Find Her

  He rattled off the gym’s location.

  “Thank you, Neil.” Then, not even grudgingly, “And you too, Carol.”

  D.D. hung up the phone; then she and Keynes were on the move.

  Chapter 47

  I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU,” Lindy singsongs as she pads across the landing, through the right-hand doorway, deeper into the building after me.

  I flee first. Forcing myself away from a locked door into the rest of the building. I think I’m in a living room. I can just make out the shape of a sofa, table, chairs. Maybe a ground-floor apartment, long and narrow. I try to create some kind of blueprint in my mind to guide me as I creep deeper into the gloom. The windows here must be boarded up as well. It’s the only way to explain the total darkness.

  I make it through a second doorway into another shadowed hall. I halt on the other side, my back pressed against the wall. I still have my shard of glass from the broken window. I clutch it to my chest and try to get my breathing under control before the sound of my own panic gives me away.

  Time to focus. Time to pull it together. I’m not Jacob’s terrified little mouse anymore.

  I’m a woman with promises left to keep.

  “I read all about your last day with my dad,” Lindy is saying now. Her voice comes from behind me, in the first room, I think, near the sofa. “Bullet through the head. Did he beg for you to do it? I knew if they caught him, he was never going back.”

  I don’t say anything. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

  I’m not tired. I’m not hungry. I’m not cold.

  I am okay.

  “I worried in the beginning. Thought the police might come looking for me. So I disappeared for a bit. Spent some time in Texas, Alabama, California. Saw more of the country. I figured Jacob would approve.”

  Her voice is closer.

  Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I can do this.

  “But you didn’t tell them about me, did you, Flora? You kept our time together to yourself. Our special little secret.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, bite my lower lip to silence the whimper. She’s right. I never told. Not that piece of the puzzle. The shame? The horror? I don’t know. But all survivors have their secrets. Things we can’t say out loud because that makes what happened too real, not just to other people but especially to ourselves.

  Samuel suspected something. He dangled bait during our initial sessions. But I never gave in.

  No one wants to be a monster.

  And certainly, no one wants to talk about it later.

  “I thought I would let you go,” Lindy continues now. She’s drifted to the left. Not moving forward, but now into the kitchen area, prowling around the table and chairs.

  “But I just couldn’t. The fact you were still alive and doing well, while Jacob . . . I don’t expect you to understand, but I know that you, of all people, realize just how special Jacob’s and my relationship was. No one ever knew me the way he did. And no one ever accepted him the way I did. He was my father, and I was his Lindy, a special nickname he made up just for me, first time he saw me. Natalie belonged to my mother. But Lindy . . . I was his. And you, little bitch, had no right to take him from me.”

  Her voice so close it’s nearly in my ear. She’s right behind me. Other side of the wall, I realize. No more breathing. I suck in all the air, hold it in my lungs, will myself not to make a sound.

  “Last year, I decided it was time to get serious; I came looking for you. Paid a visit to your mother’s farm. She was easy enough to track down using the Internet. Did she ever tell you that, mention an old friend who stopped by? She’s a tight one. No matter what I tried, she wouldn’t answer any questions about you. Best I could get is that you lived in Boston. So I decided to move here too. Why not? Nice change of a pace for a southern girl like me. I got a job, prepared to settle in while I continued to look for you, and then . . .

  “I met him. Devon. A man who didn’t even know what kind of man he was. But I knew. I recognized him immediately. And then, it was easy enough to bring him along. I set up the house, I let him make me its first occupant. Then I sent him in search of more playmates. Because a girl like me has certain appetites. As you know better than anyone.”

  I shake uncontrollably. I hate the response. Primal. Visceral. But the more she talks, the more it all comes back. Those terrible nights. The noises, the taste of bile.

  I’m not okay, I’m not okay, I’m not okay.

  I’m Molly again, and I’m not going to make it.

  “You killed him too. Didn’t you? I went to Devon’s house Saturday morning. He never stopped by after work, never called. I knew he was getting restless. I had told him he had to lie low after getting caught on video. Sloppy! We had to rein things in, keep it tight. But that’s the problem with trained dogs—sometimes they fight the leash. So I went to Devon’s house to check up on him, and what did I discover? All those police cars, the crime scene tape. You. I saw you sitting in the back of the patrol car, garbage smeared all over your face. And just like that, I knew what you’d cost me. Again.

  “Did you really think I’d just let you go? Walk away a second time? That I wouldn’t follow you back to your place? That I wouldn’t hang out on the fire escape, waiting until your landlords had stepped out to come back down, pick the lock to their apartment, and steal the master keys? Then, when all was quiet, I unlocked the door and walked straight into your apartment. A little chloroform cocktail to disorient, a quick shot of sedative to knock you out completely, and that was that. I replaced the keys in your landlord’s apartment, then hustled you down to my own personal taxi. I drive it at nights. The perfect way to earn extra cash while cruising the streets for fresh opportunities.

  “No one notices a taxi driver. No one even questions one loading a stumbling, disoriented woman into the back of the cab. Poor thing is drunk; good thing a taxi is taking her home.

