The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

  The man rolled off of her, reached for his shirt. “Oh yeah,” he said casually. “David sends his love.”

  The scream had grown too big then. It had exploded up her throat and ripped through her mind. It had burst out of her eyeballs and wiped out her brain. It had gone on and on and on, a sonic boom of a scream. And still she never made a sound. No one heard a thing.

  And then as violently as it had started, the scream recoiled, turned in on itself, sank back into her body and took her with it into a dark, velvety abyss.

  She had spent a year wanting to remember. Now, in the car with this man, Meg wished she could forget.

  He had driven her to a section of town she didn’t recognize. Remote. Desolate. The kind of place where only bad things happened. Pulling into a side alley, he took her hands in a surprisingly strong grasp. She smelled the latex before she saw it. Her stomach roiled. She thought she would be sick. He slid the figure-eight ties over her wrists, tightened the bindings, then placed his hand on her breast.

  So this was it, she’d realized.

  Absurdly, she thought of Jillian. The classes they’d taken in self-defense, the books they’d read on surviving assault.

  Women do not have to be victims.

  But then why did they make men with such strong grips?

  “We have a few hours,” he said lightly. “I have some things I need to do first. But once I’ve completed my chores . . . Don’t worry, Meg. I remember how you like it.” He flicked his thumb over her nipple. He gave her one last cruel smile, then tied a rolled black T-shirt around her head.

  She had been living in darkness ever since.

  More sounds now. Banging. Cupboard doors opening and closing. The rattle of pans. Her stomach growled and she suddenly knew what he was doing. He was making lunch. The monster had brought her to his lair, tied her up, captive, terrified for her life, and now he was fixing himself a goddamn cup of soup.

  She jerked her arms painfully. Pulled hard on the bindings looped through a metal anchor above her head. Nothing, nothing, nothing! She wanted to scream in frustration.

  Women are not victims! She was not a victim! Dammit, she had read the books, she had taken the courses. She had listened to Jillian and she had believed. How could one girl be so damn unlucky? How could she have spent the last year coming so far, just to wind up here?

  She yanked on the bindings again. Felt the concrete hold strong while her own flesh tore, and her wrist once again began to bleed.

  And then she just wanted to weep.

  He would finish eating soon. He would open the door at the top of the stairs. He would descend into the basement with its musty smell of decay and fresh-turned earth.

  And then?

  Jillian had told them that they could control their own lives. Jillian had told them that if they tried hard enough, they could win. They could be confident and independent and strong.

  But Meg couldn’t think like Jillian anymore. She was just a twenty-year-old girl. And she was tired and she was hungry and she was terrified. And soon, very soon, something bad was going to happen. Something worse than even the College Hill Rapist.

  Very soon, the man had promised her, David would be here.

  In the intensive care unit, Dan sat reading a book. Recovering from Rape: A Guide for Victims and Their Families. He had bought the book two weeks ago. He was now on the chapter “The First Anniversary and Beyond—When You Are Not ‘Over It.’ ”

  Monitors beeped in steady rhythm to his wife’s pulse. Down the hall, some other machine started to beep frantically and a nurse boomed, “Code, code, code!” The words were swiftly followed by the clatter of wheels and metal as someone raced a crash cart to the rescue.

  Carol never stirred. Her chest rose and fell peacefully. Her head lay serenely on a golden pool of hair. The white sheets remained smooth and unmussed over the faint mound of her chest.

  Every now and then, her right hand would twitch. In the last twenty hours, it was the closest they’d gotten to any sign of consciousness.

  Dan finished the chapter from the survivor’s point of view. Now he moved on to “The Significant Other—When She’s Not ‘Over It.’ ”

  He read, and though he was not aware of it, sometimes he cried.

  Down the hall, the doctors and nurses fought desperately to save a life. While in Carol’s room her heart beat steadily, her lungs worked rhythmically, and her very peacefulness threatened to steal her away.

  Dan finished the chapter. Now he gazed at his sleeping wife, his elbows planted on his knees, his head bent. His left arm still ached where Carol had shot him. He barely noticed it anymore.

  Twenty hours of vigilance. Twenty hours of hoping and praying and wishing and cursing.

  He thought of all the years and all the ways fate had been unkind. He thought of all the things Carol had done and he had done. He wondered why we always hurt the people we love. And then he wondered why it took an emergency room visit to understand what was really important in life.

  He would turn back the clock if he could. He would forget the lure of blackjack; he would find a way to be happy at a corporate law firm. He would come home more, ignore his wife less, concentrate on all the little things that used to make her smile. He would be the perfect husband, a man who came home in time to stop the vicious attacker, a man who didn’t drive his wife to bingeing, purging, booze and pills.

