Thomasina’s conscience was clear when she mailed a passionate letter to the judge, describing Laurie’s panic and hysteria in lurid terms but without mentioning the name Jim. She sent a copy of the letter and an explanation to Sarah, pointing out the mistake the Reverend Hawkins himself had made by referring to Laurie as Lee.
103
“IT’S GETTING CLOSER,” Laurie told Dr. Donnelly matter-of-factly as she kicked off her shoes and settled back on the couch.
“What is, Laurie?”
He expected her to talk about prison, but instead she said, “The knife.”
He waited.
It was Kate who spoke to him now. “Doctor, I guess we’ve both done our best.”
“Hey, Kate,” he said, “that doesn’t sound like you.” Was Laurie becoming suicidal? he wondered.
A wry laugh. “Kate sees the handwriting on the wall, Doctor. Got a cigarette?”
“Sure. How’s it going, Leona?”
“It’s pretty nearly gone. Your golf is getting better.”
“Thank you.”
“You really like Sarah, don’t you?”
“Very much.”
“Don’t let her be too unhappy, will you?”
“About what?”
Laurie stretched. “I have such a headache,” she murmured. “It’s as though it isn’t just at night anymore. Even yesterday when Sarah and I were on the golf course I could suddenly see the hand that’s holding the knife.”
“Laurie, the memories are coming closer and closer to the surface. Can’t you let them out?”
“I can’t let go of the guilt.” Was it Laurie or Leona or Kate speaking? For the first time Justin couldn’t be sure. “I did such bad things,” she said, “disgusting things. Some secret part of me is remembering them.”
Justin made a sudden decision. “Come on. We’re going to take a walk in the park. Let’s sit in the playground for a while and watch the kids.”
* * *
The swings and slides, the jungle gym and seesaws were filled with young children. They sat on a park bench near the watchful mothers and nannies. The children were laughing, calling to each other, arguing about whose turn it was to be on the swing. Justin spotted a little girl who looked to be about four. She was happily bouncing a ball. Several times the nanny called to the child, “Don’t go so far away, Christy.” The child, totally absorbed in keeping the ball bouncing, did not seem to hear. Finally the nanny got up, hurried over and firmly caught the ball. “I said, stay in the playground,” she scolded. “If you chased that ball in the road, one of those cars would hit you.”
“I forgot.” The small face looked forlorn and repentant, then, turning and seeing Laurie and Justin watching her, immediately brightened. She ran to them. “Do you like my beautiful sweater?” she asked.
The nanny came up. “Christy, you mustn’t bother people.” She smiled apologetically. “Christy thinks everything she puts on is beautiful.”
“Well, it is,” Laurie said. “It’s a perfectly beautiful new sweater.”
A few minutes later they started back for the clinic. “Suppose,” Justin said, “that little girl, very absorbed in what she was doing, wandered too close to the road and someone grabbed her, put her in a car, disappeared with her and abused her. Do you think that years later she should blame herself?”
Laurie’s eyes were welling with tears. “Point taken, Doctor.”
“Then forgive yourself as readily as you would forgive that child if something she couldn’t help had happened to her today.”
They went back into Justin’s private office. Laurie stretched out on the couch. “If that little girl had been picked up today and put in a car . . .” she hesitated.
“Maybe you can imagine what might happen to her,” Justin suggested.
“She wanted to go back home. Mommy would be angry that she went down to the road. There was a new neighbor whose son was seventeen years old and a fast driver. Mommy said the little girl must not run out in front anymore. She might get hurt by the car. They loved the little girl so much. They called her their miracle.”
“But the people wouldn’t take her home?”
“No. They drove and drove. She was crying, and the woman slapped her and said shut up. The man with the fuzzy arms picked her up and put her on his lap.” Laurie’s hands clenched and unclenched.
Justin watched as she clutched her shoulders. “Why are you doing that?”
