Charlie had gotten a warrant for Jack's person, too, which meant securing blood and hair samples. Now, as he drove to the hospital, he glanced at St. Bride in the backseat. The man was staring out the window, deep in thought. "You got something on your mind, Jack?" Charlie said conversationally. "Or maybe on your conscience?"
St. Bride's eyes met his in the rearview mirror. "Go to hell," he murmured.
Charlie laughed. "Maybe later. First we're going to the ER."
In the parking lot, Charlie got out of the car and opened the back door for Jack to do the same. "I'm not coming," he said. "You can't force me to."
This surprised Charlie; St. Bride had been so complacent up till now. "Actually, I can. I have a warrant that says I'm getting your blood and your hair whether you like it or not." He squatted down, so that he was at eye level with his suspect. "And I'm thinking that when your trial comes up and I testify that you refused to give us samples, that jury is going to believe you have something to hide." Charlie shrugged. "If you didn't do it, then you've got nothing to worry about, right?"
"Right," Jack said tightly, and unfolded himself from the car.
He was led into the ER in his handcuffs and almost immediately shuffled into a tiny cubicle. A nurse came in and efficiently drew blood from the veined valley of Jack's arm. Charlie initialed the vial, so that he could verify the chain of custody of the blood. Jack hopped off the examination table, but Charlie stopped him with a shake of his head. "I'm not done with you." Slipping his hand into a rubber glove, he yanked a swatch of hair from St. Bride's head.
"That hurts!"
"Like I care," Charlie muttered, sealing it into an envelope.
Jack's gaze was murderous. "Are we finished yet?"
"Nope. Drop your pants."
"I don't think so."
Charlie regarded him evenly. "Either I can pull your pubic hairs or you can have the honor." Slowly, Jack extended his wrists, shaking the cuffs. "You don't need a lot of range of movement for this," Charlie said. "Nice try."
Exhaling through his nose, Jack unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and reached into his boxer shorts. The handcuffs caught on the buttons, but Charlie pretended not to notice. If the asshole sliced his dick off by accident, the world would be a safer place. Jack flinched as he pulled out the first hair and set it on a sheet of white paper Charlie had placed on the exam table. "How many?"
For DNA analysis, the lab needed only a few hairs--five to ten, at most. Charlie met Jack's gaze without flinching. "Thirty," he said, and settled back to watch.
May 1, 2000
Salem Falls,
New Hampshire
Matt Houlihan had the instincts of a pit bull and the face of Opie Taylor, a combination that led to a stunning number of convictions in his job as assistant county attorney and that made most local defense lawyers want to strangle him in his sleep. As he stood outside a conference room at 7 A.M. at the Grafton County Courthouse, listening to a particularly loud and obnoxious defense attorney argue with his equally loud and obnoxious client, he closed his eyes and thought of Molly.
He could conjure the exact cornflower blue of her eyes, and the softness of her skin, and even the sweet smell that he breathed in when he buried his face in her neck. She kept him up all night, but he didn't mind at all. He was head over heels in love with her.
Had been, in fact, since the moment she was born six months ago.
He had always enjoyed getting convictions, but now that he had a baby, he was a man driven. He wanted to get every single bad guy behind bars, so that by the time his daughter was walking free in this world, it was a safe place to be. Sydney, his wife, told him he was headed right for hypertension medication and that he couldn't play Superman all by himself. "Watch me," Matt had answered.
Matt crossed his arms, wishing he could just be done with this case. The perp had been found with drugs in his hand, so the very fact that Matt had offered him a plea seemed a remarkable act of graciousness on his part, at least in his opinion. His lawyer had argued anyway, trying to get the state to reduce the charges. Matt had refused but offered to step out into the hall to let the attorney talk things over with his client.
"No," the client said, for the fourth time. "I ain't gonna take it."
Rolling his eyes, Matt walked back into the conference room. He plucked the form out of the defendant's hand and ripped it up, raining the pieces down over the man's upturned, stunned face. "The plea's no longer on the table."
"Jesus!" the defense attorney shouted. "He was on the verge of accepting!"
