The Survivors Club

  “In the last two weeks of Cindy’s life,” Griffin said quietly, “it was obvious she wasn’t going to make it. The cancer had eaten her from the inside out. She couldn’t walk, couldn’t sit up, couldn’t even raise her hand. I brought her home as we’d agreed, set her up in a special bed in the family room, and got a hospice worker to come over and help out. Cindy could still blink her eyes, and that’s how we would talk. I would ask her questions and she would blink once for yes and twice for no. Much like your mother. I, uh”—he swallowed, his voice finally growing husky—“I used to ask her if she loved me, at least ninety times a day, just so I could see her blink. Just so I would know she was still that much alive. I was working the damn Candy Man case, of course. I could make a lot of the phone calls from home, process the paperwork . . . But sometimes I’d have to go out, and sometimes the hospice worker also needed a break, and sometimes, sometimes David would come over.

  “That’s right.” He nodded. “Our good friend and helpful neighbor, ‘we’re going to beat this thing’ David Price, would come over and sit with Cindy. As the saying goes, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

  “But now we’re down in the basement, with that mattress and that workbench and those dark, tiny waves. Now we’re down in the basement and David is telling me exactly what he did those afternoons he sat with Cindy. Exactly what he did to my wife.”

  Griffin saw the look on her face and immediately shook his head. “No, nothing like that, Jillian. Cindy was a grown woman and David’s into little kids. She provided something even better for him. An audience. Yeah, a fucking audience. For over a year, see, Price has been involved in this incredible crime spree, kidnapping and murdering small children. And no one suspects a thing. Which means he has no one to talk to, no one to brag to. That kind of thing only gets you in trouble anyway, and David knows it. But now, here’s Cindy. Helpless, dying, unable to speak a word. So he goes over there and tells her everything. Every tiny, terrible detail of how he finds the kids and stalks the kids and abducts the kids and hurts the kids and strangles the kids and buries the kids in his basement. On and on and on, an unending litany of depravity. And Cindy can’t escape. Cindy can’t repeat a word.

  “You have to wonder how she must have felt, David told me, as she watched me greet him so gratefully each time I returned home. You have to wonder how desperate she must have been, he said, for me to see something in her face, or in his face. If I would just ask the right question . . . My smart, brilliant wife, he mused, knowing all about his horrible crimes, and unable to do a thing to stop them. My compassionate, gentle-hearted wife, he postulated, dying with all those murdered children on her conscience. And all the while, her husband never suspected a thing. All the while, her husband was so grateful to have David come visit . . .

  “That’s when I broke, started swinging my fists. I don’t remember much of it after that, honestly. They tell me Waters and O’Reilly got in my way. And they tell me that David Price never stopped smiling.

  “That’s the kind of man we’re dealing with, Jillian. He makes friends purely so he has people to betray. He seeks out children purely to have life-forms to destroy. And he is very smart, in an ingratiating, awful sort of way. He is brilliant.”

  Griffin bent over the desk. He picked up the plain desk pad, and from beneath it, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. It landed by Jillian’s feet, so she picked it up first. It was a page from a notepad, and written all over it in Meg’s large, round script were the words: David Price, David Price, David Price. Oh no, David Price.

  “Well,” Griffin said after a moment. “Apparently Meg has finally started to remember.”

  Five minutes later, Griffin and Fitz were striding out of the house, their faces carefully shuttered, but the line of their mouths grim. Tom and Laurie remained inside. They couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t seem to digest this new, dreadful turn of events.

  Jillian was the one who followed the two detectives to their car, watched them climb in, slam the doors.

  At the last minute, she knocked on the driver’s-side window. Griffin lowered the glass.

  “Were you with your wife the day she died?” she asked him.

  “Of course.”

  “Did you ask her if she loved you? What did she say?”

  Griffin’s voice softened. “She blinked yes.”

  Jillian nodded, stepped back. “Remember that, Griffin. If David Price does get leave from prison, if you do catch up with him, remember that. He didn’t win. You did.”

  Griffin finally nodded. Then his window was back up, the car in gear. He and Fitz peeled away from the curb and hit the road.