“They told the little girl to get out of the car. It’s so cold. She has to go to the bathroom, but he wants to take her picture so he makes her stand by the tree.”
“The picture you tore up the day you first came to stay at the clinic made you remember that, didn’t it.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“And the rest of the time the little girl stayed with him . . . the rest of the time you stayed with him . . .”
“He raped me,” Laurie screamed. “I never knew when it would happen, but always after we sang the songs in the rocking chair he took me upstairs. Always then. Always then. He hurt me so much.”
Justin rushed to comfort the sobbing girl. “It’s okay,” he said. “Just tell me this. Was it your fault?”
“He was so big. I tried to fight him. I couldn’t make him stop,” she shrieked. “I couldn’t make him stop.”
It was the moment to ask. “Was Opal there?”
“She’s his wife.”
Laurie gasped and bit her lip. Her eyes narrowed.
“Doctor, I told you that was a forbidden word.” The nine-year-old boy would not allow any more memories to escape that day.
104
ON AUGUST 17, while Gregg took Laurie to dinner and a play, Sarah and Brendon went to Newark Airport. They arrived at 8:55. “This is approximately the time Karen Grant and Anne Webster got here the night Allan Grant died,” Moody told Sarah as they drove into the parking area. “The plane their client was on was more than three hours late, as were a lot of other planes that night. That means that the parking lot would be pretty full. Anne Webster said they had to walk quite a distance to the terminal.”
Deliberately he parked his car almost at the end of the facility. “It’s a pretty good hike to the United terminal,” he observed. “Let’s clock it at a normal pace. It should take five minutes at least.”
Sarah nodded. She had told herself not to grasp at straws, not to be like so many family members of defendants she had prosecuted. Denial. Their husband or daughter or sister or brother was incapable of committing a crime, they’d argue. Even in the face of overwhelming evidence they’d be convinced there’d been some kind of horrible mistake.
But when she’d talked to Justin, he had been cautiously encouraging about Moody’s theory that Karen Grant had both the opportunity and the motive to kill her husband. He said that he was beginning to accept the possibility that Laurie had no more than the four alter personalities they had met, all of whom consistently told him that Laurie was innocent.
As Sarah walked with Moody into the air-conditioned terminal, she welcomed the coolness and the relief from the muggy mid-August evening. The check-in lines reminded her of the wonderful trip to Italy she and Laurie had taken with their parents a little more than a year ago. Now it seemed as if that had been several lifetimes ago, she thought sadly.
“Remember, it was only after Karen Grant and Mrs. Webster got here that they learned the computer system had gone down and the plane was rescheduled for twelve-thirty arrival.” Moody paused as he looked up at the listings of arrivals and departures. “What’s your reaction if you’re Karen Grant and edgy about your relationship with your husband? Maybe more than edgy if when you phoned him he’d told you he wanted a divorce?”
An image of Karen Grant came to Sarah’s mind. In all these months she’d thought of Karen Grant as a grieving widow. In court at Laurie’s plea bargain she’d been wearing black. It was odd, Sarah thought now as she remembered the scene. Maybe she was carrying it a bit far—not many people in their early thir
ties wear black as a sign of mourning anymore.
Sarah remarked on this fact to Brendon as they walked toward the VIP lounge. He nodded. “The widow Grant is always playing a part, and it shows. We know she and Anne Webster went up to the lounge and had a drink. The movie Spartacus started at nine o’clock that night on The Movie Channel. The receptionist who was here that night is on duty now,” he told Sarah. “We’ll talk to her.”
The receptionist did not remember the night of January 28, but she did know and like Anne Webster. “I’ve been on the job ten years,” she explained, “and I’ve never known a better travel agent. Only problem with Anne Webster is that whenever she kills time here, she takes over the television. She always puts on one of the movie stations and gets mighty stubborn if someone else wants to watch the news or something.”
“Real problem,” Brendon said sympathetically.
