A Gift for Dying

by M. J. Arlidge

  56

  In his worst nightmares, Adam had never imagined himself having to do this. It all seemed so unreal – horrifically unreal – and he now regretted volunteering to take on this burden alone.

  It had seemed the right thing to do at the time, the logical thing, but medical training only takes you so far. The cold logic of illness and death is easy to grasp in principle, but harder to experience for yourself. It can be tough dealing with strangers who are in pain – Adam had often found himself in that situation – but it was nothing compared to dealing with someone you care for, someone you love. Adam could still picture Faith’s ashen, tear-stained face, as he’d raced into the labour ward that night, blustering his apologies and excuses. She had looked stunned, blank, as if she’d just been in an accident. In reality, she was in shock, still in denial that life could be so merciless, brutal and cruel.

  Since then she had pushed through the shock to copious, unrestrained despair, then bitterness and anger and now … well, where was she now? She had been solicitous this morning, perhaps regretting their awkward exchange last night, and though they had not spoken much, they had at least held each other, wordlessly clinging together as the sun came up. To him, it seemed as if she was now deep in full-blown grief which, in the long term, might be no bad thing. He, he had to admit, was nowhere near this. He was still in shock, barely processing the events that had rocked his world during the last few days.

  ‘Take your time. Whenever you’re ready.’

  He looked up to see the hospital administrator smiling sympathetically at him.

  ‘Sorry, I …’

  ‘There’s no rush, Dr Brandt. No rush at all.’

  Smiling tightly back at her, Adam looked down at the form in front of him, the pen in his hand. It was the simplest of tasks – just a signature on the dotted line – but suddenly it seemed the hardest thing in the world. The hospital needed his permission to release Annabelle’s body, and of course he would provide it, but he hesitated now. Oddly, he had drawn some comfort from the fact that she had been safe and secure in Rush University Medical Center, a hospital he knew well. By signing the form, he would release her little body to the undertakers and the grim process would begin – the funeral preparations, the ceremony, the wake. And suddenly he didn’t want any part of it – it all seemed so final. A giant full stop to their hopes and dreams.

  Tears threatened now, as an image of Annabelle came to him. She was nestled in his arms, looking up at him with that glassy, benign expression, as if she had just zoned out for a minute. It was a memory he clung to, even though it caused him the deepest pain. Standing here in the relatives’ room, flanked by a well-meaning stranger, Adam realized that he had taken none of their misfortune on board, that his despair was still waiting to erupt. But he would not do it here, not in front of a woman he barely knew. So, scrawling his signature on the form, he handed it back.

  He had to remain strong. For himself. For Faith. And for Annabelle too.

  57

  She was nothing like Kassie had imagined.

  Ever since Adam Brandt had first mentioned Faith, Kassie had had a picture of the eminent psychologist’s wife in mind. She was groomed, sophisticated, operating in a world that was entirely alien to Kassie. Kassie imagined her gliding around an imposing brown-brick mansion, entertaining, achieving, nurturing. The reality was somewhat different. Adam’s home was impressive, but still cute, and Faith was not polished in the slightest. She was floaty, bohemian, even a little dishevelled, with a manner that was both nervy and distracted. She stood in the doorway, her dressing gown hanging off one shoulder, eyeing Kassie with something that looked very much like irritation.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Kassie blustered, dropping her eyes to the ground as her prepared speech evaporated.

  ‘Look, if you’re selling something –’

  ‘I’m looking for Adam … Dr Brandt. I’m Kassie Wojcek.’

  Silence. Kassie darted a look in Faith’s direction and spotted a subtle change in her expression. Recognition certainly, but also something else. Surprise? Curiosity?

  ‘I shouldn’t come here, I know, but he’s not at his office and he’s not answering his phone.’

  ‘No, he’s had to …’ Faith replied, faltering. ‘He’s had to go out.’

  ‘I see.’

