In no time, Karen had him set up with his own fruit-smashing project. Then the nurse manager summoned another staff member to take over the table, freeing herself to join D.D. in the hallway.
“Whatever they’re paying you, it’s not enough,” D.D. told Karen.
The nurse smiled faintly. “Trust me, I’ve been fed worse.”
“But you ate it. Can’t you fake your way out of something like that?”
“Do you have kids, Sergeant?”
“No.”
“Well, someday, if you do, you’ll understand.”
Dismissive and curt. D.D. warmed to the challenge. “Your place or mine?” D.D. asked, gesturing to either the Admin area or down the hall, where D.D.’s team had set up shop. Karen arched a brow, no doubt tempted to remind D.D. that, technically, it was all Karen’s. But finally, the administrator sighed, and pointed to her own office area. She located the key on the lanyard around her neck and opened the door. D.D. followed.
“How long have you known Lightfoot?” D.D. asked as they entered the cramped warren of rooms. Karen led her back to a tiny staff room, where they could both have a seat at a table.
“Two years.”
Consistent. “How’d you meet him?”
“Parents of a child who came to stay. Their son liked to capture bullfrogs, stick firecrackers in their mouths, and light the fuses. He also enjoyed covering the walls of their home with pictures of his mother being killed in various manners. It was amazing the level of detail he could capture using only red crayons.”
Also consistent. “How old was the child?” D.D. asked, curious.
“Ten.”
“Scary.”
Karen shrugged. “I’ve seen worse. The boy, however, was not responding to medication and the parents were frantic. So they brought in Andrew. I was initially skeptical, but Andrew was calm and courteous, respectful of our staff and the other kids. And I have to say, within three weeks we noticed a marked improvement in the boy’s behavior. Incidents that previously would’ve thrown him into a rage were greeted with more tolerance. We’d see the child tense up, but then he’d mumble, ‘Find the light, seven hugs from seven angels.’ He’d relax, a remarkable feat for a child with his level of psychosis. Naturally, I started to ask Andrew about his work. As did many of our doctors.”
“What do they think?” D.D. asked.
“Most of them have no issues with it. Medicine is already starting to note the role of love and laughter in the recovery process. It’s not so much of a stretch to acknowledge that faith and spirituality can also make a difference.”
“Angels healed a troubled kid?”
Karen smiled. “Do you know everything there is to know about the cosmos? Because if you do, you’re a smarter woman than I, Sergeant.”
D.D. scowled at her. “How many of your kids has Andrew worked with?”
“You’d have to ask him. I rarely refer his services; mostly, other parents do.”
“Sounds like he worked with the Harringtons.”
Karen didn’t say anything.
“Danielle implied that he interfered with your care of their son, recommending that Ozzie be discharged before the docs thought he was ready.”
Karen shrugged. “It was a gray area. Ozzie was definitely improved. I would’ve liked more time to ensure his recent changes in behavior stuck, but they felt it was more important to get him back to a home environment. There was logic to both sides of the argument. Now, for the record, Ozzie never bounced back here. So I have to believe that the Harringtons’ approach worked for their son. Andrew worked for their son.”
“The Harringtons were murdered.”
“By the father, I thought.”
“We’re not sure of that.”
Karen faltered for the first time, hands dropping to the table, blinking behind her wire-rimmed glasses. “Are you saying … Ozzie?”
“It’s possible.”
The head nurse didn’t defend Ozzie. She sighed instead. “It’s hard to know with these kids. They’re not out of control because they’re weak or lazy. They suffer from physiological differences, issues with brain chemistry, hormones, DNA. And there’s so little we can do for them. So few tools available to us.”
“Hence Lightfoot, a handsome white knight, promising to save lost children while reducing your pharmaceutical bill. Gotta like that.”
The nurse manager didn’t say anything, so D.D. took it one step further. “Are you sleeping with him?”
“My husband would object.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know.”