  Of course that wasn’t an option. All he could do now was slog messily on, with his injured arm and massive debts and drowning sense of guilt. Carol was broken, he was broken. According to the rape book, such feelings were natural and it would probably be a while before either one of them felt whole—if they ever felt whole. You just had to keep going, the book advised. Wade through the pain, keep looking for the other side.

  There had to be another side.

  “I love you,” he said to Carol.

  He got no response.

  “Dammit, Carol, don’t let him win like this!”

  Still no response.

  Down the hall, things took a turn for the worse. No more frantic noises. Just a far eerier silence. Then a doctor’s voice penetrated the hush. “Time of death,” the doctor announced.

  “Fuck it!” Dan cried. He threw down the book. He climbed onto the white hospital bed. He negotiated wires and tape and tubes until he could gather up his wife. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Her long blond hair poured down his chest.

  Dan got his arms around Carol. He pressed her against his body, and he held her as close as he could.

  While down the hall, the crash team wearily retreated to the break room, where they turned their attention to the TV.

  “Hey,” someone said. “Isn’t that David Price?”

  Still sitting in the Pesaturos’ living room, Jillian didn’t know what to do. Tom was staring at the floor, as if the worn carpet held the secret to life. Laurie had disappeared into the kitchen, where, judging from the distinct smell of Pine-Sol, she was waging a holy war against dirt. That left Libby and Toppi to entertain Molly. The little girl now had Libby picking through a shoe box of Barbie clothes while Toppi was in charge of getting a hot-pink cape onto a stuffed Winnie the Pooh. Jillian couldn’t begin to fathom what that was all about.

  Tom stared, Laurie cleaned, Molly played, and Jillian . . . ? She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. The Survivors Club was fractured. They had careened away from one another, whether they had meant to or not, and alone they definitely weren’t as strong as they had been together. Bitter Carol had given in to her self-destructive rage. Flaky Meg had vanished when her family needed her the most. And Jillian? Grim, determined, holier-than-thou Jillian? She had no troops to lead into battle. She sat next to her mother, slowly twisting Trisha’s gold St. Christopher pendant, and tried to rein in her scattered thoughts.

  If Griffin was right, the Survivors Club had been doubly victimized. First the rapist had battered their bodies. Then he’d duped them into wreaking not their vengeance, but his ven
geance upon some poor guy who’d tried to tell them better. Poor Eddie Como, proclaiming his innocence right up to the bitter end.

  If Jillian thought about that too much, thought of the man, Eddie, them, Trish, she was afraid she would start with yelling and end with breaking every object in the room.

  If she thought about it too much, she would be down in her sister’s dark apartment again. The man would be squeezing her throat, calling her vile names. And while he did these things, he would be laughing on the inside, because he already knew that when she tried to seek justice later, she’d only be serving his needs once again.

  While Trish died on the bed.

  One year ago, she had called Meg, she had called Carol. She had told them that they had been victimized once, but it never had to happen again. She had told them they could reclaim their lives. She had told them they could win.

  She had lied.

  Is this what life came down to in the end? You tried and you failed, you tried and you failed. The opposition was not just physically stronger than you but smarter as well? You could struggle as hard as you knew how, but still your sister died. You could finally arrest a murdering pedophile, and the man would simply smile and tell you exactly what he had done to your wife.

  David Price. David Price. It all came down to David Price. Charming, seemingly harmless, perfect neighbor, David Price.

  Jillian gripped Trisha’s medallion in her hand. It wasn’t so hard to transfer her rage after all. She wanted David Price dead. And then, for the first time, she truly understood Griffin. And then, for the first time, she had an inkling of an idea.

  The front door opened and shut. Laurie, who had gone out to get the mail, walked into the family room, sifting through the pile.

  She came to the middle. Meg’s mother started to scream.

  CHAPTER 37

  Maureen

  “THIS IS MAUREEN HAVERILL, REPORTING LIVE FROM THE Adult Correctional Institutions, Cranston. Today, startling new revelations in the College Hill Rapist case, which gained fresh intensity last night with the brutal murder of Brown College student Sylvia Blaire. Was twenty-eight-year-old Eddie Como, tragically shot down Monday at the Licht Judicial Complex, the real College Hill Rapist, as he was charged? Or was Como merely another victim in a sadistic game? I am here with ACI inmate David Price, a convicted murderer, who claims to know the real identity of the College Hill Rapist but tells us that state police have repeatedly ignored his offers of assistance. Mr. Price, what can you tell us about the attack on Sylvia Blaire?”

  “Good afternoon, Maureen. May I call you Maureen?” He kept his voice friendly, then gave her his most neighborly smile.

  “If you’d like. Now, Mr. Price—”

  “Please, call me David.”

  “David, you claim to have information on a very serious case. How is it that you know the College Hill Rapist?”

