Sometimes, the simple things truly worked the best.
David eased the pieces of tablet out of the pants cuff and into his mouth. Then, he started to chew.
Forty seconds later, he made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat.
The state marshal glanced in the rearview mirror.
“What the hell?” he said.
In the back of the transport van, David Price was foaming at the mouth.
Griffin was in Ron Viggio’s face. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb with me. Where is she?”
“My grandma’s been dead for years, but thanks for asking.”
“We have you, Viggio. We know all about how you stole semen samples from the sperm bank, then injected them into douches. You’re already looking at two counts of murder, let alone four counts of first-degree sexual assault. You’re a little beyond minimum time behind bars, Ronnie boy. Start talking now, and maybe you have some hope of ever seeing daylight.”
Sitting in the back of the police cruiser, Viggio yawned.
“Are you trying to protect David Price? Because he’s already sold you out. Three hours from now, when he’s done meeting with his daughter, he’s going to give your name.”
Viggio laughed.
“We caught you because of him, Viggio. If he hadn’t told us that you’d personally met Eddie Como, we wouldn’t have thought to check personnel at the sperm bank.”
Viggio frowned.
“Yeah, that’s right. You were doing so well, too. You had the perfect setup, a great little plan. Except for David Price. He was your weak link. He’s who got you into this mess. Here you thought he was helping you, when really he was playing you all along. You’re not a brilliant criminal mastermind. You’re just David Price’s pawn.”
Viggio thinned his lips. Despite his best intentions, he was starting to look pissed.
Griffin’s turn to shrug. He straightened, crossed his arms over his chest and gave Viggio a dismissive glance. “Pawns can be sacrificed, Viggio. Guys like Price do it all the time. Why do you think we’re here? Price wanted to buy his freedom, so he sold you out. Now he gets to meet his little girl, while you go to prison for the rest of your life. Hardly seems fair. Where is Meg, Viggio? Talk now, while you still have a chance.”
“Go to hell.”
“Come on, Viggio. David isn’t going to help you. You’re fucked, you’re screwed. Whatever you thought you had coming, it’s over. What do you still owe him?”
Viggio’s gaze flickered toward his car, now cordoned off in the driveway. Griffin caught the look. He stared at Viggio’s vehicle, and then he got it.
“That’s another car bomb, isn’t it, Viggio? Except, instead of using it on a hired gun, you were going to use it on David Price. You were going to hook it up, then watch your favorite partner-in-crime go boom. Well, I’ll be damned. So there really isn’t any honor among thieves. Wait a minute.” Griffin’s voice changed. He leaned forward intently. “That means David Price was going to get into a vehicle. What the hell do you know, Viggio? What the hell does David Price have planned?”
Jillian was pacing the living room of the Pesaturo home while Libby and Toppi watched. Her right hand twisted Trisha’s medallion relentlessly. Her left hand was clasped behind her back.
“This isn’t right,” she told Libby and Toppi, though they had probably grown bored with her tirade by now. “Tom and Laurie need us. Meg needs us. We should be doing something!”
“Jillian,” Toppi said firmly, patiently, “we’re not professionals. Sometimes the right thing to do is to wait.”
“But David Price is getting exactly what he wants! Surely there’s got to be another way! God, why can’t I think of another way?”
Libby sighed. Toppi stared at Jillian.
“How do we even know he will give up the rapist’s name?” Jillian quizzed them. “Griffin is right. After meeting with Molly, Price can say anything he likes. It’s too late to do anything about it then.”
“They could send him to Super Max,” Toppi said. “Or punish him with this LFI thing.”
“Oh, like David Price cares about that. It’s games he likes, getting the upper hand, controlling all the moves on the board.” She stopped abruptly, frowned. “Huh.”
“What?” Toppi asked.
