don’t have a problem with. But guys from the Bureau . . .” He looked at Gabriel. “I’m forced to be a little more cautious. Especially considering what’s happened so far.”
Gabriel responded with that coolly impervious look that he could call up at an instant’s notice. The same look that had once kept Jane at arm’s length when they had first met. “If you have a concern about me, Detective, let’s discuss it right now, before we go any further.”
“Why are you here, Agent Dean? You people have already combed through everything we have.”
“The FBI’s stepped in on this?” asked Jane.
Wardlaw looked at her. “They demanded copies of everything. Every scrap of paper in that box. Didn’t trust our crime lab, so they had to bring in their own technicians to examine the physical evidence. The feds have seen it all.” He turned back to Gabriel. “So if you have questions about the case, why don’t you just check with your pals at the Bureau?”
“Believe me, I can vouch for Agent Dean,” said Jane. “I’m married to him.”
“Yeah, that’s what Moore told me.” Wardlaw laughed and shook his head. “Fibbie and a cop. Ask me, it’s like cats marrying dogs.” He reached into the box. “Okay, this is what you wanted. Investigation control files. Occurrence reports.” He took out folders one by one and slapped them down on the table. “Lab and autopsy reports. Vic photos. Daily logs. News releases and press clippings . . .” He paused, as though suddenly remembering something. “I’ve got another item you might find useful,” he said, and turned toward the door. “I’ll get it.”
Moments later, he came back carrying a videocassette. “I keep this locked in my desk,” he said. “With all these feds pawing through this box, I thought I should store this video in a safe place.” He crossed to a closet and wheeled out a TV monitor and VCR player. “Being this close to Washington, we get the occasional case with, well . . . political complications,” he said as he untangled the cord. “You know, elected officials behaving badly. Few years ago, a senator’s wife got killed when her Mercedes rolled over on one of our back roads. Trouble was, the man driving the car wasn’t her husband. Even worse, the guy worked in the Russian embassy. You should’ve seen how quick the FBI showed up on that one.” He plugged in the TV, then straightened and looked at them. “I’m having a sense of déjà vu on this case.”
“You think there are political implications?” said Gabriel.
“You’re aware of who really owns the house? It took us weeks to find out.”
“A subsidiary of the Ballentree Company.”
“And that’s the political complication. We’re talking about a Goliath in Washington. White House buddy. The country’s biggest defense contractor. I had no idea what I was walking into that day. Finding five women shot to death was bad enough. Add in the politics, the FBI meddling, and I’m ready for goddamn early retirement.” Wardlaw inserted the tape in the VCR, grabbed the remote, and pressed PLAY.
On the TV monitor, a view of snow-dusted trees appeared. It was a bright day, and sunshine sparkled on ice.
“Nine one one got the call around ten A.M.,” said Wardlaw. “Male voice, refused to identify himself. Just wanted to report that something had happened in a house on Deerfield Road, and that the police should check it out. There aren’t many homes on Deerfield Road, so it didn’t take long for the cruiser to find out which residence was involved.”
“Where did that call come from?”
“A pay phone about thirty-five miles out of Ashburn. We were unable to get any usable fingerprints off the phone. We never did identify the caller.”
On the TV screen, half a dozen parked vehicles could now be seen. Against the background noise of men’s voices, the camera’s operator began to narrate: “The date is January fourth, eleven thirty-five A.M. Residence address is number nine, Deerfield Road, town of Ashburn, Virginia. Present are Detective Ed Wardlaw and myself, Detective Byron McMahon . . .”
“My partner worked the camera,” said Wardlaw. “That’s a view of the driveway in front of the residence. As you can see, it’s surrounded by woods. No neighbors nearby.”
The camera slowly panned past two waiting ambulances. The crews stood in a huddle, their breath steaming in the icy air. The lens continued its slow rotation, coming at last to a stop on the house. It was a two-story brick home of stately proportions, but what had once been a grand residence was showing the signs of neglect. White paint was peeling off shutters and windowsills. A porch railing tilted sideways. Wrought-iron bars covered the windows, an architectural feature more appropriate to an inner-city apartment building, not a house on a quiet rural road. The camera now focused on Detective Wardlaw, who was standing on the front steps, like a grim host waiting to greet his guests. The image swayed toward the ground as Detective McMahon bent to pull on shoe covers. Then the lens was once again aimed at the front door. It followed Wardlaw into the house.