“My conscience would object.” Karen shook her head. “I understand you’re skeptical of Andrew. In many ways, I also held his looks and background against him. But if you watch him with the kids … He is genuinely tender, exceedingly patient. He doesn’t just soothe them, he teaches them to soothe themselves. I never thought I’d be advocating energy cleansings in a clinical environment. And yet I’m respectful of the results.”
D.D. scowled, refusing to be convinced. “What about other members of your staff. Say, Danielle? Andrew’s good-looking. She’s young and pretty.”
“You would have to ask Danielle.”
“She’s a bit of a mess,” D.D. commented.
Karen didn’t take the bait.
“I mean,” D.D. continued conversationally, “her father slaughters her whole family except her. There’s some baggage to carry. And now she works with a whole ward of violent kids. It’s like she needs the drama.”
For a moment, Karen was silent. Then: “In policing, don’t you see officers who come from a long tradition of policing? Sons, daughters, nieces, nephews of other cops?”
“True.”
“Our line of work is like that, too. You want to dig, most of our staff has stories that will break your heart. They didn’t grow up happy, driving them to preserve for others the childhood they never had. By that logic, Danielle isn’t the exception in our unit. More like the norm.”
“Really? What’s Greg’s story?”
“Greg?” The nurse manager seemed surprised by that name, of all names. “I’m not sure Greg has a story. He’s not one to talk about his personal life.”
“How long has he worked here?”
“Five years.”
“Any complaints? Issues?”
“Not one,” Karen answered firmly. “He’s quiet, conscientious, brilliant with the children. Both adults and kids like him, which is not something I can say for all of our staff.”
“Adults?” D.D. asked.
“The parents. Some of our people …” Karen hesitated. “Some of our staff are in this line of work because they have an immediate rapport with children. Unfortunately, that rapport doesn’t always extend to adults.”
D.D. thought about it. Gym Coach Greg was a good-looking guy. Strong, fit. She’d bet some female adults did have an immediate rapport with him.
“What are the requirements for an MC?” she asked now, pulling out her spiral pad to make a note. “Does he have a special license, or have to pass board certification?” What could D.D. have Phil look up as part of Greg’s background report?
But the nurse manager was shaking her head. “Our nurses have degrees and board certification, of course. The MCs are only required to have a high school education, and a lot of energy and creativity with kids.”
“You’re kidding me. The majority of your staff are MCs, and you’re telling me they have no special training?”
Karen looked at her. “Sergeant, what classroom module could ever prepare someone for the kids we see here?”
Good point. “Greg have a family?” D.D. asked with a frown.
“He doesn’t talk about one.”
“Girlfriend?”
“I don’t know.”
“So he has eyes only for Danielle,” D.D. supplied.
“I don’t get involved in my staff’s personal lives,” Karen answered coolly.
“Really? Because everyone’s talking about it. Greg says yes. Danielle say
s no. Around and around they go. Sounds like a lot of flirtation on company time. You can’t be happy about that.”
“I’ve never seen either one act anything other than professional.”
“Maybe you ought to get out of Admin more.”
The head nurse glared at her.
D.D. waited a moment, then decided she’d had enough of all the tap dancing. She cut to the heart of the matter: “Don’t you think it’s odd that two families affiliated with this unit have been murdered, right around the anniversary date of one of your staff member’s own family being killed?”
“It’s odd—” Karen started.
“Then,” D.D. cut in, “a girl was hanged last night, who also happens to be working with the same staff member whose family was murdered almost exactly twenty-five years ago. Another coincidence?”
“These things happen.”
“Really? How many kids have you found hanging in the hospital? How many patients have you discharged who’ve wound up murdered?”
Karen didn’t reply anymore. She looked as tired as Lightfoot. The head nurse sighed, then reached for a stack of paperwork on her desk. She pulled out a report, then looked back up at D.D.
“When were the Harringtons killed?” Karen asked. “Wednesday? Thursday?”
“Thursday evening.”
