First a whisper. Then louder, steadier. Then . . . maybe I ended in a scream.
I don’t really remember, to tell you the truth. It was like an out-of-body experience. All this horror I had to get out of me, and the only way to do that was to talk and talk and talk.
When I finally reached the end, midnight, small hours of the morning, Samuel staggered to his feet. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat. He didn’t look so beautiful anymore.
His breath was ragged, as if he himself had just completed a long, hard race.
He made it to the bathroom. I listened to him vomit.
When he returned, however, his gleaming bald head was polished, his features once again composed.
He took my hand. He held it.
And I slept. Hours and hours, maybe even an entire day. I finally slept. When I woke up, my mother and brother were there and the real business of returning to the land of the living began.
I kept my word that day. I’ve never told my story again. Not to the detectives, not to the rabid prosecutor, not to my own mother. Samuel must’ve turned in a report; that was his job after all. I’ve never asked. I’ve never read it. I said all I had to say, all I could say, once, and then it was done.
The nice thing about my captor, Jacob Ness, being dead is that there’s no one to rebut. My story is the story.
And both Samuel and I know it.
“Why did you go out last night?” Samuel asks me now. He eases up on the accelerator; we’re nearing my Arlington apartment.
“I’m a young, single woman. People my age are supposed to go out at night.”
“Alone to a bar?”
“The band was excellent.”
He cast me a look.
“I didn’t lie to the police,” I hear myself say. “The bartender was as much a surprise to me as everyone else. If I hadn’t been there . . .”
Samuel pauses a beat. Shrinks love a good waiting game.
“You killed a man.”
“Please. That Goulding guy would’ve attacked someone else, and that girl would now be dead. I saved a life last night.”
“And saving this abstract girl has value?”
“Absolutely!”
“What about your own life? Doesn’t it have value?”
I roll my eyes. I totally set him up for that one and we both know it. “You can’t count that as a display of superior intellect,” I inform him. “More like basic reflex.”
He ignores my sarcasm, continues more pointedly: “I believe your mother would argue that, given a choice between worrying about you and worrying about a stranger, she’d prefer to know you’re safe.”
I don’t have anything to say to that. Or maybe I have too much. Such as, what does it matter? I could stay in every night for the rest of my life and my mother still wouldn’t be happy. In fact, maybe she’d be better off if I finally did go out and meet a grand demise. Get the waiting game over with. Because, as my mother will tell you, there are worse things than having your daughter abducted.
There’s getting her back and realizing you’ve lost her after all.
“You shouldn’t have called her,” I say now.
“But you knew I would.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Just ask Devon Goulding?”
“I did what I had to do!”
“No,” Samuel retaliates just as sharply. “You set up what you wanted. There’s a difference.”
I fall back into silence. We arrive at the three-story brownstone that houses my single-bedroom apartment. Samuel pulls into the driveway—temporary parking and a signal that he’s not staying, just dropping me off.
“The local police are looking at you now,” he says quietly.
“Nah. That was just posturing. Blondie didn’t have a real perpetrator to arrest, so naturally she toyed with me. But I’m telling you, by the time they’re done shaking down that house, they’ll find evidence of other victims. Then, they’ll have real work to do and I’ll fall by the wayside, just a curious footnote in the case file.”
Samuel looks at me. He has deep dark eyes fringed by heavy lashes. I imagine women must fall in love with him every day, gazing into those eyes, fantasizing about him staring back at them just as soulfully.
It’s a bunch of effort wasted on a man who never does anything but work.
“You survived,” he tells me now, “by doing what you had to do. By adapting. That’s the nature of survival, Flora, and you know it.”
I don’t say anything.
“You’re strong and that helped you, but this doesn’t have to define you. You are a young woman with your whole life ahead of you. Don’t confuse what you had to do to survive with who you are.”
“A woman who takes on rapists?”
“Is that how you see yourself?”
He’s waiting. He wants a better definition, a deeper look into myself. Am I a vigilante? A self-destructive freak? How about a self-defense enthusiast?
Maybe I’m all of those things. Maybe I’m none of those things.
Maybe I’m a girl who once upon a time thought of the world as a shiny, happy place.
And now . . .
I’m a girl who went missing too many years ago. And remained away from home and from herself for way too long.
“My mother’s waiting,” I say.
And he smiles, because Samuel, of all people, understands exactly what I mean.
“Sorry about your seat,” I say as I climb out of his car.
“Don’t worry, I’m going to take it out and burn it.”
My turn to smile.
“Are you working with Stacey Summers’s family?” I ask him abruptly.
He shakes his head. “Are you?” he asks evenly.
“You know that’s not my style.”
“But you’re following her case.”
“Isn’t everyone?”
Samuel flexes his hands on the wheel. “Do you think he did it?” he asks abruptly. “Do you think the man you just killed is the same person who kidnapped Stacey Summers in August?”
“I want to think that.”
“So you can feel better about what you did.”
“No. Opposite, in fact. If he’s the one who attacked Stacey . . . He’s dead now. Not exactly in a position to lead the police to her body. It’d be better, in fact, if it wasn’t him. At least for her family.”