The receptionist laughed. “Oh, not really. I always tell the people who want to watch something different to just wait five minutes. Anne Webster can conk out faster than anyone I know. And once she’s asleep, we change the channel.”
* * *
They drove from the airport to Clinton. On the way, Moody theorized. “Let’s say Karen was hanging around the airport that night, getting more and more worried that she can’t talk her husband out of wanting a divorce. Webster is either engrossed in a movie or asleep and won’t miss her. The plane won’t be in until twelve-thirty.”
“So she got in her car and went home,” Sarah said.
“Exactly. Assume she let herself into the house with her key and went to the bedroom. Allan was asleep. Karen saw Laurie’s tote bag and the knife and realized that if he were found stabbed to death, Laurie would be blamed for it.”
On the way they discussed the fact that the subpoena to the bank in Chicago had not, so far, helped them.
The account had been opened in the name of Jane Graves, using an address in the Bahamas that turned out to be another mail drop. The deposit had been a draft from a numbered bank account in Switzerland.
“Almost impossible to get any information about Swiss depositors,” Brendon said. “I’m inclined to think now that it was Karen Grant who hired Danny. She may have been stashing some of Allan Grant’s trust fund away, and as a travel agent, she knows her way around.”
When they reached Clinton, the realtor’s sign was still on the lawn of Allan Grant’s home.
They sat in the car for several minutes, looking at the house. “It could happen. It makes sense,” Sarah said. “But how do we prove it?”
“I talked to the secretary, Connie Santini, again today,” Moody said. “She confirms everything we know. Karen Grant was living her own life exactly as she wanted to live it, using Allan Grant’s income as a personal allowance. Putting on a show as the grieving widow, but it is a show. Her spirits have never been better, according to the secretary. I want you with me on August twenty-sixth when Anne Webster gets back from Australia. We’re going to talk to that lady together.”
“August twenty-sixth,” Sarah said. “Five days before Laurie goes to prison.”
105
“IT’S THE LAST WEEK,” Laurie told Justin Donnelly on August 24.
He watched as she leaned back on the couch, her hands clasped behind her head.
“Yesterday was fun, wasn’t it, Justin? I’m sorry. I’d rather call you Doctor in here.”
“It was fun. You really are a terrific golfer, Laurie. You beat us all hands down.”
“Even Gregg. Well, I’ll be out of practice soon enough. Last night I was awake for a long time. I was thinking about that day when I was kidnapped. I could see myself in my pink bathing suit, going down the driveway to watch the people in the funeral procession. I thought it was a parade.
“When the man picked me up, I was still holding my music box. That song keeps going through my head . . . ‘Eastside, westside, all around the town . . . Boys and girls together . . .’ ” She stopped.
Justin waited quietly.
“When the man with the hairy arms put me in the car, I asked him where we were going. The music box was still playing.”
“Did anything special bring on those thoughts?”
“Maybe. Last night after you and Gregg left, Sarah and I sat up for a long time talking about that day. I told her that when we drove past the corner house, the one that was that ugly pink color, old Mrs. Whelan was on the porch. Isn’t it funny to remember something like that?”
“Not really. All the memories are there. Once they’re all out, the fear that they cause will go away.”
“ ‘Boys and girls together . . .” ’ Laurie sang softly. “That’s why the others came to be with me. We were boys and girls together.”
“Boys? Laurie, is there another boy?”
Laurie swung her feet off the couch. One hand began smacking the other. “No, Doctor. There’s only me.” The young voice dropped to a whisper. “She didn’t need anyone else. I always sent her away when Bic hurt her.”
Justin had not caught the whispered name.
“Who hurt her?”
“Oh, gee,” the boy alter said. “I didn’t mean to tell. I’m glad you didn’t hear me.”
After the session, Justin Donnelly reminded himself that even though he had not been able to hear the name the boy alter had unintentionally said aloud, it was very near the surface. It would come out again.
But next week at this time Laurie would be in prison. She’d be lucky if she saw a counselor every few months.