Matt had the smaller man backed up against the table within seconds. "I don't want him to plead," he said, his voice soft. "I'm going to body-slam your client at trial until he wishes he had been more cooperative and you wish you had been more persuasive." He stepped away suddenly, straightening his jacket. "Good-bye," he said, and exited.
Matt checked his watch and smiled. He had two hours before he was expected at the office. With any luck, he could feed Molly her breakfast.
The room was airless and bare, with the exception of a card table, two folding chairs, and a tape recorder. A fluorescent bulb overhead spit and blinked at random intervals.
It was difficult to believe that this was really happening, that the steel circles linking his wrists were not playthings and that history had, in fact, repeated itself. Jack wasn't frightened--instead, he was almost resigned, as if he'd been expecting this shoe to drop for a while. The painted messages on the diner and the beating should have been warning enough. But nothing so far--not the arrest nor Wes's comments nor even the samples taken in the hospital--had left as deep a scar as the moment he realized Addie had her doubts.
The door opened and Charlie Saxton walked in. He slid a pack of cigarettes toward Jack. "Want one?" Jack shook his head. "Oh, that's right. Big-time athlete, weren't you?"
When Jack didn't answer, Charlie sighed. He pushed the Record button, so that it glowed red and the tape began to turn. "You have the right to remain silent," he said. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you can't afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense." Charlie folded his hands on the table. "You want to tell me your story, Jack?"
Jack turned his head away, silent.
Charlie nodded; this wasn't a shock. "Got a lawyer you want phoned?"
The last lawyer Jack had trusted with his life had landed him in jail for eight months. His jaw tightened at the thought of putting himself at the mercy of another leech who couldn't care less about winning the case, as long as there was a retainer.
"Okay," Charlie said on a sigh. He beckoned to another officer, who came into the interrogation room to lead Jack back to the holding cell. They were nearly out the door when Charlie's voice made Jack stop. "Is there anyone you want me to call?"
Addie.
Jack stared straight ahead, and kept walking.
"Did you know," Matt said, watching his wife sprinkle nutmeg onto cottage cheese for her own breakfast, "that if you inject that stuff intravenously it can kill you?"
"Cottage cheese? I would think so."
"No, nutmeg." Matt dipped the rubber-coated spoon into the jar of peaches again and held it to their daughter's lips. Predictably, Molly spit it back at him.
Sydney slid into the seat beside Matt's. "Do I want to know where you picked up such an esoteric knowledge of spices?"
He shrugged. "I put away a woman who killed her diabetic husband by mixing some in his insulin."
"I'll have to file that one away," Sydney said, smiling. "Just in case you start getting on my nerves."
Matt passed a washcloth over Molly's face, and for good measure, rubbed it over his cheek as well. "I feel like I ought to invest in a haz mat suit."
"Oh, I have great faith that by the time she marches down the aisle, she'll be able to use a spoon with finesse."
Molly, on cue, bu
rst into a peal of giggles. "You're not gonna walk down any aisle, are you, muffin?" Matt cooed. "Not until Daddy's done background checks--"
They were interrupted by the telephone. Molly's head swiveled toward the sound, her eyes wide and curious. "It's for you," Sydney said a moment later. "Charlie Saxton."
He had last worked with Charlie over a year ago, on a grand theft auto charge that was pleaded down. Truth was, not too many cases came out of Salem Falls. "Charlie," Matt said, taking the receiver. "What can I do for you?"
"We've got a rape case. A guy who just got out on an eight-month sentence for misdemeanor sexual assault attacked a teenage girl here last night."
Matt immediately sobered. "The victim wants us to prosecute?" Too often, women who had been raped would suffer through the collection of evidence ... and then decide they couldn't go through with it.
"Yeah. Her dad is Amos Duncan."
"Duncan, as in the drug company?" Matt whistled. "Holy cow."
"Exactly."
"So," Matt repeated, "what can I do for you?"
"Meet me at the crime scene?" Charlie asked. "Nine o'clock?"