“So why are you asking about Stacey Summers?”
I open my mouth. I close my mouth. There are things I can’t say, not even to Samuel.
I glance up, my gaze going to the top window of the brownstone and the outline of my mother waiting for me there.
“Thank you, Samuel,” I hear myself say.
I close the door. He backs out of the driveway.
Then, my real work begins.
Chapter 10
DEPUTY SUPERINTENDENT OF HOMICIDE Cal Horgan, a.k.a. D.D.’s boss, stood in her doorway.
“Heard you got a live one,” he said.
“We’re still working the scene, but yeah, at first blush . . . The deceased, Devon Goulding, was most likely a serial predator. We recovered two driver’s licenses, not to mention a cache of photos, which seems to indicate other victims.”
“Stacey Summers?” Horgan asked immediately, the missing college student being first and foremost on most law enforcement agents’ minds.
Given the terrible abduction video and urgent nature, the Summers case had gone straight to “red ball” status, detective-speak for all hands on deck. While D.D. wasn’t the lead investigator, she’d spent the first week of the girl’s disappearance conducting interviews and combing through reports with the rest of her colleagues. Her biggest contribution: spending several days interrogating the girl’s boyfriend. All she got out of it was a young man’s horror.
Though Patrick Vaughn and Stacey had been dating only a matter of months, he was clearly smitten. Far from playing it cool, he’d broken down several times. Stacey was such a sweet girl. The real deal. Thoughtful, considerate, the kind of girl who’d never dream of running off or doing anything to hurt her family.
If she’d gone missing, then only the worst could’ve happened.
There were days it was good to be cop. When you got to browbeat some lowlife schmuck into a righteous confession. Then, there were the days you made a clean-cut nineteen-year-old college boy cry.
D.D. hadn’t loved that day on the job. Or, frankly, anything that had to do with the Stacey Summers case. They could place the girl at a local bar, where she’d gone to hang out with half a dozen female friends. Two beers under her belt, probably a little buzzed as she wasn’t a big drinker, she’d excused herself to use the restroom.
Next thing anyone knew, a local business’s security camera had captured video of the petite blonde being forcefully led away by a hulking male, face hidden from view. After that, nothing at all.
Not a single eyewitness, not another video frame. In a city heavily populated by nosy people and observant cameras, 105-pound Stacey Summers ceased to exist.
“I’m told this Devon Goulding was a big guy,” Horgan was saying now. “Pumped-up. Steroid-sculpted. Sounds like our camera man.”
“Size is right,” D.D. agreed. “MO . . . last night’s victim he grabbed by the arm and dragged away. According to her, Goulding’s posture, the way he looked away from the cameras, reminded her of the Summers abduction video.”
“So we got a lead?” Horgan pressed, half impatient, half hopeful. D.D. understood his pain. If Boston PD as an organization was under pressure to find cute, perky, never-hurt-a-fly Stacey Summers, then Horgan, as the deputy superintendent of homicide, was feeling personally responsible. Welcome to the chain of command.
“I’m not convinced.”
“Why not?”
“Assuming the two licenses we recovered tie to past victims, there’s nothing linking back to Stacey Summers. We also found photographs consistent with one of the females from the licenses, Natalie Draga, but again, no evidence of Stacey Summers.”
“But you have at least two possible victims?”
“Natalie Draga and Kristy Kilker. According to Mrs. Kilker, her daughter is currently studying abroad in Italy.”
Horgan arched a brow.
“We’re working on corroborating that now,” she assured him. “Same with Natalie Draga. Her driver’s license is from Alabama. We’re tracking down her family there.”
“So you don’t know if these two women are missing or not.”
“No, sir.”
“But you know he attacked a third girl, the one who burned him.”
“You mean the one who killed him?”
Horgan shrugged. Apparently a dead alleged rapist didn’t bother him much. D.D. knew many on the force who would agree.
“I have some concerns about this ‘new victim,’ Florence Dane.”
Horgan frowned. D.D. watched him mentally work his way back from the initial spark of name recognition, then: “You’re kidding. Florence Dane? The Boston girl who was kidnapped in Florida? Held for over a year? That Florence Dane?”
“Seems since her reentry into society, she’s made criminal behavior a bit of a hobby. Last night’s attack marks her fourth instance of ‘self-defense’ in the past three years.”
Horgan closed his eyes. “That’s not going to look good. Something like that . . . Goulding’s family could argue she set him up. And suddenly, instead of us happily announcing there’s one less predator in Boston, let alone possibly closing out two missing persons cases, we’re going to have to investigate a rapist as a victim?”
“Exactly.”
“What do you have to corroborate Florence Dane’s version of events?”
“Bruises on Flora’s face. Eyewitness accounts from the neighbors that she was discovered naked and bound in Goulding’s garage. Other testimonies from the bar where Devon worked that Flora didn’t even talk to him last night, but was hanging out with some other loser, whom Devon punched in the face.”
“Okay. Sounds promising.”