  “Now, everything is exactly as Daddy would’ve wanted it to be. You and me together again. Except this time, I’m the one with the gun, and you’re the one who will never leave.

  “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine,” Lindy whispers, and just like that, she’s in the doorway, right beside me. I don’t need light to know there’s a smile on her face.

  No more thinking. No planning. No preparation.

  She might have found me first, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t know this day was coming.

  I slice the piece of jagged glass across her face.

  She screams.

  I turn and bolt down the hall.

  * * *

  D.D. DROVE. In terms of distance, it wasn’t far from the nightclub to South Boston. Through narrow winding streets and way too many red lights, she careened, fishtailed, and flashed her lights. Keynes gripped the oh-shit handle above the door but didn’t say a word.

  She found her way to the tenement housing from memory. Once upon a time, in the days of Whitey Bulger, this section of Boston had belonged to the Irish. It had been a hub of gangland activity, drugs, and poverty. In the 1990s, however, rent control had ended, forcing many low-income families from the area while the demand for waterfront real estate led to a nearly overnight gentrification. But before there could be progress, first there had to be demo. Which had been long and ongoing, with at least one stretch of boarded-up former tenement houses shuttered away behind a chain-link fence, still awaiting its fate.

  She came to the fencing first. Drove around looking for a gate, discovered two other patrol cars already parked in front. An officer looked up as she pulled in. He held up a chain in front of her headlights. Enough for her to see the padlock was missing.

  Meaning they weren’t the first people to be accessing the property.

  D.D. killed her lights; then she and Keynes climbed out of the car, approached the other officers. She could hear sirens in the distance, other units responding to th
e call. She frowned.

  Currently, Natalie Draga was holed up with at least two kidnapping victims. Broadcast the police’s approach and she might spook, leading to a hostage situation or worse.

  This would have to be a stealth operation all the way. Like the SWAT team raid against Jacob Ness, who hadn’t had a clue until the first tear gas canister shattered his motel window.

  D.D. got on the radio, made the call. Thirty seconds later, the distant sirens cut off abruptly, and only the sound of the approaching engines remained. Better.

  She gathered the four officers. One of them reported having found an abandoned taxi just up the street. Otherwise, all appeared quiet and they had yet to see anyone enter the property.

  D.D. nodded. The abandoned housing project was large. Six, seven massive brick buildings, all featuring boarded-up windows and crumbling facades. God knew about structural integrity, let alone what else they’d find inside. Squatters, drug addicts, rodents of all sizes. This would take finesse.

  “We’ll work in teams of two. Start at the perimeter, work your way to the center. Classic grid search. Look for any trace of light coming from the edges of a window, footprints in the dust, recently disturbed entrances, picked locks, that sort of thing. Don’t approach on your own. Just recon. We have at least two victims trapped somewhere inside, and a suspect with nothing to lose. We need to control the situation first, not escalate.”

  Officers nodded, snapped on flashlights, and prepared to enter.

  D.D. walked back with Keynes to her vehicle. She kept her voice low. “Want to wait in the car?”

  “No.”

  “Got a vest?”

  “I’m hoping you have a spare.”

  She paused. “You have any fieldwork training?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Because, um . . .” She stumbled over the words, couldn’t help herself. “I’m on restricted duty. I don’t have a sidearm. I can shoot, though. I mean, I’ve been practicing. Just the standard two-handed stance is a little tricky with my shoulder right now. But straight on. I can do it. I can.”

  He seemed to understand what she saying. “I have a backup piece. Thirty-eight.”

  “Trade you for my shotgun?”

  “Makes sense.”

  She popped open the trunk of her vehicle, where she had supplies for tactical situations, including an extra vest and a gun locker.

  “So,” he said conversationally, as they geared up, “a wounded detective and a federal PhD.”

  “Best cavalry ever,” she assured him.

  “We’d better get it right because the paperwork alone will make us both wish we were dead.”

  D.D. smiled, tried to pretend her hands weren’t shaking. What had Phil said, she needed to rely more on her team? Well, she’d communicated. This wasn’t her entering alone. She had officers in front, a feebie at her side, and backup on its way.

  She was learning, adapting.

  Still, taking Keynes’s .38, a gun that used to feel so natural in her grasp . . .

  She pictured Jack. She pictured Alex. She promised herself she’d return home to them soon enough.

  Then, she followed Keynes into the abandoned housing complex.

  Chapter 48

  THE FIRST BULLET WINGS OVER MY SHOULDER. I duck reflexively, veering right as drywall explodes to my left. A second shot, third, fourth.

  She’s laughing as she pulls the trigger. Maybe not even aiming, but enjoying the show as I dart right, then left, then right, flinching and ducking. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder, to see how close I am to impending death. Instead, I keep on trucking, bare feet pounding down the debris-littered corridor.

  In self-defense class, a teacher had advised us to flee if ever confronted by someone with a gun. Apparently it’s astonishingly difficult to hit a moving target. At least, your odds of survival are higher running from a shooting gunman than, say, getting into a car with him and driving to a remote location where he can do exactly what he wants.