Justin knew that many of his colleagues did not believe in multiple personality disorder.
106
ANNE WEBSTER and her husband returned from their trip early on August 26. Moody managed to reach Webster at noon and persuaded her to see him and Sarah immediately. When they arrived in Bronxville, Webster was unexpectedly direct. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the night Allan died,” she said. “You know nobody likes to feel like a fool. I let Karen get away with claiming that she hadn’t moved the car. But you know something? I have proof that she did.”
Moody’s head tilted up. Sarah’s lips went dry. “What kind of proof, Mrs. Webster?” she asked.
“I told you that Karen was upset on the drive to the airport. Something I didn’t remember to tell you was that she snapped at me when I pointed out that she was very low on gas. Well she didn’t get any on the way to the airport and she didn’t get any on the way back from the airport and she didn’t get any the next morning when I drove down to Clinton with her.”
“Do you know if Karen Grant charges her gas, or pays cash?” Moody asked.
Webster smiled grimly. “You can bet if she bought gas that night it went on the company credit card.”
“Where would last January’s statements be?”
“In the office. Karen will never let me march in and go through the files, but Connie will do it if I ask. I’ll give her a call.”
She talked at length to her former secretary. When she hung up she said, “You’re in luck. Karen’s at an outing American Airlines is sponsoring today. Connie will be glad to look up the statements. She’s mad clean through. She asked for a raise, and Karen turned her down.”
* * *
On the way to New York, Moody warned Sarah, “You know of course that even if we could prove Karen Grant had been in the Clinton area that night there isn’t a shred of proof that links her with her husband’s death.”
“I know,” Sarah told him. “But Brendon, there must be something tangible we can put our hands on.”
* * *
Connie Santini had a triumphant smile for them. “January statement from an Exxon station just off Route 78 and four miles from Clinton,” she said, “and a copy of the receipt with Karen’s signature. Boy, I’m going to quit this job. She’s so darn cheap. I didn’t take a raise all last year because business wasn’t good. Now it’s really picking up and she still won’t part with an extra cent. I’ll tell you this: She spends more money on jewelry than I make in a y
ear.”
Santini pointed across the lobby to L. Crown Jeweler. “She shops over there the way some people go to the cosmetics counter. But she’s cheap with them too. The very day her husband died she’d bought a bracelet, then lost it. She had me on my hands and knees searching for it. When the call came about Allan she was in Crown’s raising hell that the bracelet had a lousy clasp. She’d lost it again. This time for good. Listen, there was nothing wrong with the clasp. She just didn’t take the time to fasten it right, but you can be sure she made them replace it.”
A bracelet, Sarah thought, a bracelet! In Allan Grant’s bedroom the day of the plea bargain, Laurie, or rather, the boy alter, had acted out picking up something and shoving it in his pocket. It never occurred to me that the bracelet found with Laurie’s bloodstained jeans might not be one of her own, she thought. I never asked to see it.
“Miss Santini, you’ve been a great help,” Moody told her. “Will you be here for a little while?”
“Until five. I don’t give her one extra minute.”
“That’s fine.”
A young clerk was behind the counter of L. Crown Jewelers. Impressed by Moody’s insinuation that he was from an insurance company and wanted to inquire about a certain lost bracelet, the clerk willingly looked up the records.
“Oh yes, sir. Mrs. Grant purchased a bracelet on January twenty-eighth. It was a new design from our showroom, twisted gold with silver going through it, giving the effect of diamonds. Quite lovely. It cost fifteen hundred dollars. But I don’t understand why she’d put in a claim for it. We replaced it for her. She came in the next morning, most upset. She was sure it had fallen off her wrist shortly after she bought it.”
“Why was she so sure of that?”
“Because she told us it had slipped off once at her desk before she lost it for good. Frankly, sir, the problem was that it had a new kind of catch, very secure, but not if you don’t take the time to fasten it properly.”