  CHAPTER 34

  Meg

  GRIFFIN AND FITZ HAD MADE IT ONLY FOUR BLOCKS FROM the Pesaturo home when Fitz shouted, “Stop!”

  Griffin obligingly slammed on the brakes, and Fitz obligingly hit the dash. “Ow, shit, Jesus, over there!” Griffin followed the detective’s pointing finger to a mini-mart on their right. Three cars were gassing up at the pumps. Fitz, however, was fixed on a small brown Nissan parked in front of the mini-mart’s glass doors. “That,” he declared, “is Meg’s car. Check out the plates.”

  MP 63. Griffin swung them into the parking lot.

  They circled the car first. It held the usual clutter—Kleenex box, hairbrush, discarded mail, plus a variety of hair scrunchies looped over the parking brake. Griffin noted the expired Providence College parking sticker just as Fitz placed his hand on the car’s hood and declared it cold.

  The two men exchanged frowns. If the engine had already cooled, the car had been there a bit. They walked into the mini-mart. Two women and a clerk were in the store. The first woman, with graying hair and an oversized navy blue sweatshirt, was deep in consideration at the ice cream case. The second woman, over in the snack aisle, had bright blond hair. Definitely neither one was Meg. Fitz and Griffin exchanged more concerned looks.

  They approached the cashier, a pimple-ridden teenager who could’ve doubled as Teen Blockbuster. Fitz badged him.

  “Where’s the driver of the Nissan?”

  Kid gaped at Fitz’s badge, swallowed audibly, gaped at the badge some more. “Don’t know,” kid squeaked.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I mean, she’s not here. Sir,” the kid added belatedly.

  “Did you see the driver of the brown Nissan?”

  “Yes, sir! I mean, she was pretty, sir!”

  Okay, that woman sounded like Meg. “Did she come inside, say anything to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “She didn’t come inside?” Fitz glared at the kid.

  “No, sir. I mean, I think she was going to, sir. But then her friend pulled up and she went with him.”

  “Him?” Griffin asked sharply.

  The kid flicked a glance at Griffin for the first time, noticed the state detective’s imposing size and promptly blanched. “Y-Y-Yes.”

  Fitz leaned on the counter. Both of the female shoppers had stopped eyeing food by now and were shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation. Fitz ignored them. He focused his amiable tone on the kid.

  “Can you describe exactly what you saw for me? Take your time. Think about it.”

  The kid took a deep breath. He thought about it. “Well, I saw her get out of her Nissan. And then, well, I looked again ’cause, well, she was very pretty.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Umm, some kind of brown jacket. Suede, you know, and this big purse swung over her shoulder and jeans, I guess. I don’t know. Nothin’ special.”

  “Okay, so she’s out of the car with her coat on and her purse over her shoulder. Did she close the car door?”

  “Yeah. She did that.”

  “And then?”

  “She took a step forward, like she was coming inside. But then she suddenly stopped and turned. I saw another car pull up and this man get out. He seemed kind of urgent, you know. He ran up to her, said something, then they both go
t into his car.”

  “Describe the man,” Fitz ordered.

  “Ummm, not too tall, I guess. Maybe your height. Brown hair. Just . . . a guy, an average guy.” The kid shrugged.

  Fitz looked at Griffin, who nodded slightly. An average guy. Everyone’s favorite description of Eddie Como. Shit.

  “Age?” Fitz asked.

  “Ummm, older, I guess. I couldn’t see him real well from here, but I remember thinking that he was too old for her. I don’t know why I thought that.”

  “Did you see his car?”

  “Not from here. It sounded big, though. Big engine. Old. Sputtered when he pulled out. Probably needs new plugs,” the kid added helpfully.

  Griffin spoke up. “Did he touch the girl?”

  The kid’s gaze shot toward him, then promptly plummeted to the countertop. “ Umm . . .”

  “Touch her arm, shoulder, anything?”

  “Oh yeah! When he first came up. He put his hand on her arm. And he escorted her to his car, you know. Got the door for her. A girl like her probably has a thing about manners.” The kid nodded, then sighed morosely. At his age, he probably understood how life worked, and that guys like him never won a girl like Meg.