  Suddenly, Kassie didn’t know what to do. She was aware that there had been some kind of family emergency – she guessed at bereavement given Adam’s sombre tone, one of Faith’s parents maybe – and had convinced herself that he would be at home, comforting his wife. She hadn’t really made an alternative plan in the event that she was wrong. She rocked back and forward on the spot, biting her nails.

  ‘Shall I get him to call you?’

  Faith’s voice cut through her introspection.

  ‘Yes. Please,’ she mumbled. ‘And can you tell him it’s urgent.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The conversation petered out – Kassie lacking the requisite polish to know what to say next, she hovered on the doorstep, uncertain whether to stay or go. For the last hour or so, local news feeds on Twitter had been abuzz with rumours that a second body had been discovered and Kassie had felt compelled to seek Adam out. But now she was lost as to what to do next. Disappointed and frustrated, she turned to leave, feeling angry at herself for having achieved nothing but disturbing someone who was clearly in pain.

  ‘Look, you can stay if you want.’

  Surprised, Kassie paused, turned.

  ‘He’ll be back in half an hour or so. He’s not planning on going into the office today, so if it’s important …’

  Kassie wanted to accept the offer, but found herself saying:

  ‘It’s fine. I don’t want to distur—’

  ‘It’s ok. Really.’

  It was said gently, but firmly. Kassie arrowed another look at her and was surprised to see kindness, even sympathy in Faith’s expression. A sense of one soul in pain reaching out to another. Smiling her thanks, she stepped inside.

  Five minutes later, Kassie found herself in a spacious studio at the back of the house. They had bypassed the living room, which was decorated with numerous family photos and holiday souvenirs, heading straight for the kitchen instead. Coffee had been swiftly produced and they’d then made the way to the rear of the property, to Faith’s Aladdin’s cave.

  Kassie had never seen anything like it. The room was full of sculptures, tapestries and trinkets – corpulent Buddhas rubbing up against Irish faeries and Chinese ‘lucky charm’ cats. But it was the paintings that really took her breath away. They came in many different sizes – some small and intimate, others huge and imposing – and in many different styles. They were all portraits – some in electric, almost luminous colours, others in austere charcoals – but each one drew you in, challenging you to explore the personality of the subject.

  ‘Are these all yours?’ Kassie found herself saying.

  Faith looked around her, as if surprised to find the paintings there, then replied casually:

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘They’re amazing.’

  Kassie was aware she sounded like a gushing fan, but couldn’t help herself.

  ‘How long did it take you to paint all these?’

  ‘Years,’ Faith replied uninterestedly.

  ‘They should be in a gallery. Or a shop,’ Kassie continued, gabbling.

  ‘Sure …’

  Faith sounded disconnected, as if the paintings weren’t hers, as if they weren’t worthy of anyone’s interest, least of all hers, and as Kassie turned to look at her, she realized how pale Adam’s wife looked. She seemed bereft, hollow even, and as Kassie allowed her eyes to wander over her, she noticed for the first time the small bulge around her belly. And suddenly she thought she knew what had unbalanced this lucky couple’s world.

  ‘Look, maybe I should go,’ Kassie said, putting her coffee cup down.

  ‘Don’t. I’d rather you were here. It’s very quiet when I
’m on my own.’

  Kassie hesitated, uncertain whether to follow her instinct to depart or stay and keep her wounded hostess company.

  ‘We lost a baby,’ Faith continued quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sometimes I like to be alone … it’s easier … but other times …’

  She petered out, emotion mastering her. Kassie suddenly had a painfully clear image of a grief-stricken woman rattling around this empty house, her unfulfilled hopes for the future goading her in the quiet, child-free rooms. Instinctively, she took a step forward, and laid a hand on Faith’s arm. To her surprise, Faith grasped it, as if hanging on for dear life.

  ‘It must be hell,’ Kassie found herself saying, stroking Faith’s arm with her free hand, trying to bring some comfort to the distraught mother.

  Faith nodded forcefully, as a couple of tears slid down her face.

  ‘It’s worse than that.’