He took down directions. For a long moment after Charlie hung up, Matt absently listened to the dial tone while stroking the soft, vulnerable crown of his daughter's head.
Meg, Whitney and Chelsea arrived at Gillian's house shortly after 8 A.M. "Girls," Amos said soberly, greeting them at the door. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
They were too polite to comment on his bloodshot eyes, his rumpled clothing. "Our parents said we should stay home." Whitney spoke for the three of them.
"We wanted to make sure that Gilly was doing okay," Chelsea added, her voice nearly a whisper, as if speaking of what had happened would only make it worse.
"I don't know if she's up to seeing ... " Amos's words trailed off as the girls shifted their attention to something over his shoulder. Gilly stood behind him, looking as fragile as a milkweed pod, a big quilt wrapped around her shoulders. Her feet were bare like a child's, and this made Amos's stomach knot.
"No, Daddy," Gilly said. "I want to talk to them."
The girls surrounded her, a princess's court. They moved as a single unit up to Gillian's bedroom and closed the door. As soon as they did, Whitney flew toward Gilly with a small cry, hugging her close. "Are you okay?"
Gillian nodded against her shoulder. Now that it was morning, it seemed impossible that last night had really happened.
"What did they make you do?" Chelsea asked, wide-eyed.
"A lot of tests at the hospital. And I had to talk to Mr. Saxton." She looked from one girl to the other. "If I'm the one who went through it, why do you all look so awful?"
No one answered at first, embarrassed to have been caught thinking selfishly when Gillian had suffered the most. Whitney began toying with a stray fiber on the braided rug. "They're going to find out about us now, aren't they?"
"None of our fathers found out last night, did they?" Gilly said.
"But they'll go back today. They'll have to, after what you said."
Meg, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, shook her head. "I took care of it."
Gilly turned. "Took care of it?"
"I got rid of ... everything. I went early this morning."
At that, Gillian kissed Meg on the forehead. "You," she pronounced, "are amazing."
Meg blushed. Being the object of Gillian's direct praise was a little like being a cat stretching itself in front of a sunny window--it felt so good, to the marrow of the bones, that it was impossible to turn away.
Gillian reached beneath her mattress and pulled out their Book of Shadows. "Keep this at your house," she told Chelsea. "It's too risky for me to have it here right now."
Chelsea skimmed the pages--including the last entry, where Gillian had written a detailed account of the Beltane ceremony. For the first time since she'd been practicing Wicca, she felt empty inside. "Gilly," she said quietly, "last night ... "
"Who do you think everyone is going to believe?" Gillian's gaze turned inward, until it seemed that she was very far away from the rest of them. "After what he did to me," she said so quietly that the others had to strain to hear, "he deserves this."
An entourage of men--Amos, Charlie, Matt, and a team of cops skilled at securing crime scenes and collecting evidence--followed Gillian up the path that led from the cemetery into the woods. She was pale and withdrawn, although they had done their best to handle her with kid gloves. Suddenly, she stopped. "This is where it happened."
The marker was a huge flowering dogwood, its petals carpeting the floor of the forest like an artificial snow. Under Charlie's direction, an officer roped off the area with yellow crime scene tape, using the trunks of the trees as stakes. Others knelt to take soil samples and to scour for anything else that might help in the prosecution of Jack St. Bride.
Charlie headed toward Amos and his daughter. Gillian's eyes looked as big as dinner plates, and she was shaking uncontrollably. "Honey," Charlie said. "do you remember where he held you down?"
Her gaze swept the small clearing. "There," she pointed. It was a spot free of leaves, a spot that looked no different from any other spot nearby, but Charlie knew that experts could turn up treasures that weren't visible to the naked eye.
He sent two of his men to check it. "Why don't you take her home?" Charlie suggested to Amos. "She looks like she's about to fall apart."
"Gillian's strong. She--"
"--doesn't need to be here. I know you want to help us. And right now, the best way to do that is to give her a little TLC, so that when we need her to step up to the plate, she's ready."
"TLC," Amos repeated woodenly. "I can do that."