“David likes to control everything,” Jillian said slowly. “But this meeting . . . He let the police pick the place and the route for getting there. He only set the time. If he were planning something, you’d think he’d want to choose the location. Someplace he knew well, or had an opportunity to booby-trap. Or have the College Hill Rapist booby-trap. That would make sense. David helps the College Hill Rapist come up with the perfect crime. In return, the rapist helps David get out of jail.”
“Maybe he’s not planning anything,” Toppi said firmly. “You heard Lieutenant Morelli. The police are focusing all of their resources on this meeting. Price can hardly just exit the van and keep walking.”
Jillian glared at her irritably. “Of course he’s planning something! If he really wanted to see his daughter, he would’ve pressed the issue before going to jail. So this isn’t about Molly. It’s about getting out of prison.” She paused, still thinking out loud. “And it’s about revenge. Arranging things so that Meg would be the first victim, then setting up the assassination of Eddie Como so it would bring Griffin onto the case. His actions are personal, almost autobiographical—same victim, same detective. But he didn’t pick the place. Why didn’t he pick the place?”
And then, her eyes flew open. “Oh no!”
“What?”
“It’s not going to be at the location! Don’t you get it? All the snipers, the lieutenant and Molly . . . That’s just a cover, something to distract the police. He didn’t pick a place, because he has no intention of getting there! Whatever he’s going to do, it’s going to be en route. Quick, where’s the phone, where’s the phone? I’ve got to call Griffin!”
Driving down Route 2 in Cranston, State Marshal Jerry Atkins urgently radioed the state police cruiser in front of him. “Something’s wrong with Price. He’s foaming at the mouth. Jesus Christ, I think he’s going into convulsions! What do you want us to do?”
Pause.
“Well we can’t just let him die . . . He’s supposed to give up the damn rapist. Wait a sec. Whooooa! He’s out. He’s on the floor. Jesus, I think he’s choking on his tongue. He needs immediate medical attention. Quick, pull over!”
Up ahead, the police cruiser abruptly turned right, heading into a restaurant’s parking lot. This part of Route 2 was nothing but an endless strip mall, not a great place for an emergency stop with a violent felon on board. But then, from the back of the van, came another loud crash as Price’s shackled ankles jerked violently.
A second police cruiser pulled in behind them and tried to fashion a barricade in the back of the lot. The parking lot wasn’t crowded. It was the best they could do.
Jerry jumped down from the driver’s side of the van. He had a small first-aid kit, and only the faintest idea of how to proceed.
“Radio for an ambulance,” he yelled.
“We’re talking to the lieutenant!”
“Does she know first aid?”
“Don’t unshackle him!”
“Jesus Christ, do I look like an idiot?”
Jerry threw open the side door. His partner was right behind him. Apparently, the state police did think they were idiots and their escorting officer, Ernie, shoved them both aside. He peered in first with his holster unsnapped and his hand on the butt of his firearm.
“Holy shit.”
Jerry and his partner pushed past Ernie and promptly drew up short. David Price’s scrawny body seemed to have folded in on itself, a jumbled tangle of shackled arms and legs that could not be natural. As the three men stared in shock, his body spasmed again and his head lolled back, giving them an eerie image of a man trying to stare
out through the whites of his eyes.
Jerry was galvanized first. “Quick, quick, get him straightened out. We gotta get a stick in his mouth before he bites off his tongue.” He jumped into the van, grabbing at David’s shackled feet. Ernie went for his shoulders.
Jerry had a strange thought. Price’s hands—they weren’t where they should be. What had happened to the thick belt that should be shackling his hands to his waist? His gaze fell to the floor, he saw a small wooden sliver. Almost like a lock pick. And then . . .
Jerry’s head came up.
David’s magically freed hand grabbed Ernie’s Beretta.
Jerry yelled, “N—”
The bullet slammed into his brain.
Crackle, confusion. In the cordoned-off park in Cranston, Lieutenant Morelli strode away from the Pesaturo family with her cell phone in one hand and her radio in the other. She was sweating heavily beneath the weight of her Kevlar vest, and her gaze kept going to the surrounding rooftops, checking on her snipers.