  Kassie murmured her agreement, unsure how to respond. Faith was more than twice her age and the teenager felt seriously out of her depth. Once again, she wondered if it would be better if she left – Adam would hardly thank her for upsetting his wife – when Faith looked up. She scrutinized Kassie for a moment, as if weighing up whether to speak or not, then said:

  ‘Do you think …?’

  Still she hesitated, searching Kassie’s face for answers.

  ‘Do you think she suffered?’

  Kassie was wrong-footed by the question, but Faith was staring at her intently now, as if yearning for her counsel. Flustered, uncomfortable, Kassie dropped her gaze.

  ‘When Annabelle died, did she suffer at all?’

  Kassie tried to keep calm, but she felt unnerved, unsettled, out of her depth.

  ‘Please, Kassie … I need to know.’

  What was she expected to say? What exactly had Adam told Faith about her? She had no idea what the unborn baby had experienced, she had no image of her, no concept of her existence. Yet such was Faith’s clear need for solace, for succour, that Kassie surprised herself by replying:

  ‘No. No, she didn’t suffer at all.’

  And, to Kassie’s immense shame, Faith smiled back at her through her tears.

  58

  Gabrielle felt sick to her stomach.

  She had received the call first thing this morning, as she was dropping her boys off at school. Such was the absurdity of her life – chatting amiably with the Principal about Zack’s college plans one minute, digesting Suarez’s garbled bulletin the next. She’d raced over to the crime scene – a sailing club on the edge of the lake – hoping she might contain the incident – but as she’d pulled into the crowded parking lot she’d realized this was a fond hope. CSI officers were already on site, as were uniformed CPD officers, and beyond them a handful of bystanders and a growing number of journalists.

  The abandoned Ford Ranger stood alone in the empty parking lot. Emily Bartlett, the CPD’s Chief Forensics Officer, had recently arrived at the scene and joined Gabrielle as she took in the contents of the trunk. She had known what to expect but still the sight was profoundly shocking. A plastic sheet, wet with gore, containing a mutilated body. The ashen face of the female victim looked horrified, her long, blood-caked tresses hanging down over a hideously deep neck wound. Disgusted, Gabrielle turned away, gesturing to Bartlett to proceed with her investigation. As she did so, Miller appeared by her side.

  ‘Who found her?’ Gabrielle asked, still reeling.

  ‘Manager of the sailing club. Car was here when he arrived. He noticed the trunk wasn’t shut properly, so …’

  ‘And do we have any idea who she is?’

  ‘No ID yet … obviously,’ Miller replied, cautiously. ‘But the car is registered to a Rochelle Stevens.’

  An hour later, Gabrielle and her team had conducted a preliminary search of Rochelle Stevens’ smart suburban house. The owner worked in addiction therapy, so Gabrielle assumed her property was parent-funded, as there was no evidence in the numerous framed photos of a boyfriend or husband. There was little out of place in the well-maintained property, but a window at the rear had been smashed and the French windows were unlocked. If an intruder had gained access, this was presumably how he or she had done so. The crime scene team had already set up a common approach path to avoid contaminating the entry route and they were hard at work scouring the surfaces for fibres, skin cells and more.

  Gabrielle was fervently hoping they would come up with something because, other than the broken window, there were no obvious signs of disturbance. The furniture was in place, the beds were made, the towels were hanging neatly in the bathroom. The owner’s purse, keys and cell phone were lying on the hall table, next to yesterday’s post, and a grey shoulder bag lay on the floor beneath it, the latter containing a ticket that had been used on the ‘L’ yesterday afternoon. Her car was gone – obviously – but the garage door was secured, so, overall, were it not for the fact that Rochelle had failed to turn up for work this morning, there was nothing obvious linking the owner of this house to the devastated body found in the trunk.