"Good. The minute I know anything ..." he promised, and went to rejoin his colleagues.
Two men were working at the site of the rape. "Anything?" Charlie asked.
"No smoking gun. Or spurting, as the case may be."
"Spare me," Charlie muttered. "You find the condom yet? Or a wrapper?"
"Nope. But we got footprints. Looks like a struggle, too. Then again, a lot of people might just have walked over the same spot. We're taking pictures."
Matt Houlihan tapped Charlie on the shoulder. "Check this out." He led the way across the clearing and pointed to the dark soil. "See that? Ashes."
"So?"
"There was a fire here."
Charlie shrugged. "Gillian said that, in her statement. I told you that already."
"Yes, but it's nice to have some corroboration."
"Did you doubt her?"
"You know how hard sexual assault cases are to win ... even when the perp has a prior. I need everything I can get that corroborates what the girl said."
"She said she scratched the guy," Charlie pointed out. "And I've got the proof of it on Kodak paper."
"Mug shots alone aren't going to get him convicted. She needs to be more precise." Matt glanced up. "You couldn't get her to pin down the length of the assault?"
"She said it was between five and ten minutes."
"That's the difference between a world record run and a high school track meet, Charlie."
"Well, shit, Houlihan. I think she was a little too preoccupied at the time to take out her stopwatch."
Sighing, Matt looked down. "She seeing a rape crisis counselor?"
"She's seeing someone. A Dr. Horowitz, a shrink her dad knows."
Matt nodded, then picked up a charred stick and began to toy with it, until a cop took it out of his hands with a scowl and stuck it into an evidence bag. "What did you get from the perp, besides his pictures?"
"Oh, well," Charlie said. "Naturally, he wasn't here."
"He told you this after you mirandized him?"
Charlie shook his head. "He wouldn't even look at me after I mirandized him. He said this about two seconds after I told him he was under arrest. A total knee-jerk response."
Matt mulled this over. There would be a fight to get that statement admitted. Then again, h
e'd done it before.
"Lieutenant Saxton," a cop called. "Come see this."
Matt and Charlie ambled over to a spot beneath the dogwood tree. Almost perfectly delineated in the damp soil was a bootprint--one considerably larger than the foot of a teenage girl. The policeman who'd beckoned turned over the man's boot he was holding, the same one Charlie had taken from Addie's house. "I'm not saying it's a match till the expert looks at the plaster cast," the cop said, "but this looks pretty damn close to me."
It was, right down to the crags in the pattern of the sole. Held up alongside, it was exactly the same size as St. Bride's boot. And St. Bride had insisted he was nowhere near Gillian Duncan last night.
Matt smiled his wide, gap-toothed grin. "Now this," he said, "is an excellent start."
The judge was a man. In some corner of his mind, Jack breathed a sigh of relief. A man would surely know when another guy was being railroaded. He fixed his gaze on the Honorable Lucius Freeley, as if it were possible to sear his story right into the judge's mind.
But the judge didn't seem to notice him much at all. He glanced dispassionately at the cameras in the rear of the courtroom, and then at the prosecution's table, where a tall redheaded guy who looked like the kid on Happy Days was leafing through some notes. Then he turned his attention to Jack and frowned. "We're here today in connection with the State of New Hampshire versus Jack St. Bride. Mr. St. Bride, you've been charged with aggravated felonious sexual assault. That's a class A felony, and you have the right to an attorney in connection with this offense. If you can't afford one, one will be appointed." The judge glanced meaningfully at the empty seat beside Jack, managing to convey in a single look that he thought Jack was a moron for not taking advantage of this quirk of the law.
Jack thought of Melton Sprigg and set his jaw. "Your Honor, I would prefer not--"
He broke off, feeling the cold green eyes of the prosecutor on him. "I can't afford one," he said, sealing his fate.
Bernie Davidson, the clerk of court, phoned the public defender's office thirty minutes later, when Judge Freeley--who needed prostate surgery, and badly--called for his fourth bathroom break of the morning. "I need one of your guys," he said, after faxing over the complaint.