  So I sprint. Chest heaving. Elbows tucked tight, head ducked low, trying to make myself a smaller target. My foot hits something sharp, then something stabbing. There’s no time to pause, pick out slivers of wood or, worse, pieces of glass. I keep on running, transitioning from a relatively domesticated section of the building to some kind of construction zone, the smell of dust and neglect heavier in the air. The hall is too dark for me to see where I’m going or adjust my footsteps to avoid the sharpest objects.

  More shots fired.

  I run for my life.

  Doorway to the right. I careen through it without a second thought, intent on getting out of the line of fire. Only afterward does it occur to me it might be a bedroom or, worse, a bathroom. A room with no exit where I’d be trapped.

  But in this case, it appears to be yet another common room. I’ve given up on my theory of being trapped in a traditional Boston triple-decker. The structure is too vast. Too many hallways, too many rooms. Not a warehouse or commercial building because the rooms are small. Maybe a group home? Abandoned, undergoing renovations, something.

  I should stop, get my bearings, but I can’t think anymore. I sprint down dark hallways, leap through dark spaces, like a deer through the woods.

  I might be crying, which is stupid. Last thing I need to do right now is make any undue noise.

  I crash through another doorway, step on something sharp, and feel it slice deeply into the ball of my foot. I can’t help myself. I draw up short, hopping on one leg, biting my lower lip against the scream.

  Belatedly, I flatten myself against the wall. Will myself to stand still.

  Breathe. Think. Breathe.

  I can’t keep running pell-mell through a maze of sharp objects and unknown spaces, waiting to become trapped, shot, killed. I need to come up with a strategy. Something worthy of taking on a homicidal maniac armed with a gun.

  A woman who’s been waiting five years to destroy me.

  Though, to be fair, I’ve been waiting five years to kill her too.

  My breathing is ragged. I force myself to inhale deeply, try to smooth out my racing pulse so I can listen for the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Then, I concentrate on thinking.

  Lindy. She’s here. In Boston. She tracked me down. Visited my mother’s farm. Found me at Devon Goulding’s house. Then followed me back to my highly secure apartment, where she broke in using my landlord’s keys. Neat trick, that. It had never occurred to me that for all my extra bolts, my landlords would remain the weak link. But yes. Their own approach to locking up is haphazard at this stage of their lives. And once she had their keys . . .

  Lindy. In my apartment. Lindy bringing me back here to finish what Jacob had started.

  I want her dead. The flatness of the thought, the direct, compelling need, grounds me, further calms my breathing.

  I’ve hated her since the first time I saw Jacob watching her. Since she threw her arms around him in welcome. Since they sat on the sofa, heads nearly touching.

  Then, her forcing me to go out, approach that woman in the bar.

  I don’t think about that night, or any of the others that followed. I don’t talk about her, Jacob, what they made me do. No, I save those memories for my nightmares, where all these years later, I still wake up screaming.

  Jacob made me roll the bodies from his rig to the marshy grass alongside the road. Then he made me sit and watch till the gators discovered the unexpected treats.

  He never said a word. Just watched me with eyes that told me someday this would be my fate. Except Lindy would be the one to roll my body out the door, and she’d be clapping gleefully as the local wildlife came to feed.

  Lindy. Here in Boston.

  Lindy. Somewhere in the dark behind me.

  When I took the first self-defense class, I’m sure my mother assumed
it was the Jacobs of the world I was practicing taking down. I never corrected her. Never told her that every time I blocked and kicked, it was a slightly older, astonishingly beautiful opponent I pictured in my head. That when I handled my first firearm, it was her face I imagined as the target.

  I’ve been practicing killing Lindy for five years now. Each time I set out on a mission, I even told myself that if I could pull this off, maybe it would mean I was ready for Florida. Except, of course, I never quite accepted that answer. There was always one more thing for me to attend to up here, then, of course, Stacey Summers. I couldn’t just leave Stacey Summers.

  Now, here I am. I don’t have to find Lindy after all. Lindy has found me.

  And I’m a shaking quivering mass all over again. She has a gun. I have a jagged piece of window glass. She is . . . Lindy. And I’m . . . not Molly, I have to remind myself. Not Molly, not Molly, not Molly.

  Except, of course, I feel that helpless all over again.

  I need a plan. Kill Lindy, slay the beast, and maybe, maybe, I can come home again.

  And bring Stacey Summers with me.

  I don’t think of the motel room anymore. I don’t think of that final day, the weight of Jacob’s gun in my hand, the echo of my promise in his ear, or the sticky feel of his brains in my hair.

  I picture my mom. The way she looked standing in my kitchen the other morning. Proud and resigned, caring and reserved. The mother who still loves me, even knowing her daughter has never truly returned.

  I want to go home now. I want to throw my arms around my mother and her ridiculous flannel shirts. I want to hug her, and even if it doesn’t feel like how it felt before, I want to appreciate how it feels now.

  I don’t want to survive anymore.

  I want to live.