The first image it captured was the blood-smeared stairway. Jane already knew what to expect; she had seen the crime scene photos, and knew how each woman had died. Yet as the camera focused on the steps, Jane could feel her pulse quicken, her sense of dread building.
The camera paused on the first victim, lying facedown on the stairway. “This one was shot twice,” said Wardlaw. “Medical examiner said the first bullet hit her in the back, probably as the vic was trying to flee toward the stairs. Nicked her vena cava and exited out the abdomen. Judging by the amount of blood she lost, she was probably alive for five, ten minutes before the second bullet was fired, into her head. The way I read it, the perp brought her down with the first shot, then turned his attention to the other women. When he came back down the stairs again, he noticed that this one was still alive. So he finished her off with a kill shot.” Wardlaw looked at Jane. “Thorough guy.”
“All that blood,” murmured Jane. “There must have been a wealth of footwear evidence.”
“Both upstairs and down. Downstairs is where it got confusing. We saw two large sets of shoe prints, which we assume to be the two killers. But in addition there were other prints. Smaller ones, that tracked across the kitchen.”
“Law enforcement?”
“No. By the time that first cruiser arrived, it was at least six hours after the fact. The blood on that kitchen floor was pretty much dry. The smaller prints we saw were made while the blood was still wet.”
“Whose prints?”
Wardlaw looked at her. “We still don’t know.”
Now the camera moved up the stairs, and they could hear the sound of paper shoe covers rustling over the steps. In the upstairs hallway, the camera turned left, aiming through a doorway. Six cots were crammed into the bedroom, and on the floor were piles of clothing, dirty dishes, and a large bag of potato chips. The camera panned across the room, to focus on the cot where victim number two had died.
“Looks like this one never even got a chance to run,” said Wardlaw. “Stayed in bed and took the bullet right there, where she was lying.”
Again, the camera was on the move, circling away from the cots, turning toward a closet. Through the open doorway, the lens zoomed in on two pitiful occupants slumped together. They had crammed themselves into the very back of the closet, as though desperately trying to shrink from sight. But they had been all too visible to the killer who had opened the door, who had aimed his weapon at those bowed heads.
“One bullet each,” said Wardlaw. “These guys were quick, accurate, and methodical. Every door was opened, every closet was searched. There was no place in that house to hide. These victims never had a chance.”
He reached for the remote and fast-forwarded. Images danced on the monitor, a manic tour of the other bedrooms, a race up a ladder, through a trap door and into an attic. Then a jittery retreat back down the hallway, down the stairs. Wardlaw hit PLAY. The journey slowed again, the camera moving at a walking p
ace through a dining room and into the kitchen.
“Here,” he said quietly, pressing PAUSE. “The last victim. She had a very bad night.”
The woman sat bound by cord to a chair. The bullet had entered just above her right eyebrow, and the impact had shoved her head backward. She had died with her eyes turned heavenward; death had drained her face pale. Both her arms were extended in front of her, on the table.
The bloodied hammer still lay beside her ruined hands.
“Clearly they wanted something from her,” said Wardlaw. “And this gal couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give it to them.” He looked at Jane, his eyes haunted by the ordeal that they were all imagining at that moment. The hammer blows falling again and again, crushing bone and joint. The screams echoing through that house of dead women.
He pressed PLAY, and the video mercifully moved on, leaving behind the bloodied table, the mangled flesh. Still shaken, they watched in silence as the video took them into a downstairs bedroom, then into the living room, decorated with a sagging couch and a green shag rug. Finally they were back in the foyer, at the foot of the staircase, right where they had started.
“That’s what we found,” said Wardlaw. “Five female victims, all unidentified. Two different firearms were used. We’re assuming at least two killers, working together.”
And no place in that house for their prey to hide, thought Jane. She thought of the two victims cowering in the closet, breaths turning to whimpers, arms wrapped around each other as footsteps creaked closer.