The nurse glanced at the report. “Danielle worked that night. In fact, she pulled a double, working night shift on Thursday and day shift on Friday.”
“What time is night shift?”
“Seven to seven.”
D.D. considered the matter. The Harringtons had presumably died around dinnertime. Considering how long it would take to subdue an entire family, clean up, make it from Dorchester to Cambridge … “What time did she clock in?” D.D. asked.
“Danielle arrived at six-thirty and prepared for her shift.”
“And Friday night?”
Karen thinned her lips. “Technically speaking, Danielle concluded her day shift at seven p.m. She remained on the unit, however, debriefing with me, then catching up on paperwork until after eleven. At which time she was involved in an altercation with Lucy, who had a violent episode.”
“The bruises on Danielle’s neck,” D.D. said, remembering.
“Exactly. So while Danielle was not on the clock, she was here, and I have it documented, per hospital policy.”
D.D.’s turn to thin her lips. Meaning Danielle had alibis for both the Harrington and Laraquette-Solis murders.
“She was working last night when Lucy disappeared,” D.D. said.
“Correct.”
“Now, call me crazy, but you’re saying she worked Thursday night, Friday day—lingering until after eleven p.m.—then was back for Saturday night shift. That’s a lot of hours in a short span of time.”
“Our staff tends to lump their shifts, pulling doubles in order to maximize their days off. Work-three-days, play-five kind of thing.”
D.D. stared at the nurse administrator.
“Danielle is also a workaholic,” Karen conceded. “Particularly this time of year.”
“Who else knows her history?” D.D. asked.
“Everyone.”
“Everyone?”
“She’s infamous, even by our drama-rich standards. Most of the parents hear about her past sooner or later, as well. Gossip, rumors. People are people.”
“What about Gym Coach Greg? Was he working Thursday night? Or Friday?”
A fresh perusal of the time sheet. “Not Thursday night. On Friday, he had the day shift. Seven a.m. to seven p.m. Of course, he was also working last night, when Lucy …” The nurse’s voice trailed off.
D.D. digested that. So Danielle had an alibi for the Harrington and Laraquette-Solis murders, but not Greg. Good to know. She adopted her conversational tone again. “So who do you think’ll be next?”
“Excuse me?”
D.D. shrugged. “The Harringtons were murdered Thursday night. The Laraquette-Solis family was murdered Friday night. Lucy was hanged Saturday night.” D.D. glanced at her watch. “It’s now nearly five o’clock. I figure we got, what, one hour, two, three, then it’s time for Sunday-night action. Another child here? Another family out there? Clock’s ticking. Place your bets.”
Karen stared at her, wide-eyed.
“You think I’m messing around?” D.D. asked. “You think I have nothing better to do than terrorize a bunch of hardworking professionals on a pediatric psych ward? Families are dying. Children are being murdered. Now, start telling me what the fuck is going on, so my squad can shut it down. Five o’clock, Karen. Don’t ask me who’ll be dead by six.”
Then, almost as if someone had heard her words, the first scream sounded from outside the Admin area. It was followed by a second, a third. High-pitched, frantic wails that swiftly disintegrated into a whole chorus of terrified shrieks.
“Common area,” Karen said immediately. She was already out of her chair, grabbing the keys around her neck, running for the door.
D.D. was right on her heels. She could just make out words now. “Devil!” the children were screaming. “Diablo. Esta aqui. Esta aqui. The Devil is here.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
VICTORIA
I dream of distant beaches. Of silky white sand that sinks beneath my feet. Of turquoise waves rocking against the shoreline. Of a deep-orange sun warming my upturned face.
I dream of walking with my husband, hand in hand.
Our children are running ahead, laughing together happily. Evan’s golden curls stand out in the bright sunlight, Chelsea’s darker-topped head bent near his. They dig a hole with a stick, just out of reach of the lapping ocean.