  “Was he still holding her arm when he got the car door?” Griffin pressed.

  “Well, now that you mention it. He had his left hand on her arm, and he got the door with his right.”

  “He never let go of her?”

  “I guess not.”

  Griffin and Fitz exchanged new glances. This did not sound good. Griffin glanced at his watch. Eleven forty-six A.M. Shit, they were never going to make Price’s twelve o’clock deadline.

  “What time did she pull up?” Fitz’s gaze had followed Griffin’s to the watch, and his tone held fresh urgency.

  “Oh, a while ago. Wait—a big Suburban had just filled up both tanks. That was a couple of pennies. Let me check the receipts.”

  The kid opened his register and started slowly turning over pieces of paper. Griffin and Fitz began shifting restlessly. The clock was ticking, ticking, ticking. The kid idly turned over one receipt, said “Huh,” then moved methodically to another. Then another. Then another. Just when Griffin thought he couldn’t take it anymore, Fitz snapped.

  The detective snaked his arm across the counter and grabbed the kid’s wrist. “Listen, just estimate. Eight, nine, ten A.M., what?”

  “Uh.” The kid looked down at the detective’s whitened knuckles. “Nine A.M., sir!”

  “Fine, thanks. You’ve been great.” Fitz was motioning at Griffin furiously. He said to the kid, “A uniform is going to come by shortly to take your statement. I want you to tell him everything you’ve told us, plus anything more you remember. Can you do that?”

  “Um, yes, sir.”

  “This is important. We appreciate your help. Okay?”

  “Okay, sir!”

  “Good man. We’ll be in touch.” Fitz headed out the door, working to catch up with Griffin, who was already on his hands and knees beside Meg’s car. Ten seconds later, Griffin spotted a silver flash and fished out a key ring from beneath the vehicle.

  He and Fitz stared at the mass of keys, complete with a green plastic parrot from a Jimmy Buffet concert.

  “She probably still had them in her hand,” Griffin mused. “Then when the guy grabbed her arm . . .” He released his hold, and the keys dropped just about where he’d found them.

  “I don’t think she met a friend,” Fitz said quietly.

  “No.”

  “Why do you think he grabbed her now?”

  “Because nobody can crack a case in two hours and David Price knows it.” Griffin reached down to recover the keys, then glanced up at Fitz. “Price is betting he’s going to get his little hardship leave at six P.M. And when he makes his break for it, he doesn’t want to be alone.”

  “Poor Meg,” Fitz murmured. “Poor Molly.”

  Griffin glanced at his watch. Five minutes before noon. He said, “If David Price gets out of prison, poor all of us. Let’s go.”

  Griffin and Fitz had no sooner gotten back into the car than Griffin’s cell phone chirped. It was Waters.

  “My two hours are up. Sorry, Griff, I have nothing.”

  “How many bars?”

  “We’ve hit two dozen and counting. You know, this entire city is nothing but one giant tavern. Several places reported knowing Tawnya, but they mostly recognized her picture from the five o’clock news. One place said she used to come in, but that was before she got pregnant.”

  “Get more uniforms and keep trying. Someone had to see something.”

  “Will do.”

  “Mike . . . Meg Pesaturo is missing. She was last seen being led into a car by a strange man. Whatever’s going down, it’s already started. We have to catch up, Mike, and we have to do it now.”

  “Griffin, it’s already twelve—”

  “I’ll take care of Price’s deadline. You just keep on looking for information on Tawnya Clemente. Got it?”

  Griffin hit end, then started punching a fresh round of numbers.

  “Calling God for a miracle?” Fitz asked glumly.

  “Nah, even better. Corporal Charpentier.”

  Griffin got Charpentier’s pager, punched in his number followed by one for urgent, and in thirty seconds had Charpentier ringing back.

  “Where are you?” Griffin asked. He could hear lots of noise in the background.