“What do you mean Price is having some kind of fit?
“No, don’t pull over. What? You’ve already pulled over? Whose dumb idea was that?”
Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open first ring and while still listening to Brueger’s muddled explanation on the radio, barked, “Morelli.”
“He’s going to do something on the way,” Griffin yelled over the phone. “He was never planning on meeting Molly. It’s a ruse. Viggio was going to tamper with his getaway car!”
“Griffin . . .” And then to the radio, “I know you can’t let him die!”
“Lieutenant, where is the transport van? Tell me where to find the transport van.”
“Dammit, Brueger, where are you? Griffin’s yelling that Price has some kind of escape plan. Don’t touch him. You hear me? Nobody touches David Price. Brueger?”
Shots. Sudden, sharp, coming over the airwaves. Lots of them. And then men swearing, and more gunfire, and then a gurgle. Close. In the receiver. A man choking on his own blood.
“Brueger? Brueger, do you hear me? Brueger, what is happening?”
“Where is the van, where is the van?” Griffin was yelling.
“Brueger!”
Silence. Total silence. Even Griffin had finally fallen quiet. Seconds ticked away. The sweat trickled hot from Morelli’s forehead to the tip of her chin. She turned around slowly. She stared at Tom and Laurie Pesaturo, who were watching her with shocked, frightened eyes. Her gaze fell. She looked at Molly. Pretty little Molly, who, if there was any justice in this world, would never know her real father.
And then. A voice.
“Send Griffin my love,” David Price said over the radio. “Oh, and somebody might want to send an ambulance. Wait, on second thought, I believe the coroner will do.”
Griffin swore once, stunned, as the radio clicked off.
Lieutenant Morelli hung her head.
Griffin shut his cell phone. It promptly rang again. For a moment, he simply stared at it. Waters did, too. They had heard everything coming over Morelli’s radio into Griffin’s phone, and now their faces were white, drained. Fitz appeared shell-shocked. The assembled officers were shattered. Sometimes life was like being submerged twenty miles beneath the sea. All sounds were muted. Your limbs felt too heavy to move. You drifted in the dark, the surface too far away, the pressure about to collapse your chest.
Griffin’s phone rang again.
He flipped it open and steeled himself for Price’s smirking voice.
“He’s going to do something along the way!” Jillian exclaimed. “He’s never going to make it to the park!”
“I know,” Griffin whispered.
“Think about it,” she continued excitedly. “He let the police pick the location. He never would have done that if that’s where he was planning on making his escape.”
“I know.”
“And with the snipers and the SWAT team and all that coverage . . . It would be impossible to do something there. En route, on the other hand, when it’s just him and some drivers—”
“Jillian, I know.”
“You do? Well, then, stop him!”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the words to voice what he had just heard. How many men had been involved in the escort? Four, six, eight? How many had wives? How many had children? Waters had turned away. Fitz sat down hard on Ron Viggio’s driveway, staring bleakly at a streetlight. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog howled.
“Griffin?” Jillian said, her voice suddenly uncertain. “Did he? Is it . . .”
“It just happened.”
“Oh my God. What did . . .”
“I can’t.”
“Meg?”
“We don’t know.”
“Griffin, he can’t get away.”
“You think I don’t know that?” His body finally came alive. He kicked the tire of the police cruiser. Then kicked it again and again. Sitting in the back of the car, Viggio gazed at him balefully. The prick had probably heard it all and still didn’t give a damn.
Griffin’s vision started to cloud over. He could see his hands so clearly. He could envision them fastening on Viggio’s neck, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing . . .
Breathe deep, exhale. Breathe deep, exhale. Don’t give in. Picture yourself in a happy place. He wanted to dance on David Price’s grave. Was that a happy place? Or did that simply mean that one year later, he hadn’t learned a goddamn thing?