Then Evan reaches over and casually pushes his sister into the hole. The sand collapses, swallowing her in one greedy gulp. Laughing, Evan runs back toward us. Now I realize he doesn’t hold a stick, but a long pointed blade. He aims it at his father, and picks up speed, the phantom dancing in his eyes as he races across the opalescent beach.
“You’re mine,” he says to me as he runs his father through. “You will always be mine.”
Then he advances with the bloody sword….
I wake up to a strange beeping sound. The high-pitched tone hurts my ears. I squeeze my eyes shut as if that will dull the sound. It doesn’t, so I open them again, becoming aware of many things at once.
I’m in a hospital room. My side aches with a nearly impossible pain. Monitors surround me, with wires and lines sprouting from my left hand. I’m hot. I’m confused. I have no idea what has happened to me.
Then I discover belatedly that Michael’s asleep in a chair next to my bed.
While I stare at him in bewilderment, he slowly rouses, glancing at me, then performing a double-take when he realizes I’m awake.
“Victoria?” he says in a raspy voice.
“Evan?” I ask in panic.
Immediately, Michael’s face shudders. He climbs out of the chair, wearing the same khaki shorts and Brooks Brothers shirt he wore to my house. This confuses me more. What day is it? What’s happened to me?
“How do you feel?” he asks, crossing to the bed, glancing at the monitors, as if they mean something to him.
I swallow once, twice, three times. “Th-thirsty.”
“I’ll ring for a nurse.”
I nod. He pushes a button. “Evan?” I try again.
“He’s okay.”
“Chelsea?”
“She’s at home. With Melinda. What do you remember?”
I shake my head. I don’t remember. But then it comes back to me. Sitting down on the couch next to my sun-drunk child. Feeling a little sleepy. The sudden pain in my side …
My hand drops down to my ribs. Sure enough, my left side is covered in a swathe of gauze. I don’t have to touch it to feel the pain, the red, swollen mess of it. My son stabbed me.
“The knife penetrated your liver,” Michael tells me, as if reading my thoughts. “If the EMTs hadn’t gotten you here in time fo
r emergency surgery, you would’ve died.”
“Evan?” I ask for the third time.
“Do you understand me, Victoria? You would’ve died.”
A nurse appears. She bustles in, picking up my wrist, checking my pulse even though some cumbersome plastic object attached to my fingertip must be telling her the same thing. “How do you feel?” she asks, studying the monitors.
“Thirsty.”
“I can bring you ice chips. If you hold those down, next we can attempt water. Sound like a plan?”
I nod. She exits, returning quickly with half a cup of ice chips. I take them sparingly, realizing the increasing discomfort in my abdomen. I’ve never been good with anesthesia. Ice chips probably are the best I can do.
“Doctor will be in to talk to you shortly,” she says. Then the nurse is gone and Michael and I are staring at each other again.
“Thank you for coming,” I manage. I don’t know what else to say.
He shrugs. “Someone had to come. It was either me or your mother.”
We both know what he means. My mother would’ve pulled the plug. I’m not a daughter to her. More like the competition. At least I used to be. It’s been so long since she’s visited me or her grandkids, she has no idea how far I’ve fallen.
“Evan?” I try yet again.
“Evan’s okay.”
“He didn’t mean to—” I start.
Michael holds up a hand. His face is the angriest I’ve ever seen. “You know why I left?” he said abruptly. “You know why I took Chelsea and got the hell out of our home?”
I shake my head. His anger frightens me.
“Because I figured it was only a matter of time before I had to kill my son in order to protect my wife and daughter. And call me crazy, but I didn’t want to kill Evan. Dammit, I love him, too, Victoria. I’ve always loved him, too.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Do you know what you’ve done to him?” he continues, the force of his emotions causing his voice to tremble. “He’s eight, and he now has to deal with the knowledge that he stabbed his own mother. That he nearly killed you. He’s just a kid, for Christ’s sake. How’s he supposed to handle that? With everything else going on in his fucked-up head, how the hell is he ever supposed to deal with that?”