  “Parking lot of Max. Maureen Haverill of Channel Ten just finished up with David Price’s lawyer. Now she’s demanding to speak with Price. Visiting hours for his cell block officially start at noon. Sergeant, I think the jig is up.”

  “Got my lists?”

  “Detective James is downloading names as we speak. We’re talking nearly a hundred men, though. I don’t see how it’s going to help.”

  “I have a new theory. Cull out names of people David Price met when he was still at Intake, before he got sentenced. And of those names, guys that didn’t end up going to jail. Maybe they were found innocent, or got off on a technicality, anything.”

  “Why those guys?”

  “Because after the first rape happened, Detective Fitz says they rattled the sex-offender tree and nothing fell out. So maybe the real rapist isn’t a convicted sex offender. He was arrested but not convicted.”

  “Meaning his DNA is in the system,” Corporal Charpentier filled in slowly, “taken at the time of his arrest. The rapist himself, however, is still a free man.”

  “A free man in need of a new way to do things,” Griffin said.

  “Which David Price helped him find,” Charpentier concluded. “Why not? As long as you’re in jail, why not pick the brain of a master?”

  There was more noise in the background. Charpentier’s voice grew muffled, as if he was covering his mouth with his hand. “Sergeant, I can get you the list, but it will probably be another hour and it looks like this media circus is about to begin. The director of the department of corrections wants to examine the cameraman’s equipment, but he can’t keep the press out. It’s visiting hours, Price’s lawyer has sanctioned the interview . . . We’re screwed.”

  “How long will examining the equipment take?”

  “Fifteen minutes at most. We might stretch it to twenty.”

  Griffin glanced at his watch. They were almost at the Como residence, but fifteen minutes would never be enough time to break Tawnya Clemente. And once Maureen stuck her microphone in front of Price and he began his pathetic spiel . . .

  “Code,” Griffin said suddenly.

  “Code?”

  “Yeah. Code Blue or Code White, I’ll settle for any color. If there’s a code, they have to shut down the whole prison, right? Clear everyone out, even lawyers and aspiring news anchors?”

  “That’s right,” Charpentier said, his voice picking up.

  “And it could take a while to sort it all out and let everyone back in, right? Prisoners have to be searched and escorted back to the visiting a
reas. Maureen and Jimmy would have to go back through security . . .”

  “It could take a while,” Charpentier agreed happily. Then he hesitated. Griffin understood. A Code Blue only happened if there was a major disturbance, a guard down, a fight between two inmates. A Code White, on the other hand, was sounded in case of a medical emergency. Either way, something had to happen in the prison first. “The director isn’t wild about a news team entering the prison,” Charpentier said finally. “I could talk to him. Maybe now would be a good time for a drill. You know, as a favor to the state police.”

  “We would appreciate that favor,” Griffin said.

  “Hang on a sec.” There was a pause, the muffled sound of footsteps, then some definitely muffled talking. Moments later, Charpentier was back. “You know what? It turns out Max hasn’t had a drill in quite some time. The real thing, sure, but not a drill. And you know how it goes, if you don’t practice every now and then . . .”

  “You’re golden, Corporal, and tell the director we always approve of good practice. One more thing—”

  “Yeah?”

  “If the interview does go down . . . ask the director not to return Price to his cell. Escort him anywhere else, but not to his cell.”

  “You don’t want him picking up anything he might have stashed there.”

  “It’s never too early to take precautions.”

  “I’m sure the director will see your point. And gee, the cell block is probably due for a surprise inspection, as well. What a wonderfully educational day for the corrections officers.”

  “Practice makes perfect. Work on that list, Corporal. I’ll be in touch.”

  Griffin flipped his phone shut just in time to turn down Tawnya’s street.

  Twelve-ten P.M. He parked his Taurus in front of her house.

  “You go first,” he told Fitz.

  The detective positively beamed.

  CHAPTER 35

  Tawnya

  THEY WENT AROUND TO THE BACK DOOR AGAIN. GIVEN that you never knew what bushes were hiding what kind of cameramen, it seemed the thing to do. This time Tawnya appeared after their first knock. In her normal good humor, she took one look at Fitz through the door’s window and spat.