D.D. shrugged. Winced at the corresponding stabbing pain in her shoulder, then quickly recovered. “I don’t like it,” she stated bluntly. “The overall pattern of behavior . . . Flora Dane’s good deeds are going to hurt us. Especially if it turns out nothing happened to those other girls, if it’s just Flora’s testimony on Devon Goulding’s ‘true nature’ and his actions last night . . . The Gouldings could make the case she baited their son. That, given her past trauma, she sees predators everywhere and took the law in her own hands.”
“Isn’t that a Hitchcock movie?”
“Twilight Zone episode. Look, four instances of self-defense is more than bad luck; it’s a pattern of bad behavior. And given the latest episode ended in a man’s death, you can argue her behavior is escalating.”
“Meaning what?”
D.D. stared at her superior officer. “Meaning we should charge her!”
“With what?”
“Reckless conduct. Why not? She set in motion the chain of events that led to Goulding’s death. She should be held accountable.”
“I see restricted duty hasn’t made you go soft.”
“Cal, it’s not her job to police the world. It’s ours. We know what we’re doing. She, on the other hand, is a threat to herself and others. Not to mention, last night she potentially screwed up at least two other investigations.”
“How do you figure?”
“She killed Devon Goulding. Meaning if he did do something to Natalie Draga and/or Kristy Kilker, now what? Where are their bodies? What happened to them? I’d ask him, but oh yeah, he’s dead. Meaning what the hell do we have to bring back to the families? Here’s your daughter’s driver’s license—hope that’s good enough? Frankly, of all people, Flora Dane should know better.”
“Tell her that?” Horgan asked evenly.
“Waiting to get more information on the two women. Then I’ll bring it up.”
“You’re definitely going to interview her again.”
“In my mind, this party is only starting.”
“D.D. . . .” Her boss hesitated. “I know you pride yourself on being firm in your opinions. It’s one of the things that ensures working with you is never boring. But Flora Dane . . . You might want to pull her case file. There’s a good reason for her to see predators everywhere. Certainly, she spent more than a year getting a master class in criminal behavior.”
“Now you sound like her shrink. I’m sorry, her victim advocate. Seriously, the girl basically has her own FBI agent on a leash. Never seen anything like it.”
“All right. Plenty of questions ahead. But first, if you don’t mind: Go home, D.D. Shower. What’s that smell anyway?”
“Human barbecue. Or maybe rotten garbage?”
Her boss shook his head. “Clean up. We’ll have to do a press briefing in time for the evening news cycle. For now, keep it simple. Looking for information regarding Natalie Draga and Kristy Kilker, or anyone else who may have known Devon Goulding. No mention of Stacey Summers. No mention of Florence Dane.”
D.D. rolled her eyes at him. “Now who wants the impossible?”
Horgan flashed her a smile, then disappeared down the hall, leaving D.D. with mounds of paperwork and the smell of crime scene still lingering in her hair.
* * *
SHE WENT HOME. Given it was Saturday, Alex was home with four-year-old Jack. She discovered them sprawled on the living room floor, engaged in a fierce game of Candy Land. Jack was less interested in winning the game than he was in drawing the various character cards. Jolly was his favorite, and he’d been known to stash the card bearing the big blue gumdrop in his pocket or up his sl
eeve.
Alex glanced up from the game board. He gave her a welcoming smile, even as he sniffed the air.
Jack, on the other hand, came flying off the floor and flung himself around her legs. “Mommy, mommy, mommy.”
No doubt about it, that never got old. D.D. ruffled his brown hair with her right hand, as her left arm had stiffened even further on the drive home. She was holding it protectively against her side, and sure enough . . .
“What’d you do?” Alex asked.
“Long night,” she offered. Jack was still hugging her. She hugged him back.
Alex was no dumb bunny. “Paperwork doesn’t require long nights. Paperwork can generally be reviewed in the morning.”
“Big case,” she mumbled. “Perpetrator found . . . incapacitated . . . in his own garage. With ties to other victims.”
“Inca-what?” Jack asked.
“Incapacitated. Means he can’t play Candy Land anymore.”
“I have Jolly,” Jack announced, and sure enough, he whipped the gumdrop card from beneath his sweater sleeve.
“Hey,” Alex complained. “I’ve been looking for that.”
“Nuh-uh. You like Gramma Nutt. Everyone knows that.”
“Gramma Nutt advances you further on the board than big blue gumdrops,” Alex muttered. “And saying I want Princess Frostine sounds funny.”
“I’m home just to clean up and eat,” D.D. announced, tone apologetic. Jack’s shoulders sagged, but he didn’t outwardly protest. At least not yet. Jack hadn’t been thrilled when she returned to work after being home for so long with her injury. He was a kid, and kids liked their parents close. In the good-news department, she did get decent time off after working long stretches . . . but it felt like the past few weeks had seen more peaks on the job than lulls, and Jack was struggling with her long absences. Hell, she was still adjusting to the demands of full-time duty as well.
“Saw the news this morning,” Alex commented. “Figured you might be busy. One of the reporters was already speculating you had a fresh lead in the Stacey Summers case.”
“What? How did they . . . how could they? Oh, never mind. Like the press has to be informed to state their opinions. But no, no connection to that case. At least, not at this time.”