“Griffin,” Jillian said, “Lieutenant Morelli claimed you had a lead on the rapist.”
“Found him.”
“But he doesn’t have Meg?”
“Nope. And he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to talk about it.”
“Griffin, I know where she is.”
“What?” He perked up. Waters and Fitz caught the change in his demeanor and glanced at him sharply.
“David’s self-centered,” Jillian said in a rush. “Self-absorbed. This has all been about him. He picked Meg to be the first victim again. He picked you to lead the case again. And now, for the grand finish . . .”
“No!” Griffin breathed.
“Yes. He has one more grave to dig, don’t you see, Griffin? He started with Meg. And now he’s going to do what he probably thinks he should’ve done six years ago. He’s going to kill Meg. And he’s going to bury her in the basement. He’s going back to your old neighborhood, Griffin. He’s going back to his old house!”
Griffin looked at Viggio. The rapist tried to blank his features, but was too late. The look of amazement on his face said enough.
“How did you get access to Price’s former home?” Griffin barked.
“My mother bought it.”
“What?”
“Price recommended it. Face it, who wants to buy a home that used to have murdered babies in the basement? The real estate agent gave up months ago, and my mother bought it cheap. She’s on fixed-income, so hey, she’s happy.”
“You involved your mother in this?”
“Of course not! She’s in Florida. I surprised her with a free trip.”
“Son of a bitch!” Griffin motioned furiously at Waters and Fitz. “Jillian, thanks. We’re on our way there.”
Griffin’s car was blocked by the police cruiser. They ran for Fitz’s Taurus while Griffin started yelling into the radio.
David had a ten-minute head start and they were a good fifteen minutes away. Once more the clock was ticking. For Meg’s sake, Griffin hoped they weren’t too late.
In the Pesaturos’ living room, Jillian hung up the phone, grabbed her coat, grabbed her purse and then grabbed her pepper spray.
“This is insane,” Toppi said immediately. “You’re not a cop!”
“It’s Meg.”
“Let them handle this.”
“Because it’s gone so well thus far?” Jillian turned to her mother. “May I have your pepper spray? I’ll take as much as I can get.”
Libby frowned, gazed at her reproachfully.
“I
can’t sit around and wait anymore, Mom! Meg needs me. I have to try.”
Libby didn’t budge.
“Oh for heaven’s sake, I’m not going to just barrel into the house! I did that once before and I know as well as anyone that it didn’t work. I’ll be careful. I’ll . . . I’ll think of something along the way.”
Libby’s expression started to waver. Jillian bent down and looked her mother in the eye.
“I have to do this,” she said quietly, intently. “I didn’t save Trisha, don’t you see? You miss her terribly, I know you do. But I failed her, and I have to live with that every day of my life. Yes, he was stronger than me. Yes, you should blame the rapist and not the victim. It all sounds so well and good. But I was there. I saw her. And I . . . I didn’t get to her in time. I didn’t save her.
“I don’t want to lose someone else, Mom. I don’t want to lose you or Meg or Carol. So I need to do this. Maybe I can’t change the world. But I’m finally learning that, for me at least, it’s important to try. Please, Mom, may I have your pepper spray?”
Libby reached into her pocket. She held out the canister with a trembling, liver-spotted hand. She looked at her last daughter with open concern. Then she sighed and dropped the canister into Jillian’s palm.
Jillian kissed her mother’s cheek.
Then she turned and ran for the door.
CHAPTER 42
The Survivors Club
MEG HAD DRIFTED OFF AGAIN. SHE WAS AT HOME, IN Molly’s pink-colored room. They were preparing Barbie for her big wedding day, except this time Pooh’s cape was blood red. Meg was trying to get the cape off when she looked down to see that Pooh’s fuzzy cheeks had morphed into David Price’s smirking face.
“Daddy!” Molly cried in delight.