  With little concrete evidence to go on, Gabrielle set about investigating the missing woman’s cell phone. There was nothing interesting in her recent emails or texts, so Gabrielle proceeded straight to her diary. This was more illuminating. Rochelle was clearly a woman who liked to organize her life. Everything was scheduled and pre-planned, right down to her favourite TV programme – Scandal – which she seemed to watch religiously every Tuesday night. Yesterday afternoon, she had led an NA meeting in the Lower West Side. The time stamp on her ‘L’ ticket corresponded more or less with the conclusion of the NA meeting and her bag and keys were here, so presumably Rochelle had returned straight home from her session … then vanished off the face of the earth. In all likelihood then, the last confirmed sighting of Rochelle was at her rehab group in the Lower West Side.

  Which was precisely where Gabrielle was heading now.

  59

  Adam wrenched the steering wheel sharply to the left, sliding across two lanes of traffic and into a vacant parking bay. He took it too fast and at a crazy angle, his tyres buffeting the kerb and throwing him forward in his seat. All around he could hear car horns blaring, angry motorists signalling their displeasure, but he didn’t care. His attention was riveted to the voice on the radio.

  ‘… just before seven a.m. this morning. According to a source close to the investigation …’

  Adam turned the volume up, his hand shaking slightly as he did so.

  ‘… the body had been extensively mutilated and the victim’s throat cut. Jacob Jones, an Illinois state’s attorney, was murdered in similar fashion less than a week ago and questions are now being asked of the investigation run by the CPD’s Bureau of Detectives …’

  The words washed over him, but Adam struggled to process them. When he had parted with Kassie last night, nothing had been amiss, there had been no sign that a crime had taken place. It was just possible, of course, that the two crimes were not connected, but even that faint hope was now extinguished by the sombre newscaster.

  ‘We’ve had no official identification as yet, but we’re hearing that the victim is female, in her late twenties and from the West Town area. We believe that she was known to the authorities because of her work in addiction therapy and has been a resident of Chicago for some time …’

  The bulletin continued, the newscaster going as far as she dared without actually naming the victim. But Adam knew exactly who she was talking about. Rochelle Stevens was dead, just as Kassie had predicted. How was that possible? Adam realized now that he had been clinging to the hope that Kassie would be proved wrong, that Rochelle would eventually surface, alive and well, forcing the teenager to confront the deeper reasons for her ‘visions’. But what now? What game was Kassie playing here? What did she know?

  For the first time in his adult life, Adam felt adrift. Leaning forward, he turned the radio off, unable to listen to any more. A difficult, distress
ing day had just got a whole lot darker.

  60

  ‘Isn’t it terrible? Such a young woman. Her whole life ahead of her …’

  Madelaine Baines had a very full schedule this morning – dropping off the dry cleaning, picking up the groceries, a trip to Phone Shack and the Nail Bar – but some things were too important to let pass without comment. She wasn’t sure her designated server, who was busy sorting out her handset upgrade, shared her feelings, but this did not deter her from making her emotions plain.

  ‘They said on the news that she was only twenty-six. To end up like that, in the trunk of a car. They’re saying that she’s the second victim … You know, after that poor man …’

  ‘Right …’ her server grunted, as he laboured to insert her new SIM card.

  ‘What was his name? Jacob something?’

  As she spoke, Madelaine cast around for someone else to engage with. Men were so useless sometimes … but the store was busy this morning and there were no other servers to share her shock with. They probably weren’t from round here anyway and wouldn’t understand why it was so alarming. God knows, Chicago was no stranger to homicide, but this was something else.

  Two innocents, abducted from their homes, then brutally murdered. From West Town of all places, the neighbourhood she’d made her home since she moved to Chicago twenty years ago. Jacob Jones – that was his name – had lived a few blocks from here. Was it possible this young woman lived close by too?

  Madelaine continued to let her mind turn on this, as she hurried back to her car. She had plenty of other things to distract her – the kids, Paul, her charity work – but already a plan was beginning to form. Madelaine knew she was a strong flavour – that occasionally people found her bossy, even a touch domineering – but say what you like about her, she was never found wanting in a crisis. She was always ready to step up to the plate.