  “Well, we’re kind of like pen pals.”

  “Pen pals?”

  “Yes. See, the man, the real rapist, he’s been sending me letters.”

  “Letters? As in more than one?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Interesting. How many letters have you received from the man alleging to be the College Hill Rapist, David?”

  “I’d say six or seven.”

  “And when did you get the first letter?”

  “Over a year ago, shortly after I was sentenced to Max. Of course, in the beginning I didn’t take them very seriously. I mean, why would some rapist write to me? It wasn’t until the past few days I figured out the man might be legitimate.”

  “Can I see these letters, David? Do you have them? Can you show them to our viewers?”

  “Well, I do have them, Maureen . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, they’re evidence, aren’t they, Maureen? Letters from a rapist. I don’t think we should be handling something like that. I should just keep them safe for the state police. This is an important investigation. I don’t want to do anything that might mess it up.” He smiled at her again.

  She frowned. “But you said the state police aren’t taking your claims seriously, isn’t that right, David?”

  “The state police don’t like me very much.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, the head of the current investigation, Sergeant Griffin, used to be my next-door neighbor. Sergeant Griffin never liked me much. He was always working, you know—those state police detectives have very important jobs. But that meant his wife was home alone a lot. We became good friends, and I think . . . well, I think Sergeant Griffin might have been threatened by that. Not that he had any reason to be! His wife was a lovely lady, very nice. I don’t have any family, and she was very sweet to keep me company. She was really a wonderful, beautiful, sexy lady.”

  “David, isn’t it true that Sergeant Griffin was the arresting officer in your murder case?”

  “Well, yeah. And that makes him mad, too. I mean, it took him nearly a year to catch me, Maureen, and I lived right next door. When you’re a state police detective, I think that’s a little embarrassing.”

  “This was the infamous Candy Man case, was it not?”

  “I heard that’s what they called me.”

  “You were found guilty of murdering ten children, isn’t that correct, David?” She regarded him sternly. “The bodies of the children were found buried in your basement, and you are now serving ten consecutive life sentences with no hope of parole. Isn’t that correct?”

  David Price humbly bowed his head. Sitting once more in the private interview room of ACI’s rear hall, he practiced looking contrite. “It shames me to say it, Maureen, but you are correct. I’ve done some bad things in my time. On the other hand, I think that’s why the College Hill Rapist latched on to me. He seems to regard me as some kind of hero.”

  “The College Hill Rapist is impressed by you?” She looked dubious, maybe it was disgusted.

  “I believe so, Maureen. He said that in the first letter. He was doing something he thought only I would understand.”

  “He told you about the rapes?”

  “In the most recent letter. He provided very graphic detail, Maureen, including things only the real rapist could know. Which is what I’ve been trying to tell the police.”

  “Can you give us an example, David? What is something only the ‘real rapist’ would know?”

  David switched from looking contrite to looking troubled. “I don’t know, Maureen . . . It’s an official investigation. Maybe I should keep quiet. Sometimes the police don’t like the public to know everything. It compromises the investigation. I wouldn’t want to do anything like that . . .”

  Maureen took the bait. “Authenticity, David,” she responded instantly. “If you give us just one detail, one little thing that only the real College Hill Rapist would know, that would prove the authenticity of your letters. And that would be a huge break in the investigation. People would be very proud of you.”

  “You think?”

  “One little detail, David. Just one little detail.”

  “Well, I can think of one. But, it’s kind of graphic . . .”

  Maureen leaned closer with the mike. “This is a serious crime, David. The women of Providence are scared. We need to hear what you know.”

  “Well, okay. He, um, well, he uses douches on the victims. That’s a detail. He’s used it on all of them, when he was done. The police think it’s because he’s trying to remove . . . well, you know. I can’t say it in front of a lady.”

  “Semen, David?”

  “Well, yes.” David squirmed in the orange plastic chair, then looked right into the camera and blushed charmingly. “So he uses a douche when he is done with each woman. But the police are wrong, Maureen. He’s not removing semen. Instead, according to his letters, he’s . . . well, he’s putting stuff in. He’s using the douche to spray another man’s sample, Eddie Como’s DNA, at the scene. And that’s why the police can’t catch him. All the evidence
points to another guy. Let’s face it, four attacks later, the police are no closer to identifying the real College Hill Rapist. They haven’t a clue.”

  Sitting across the table, Maureen was clearly breathless. “This man thinks he’s invented the perfect crime, doesn’t he, David?”

  “Oh, absolutely. He’s proud of what he’s done. And he has no intention of stopping. His letters are very clear. He enjoys hurting women. Honestly likes it. And he’s going to keep going and going and going—”

  “You’ve told this to the state police?”

  “Maureen, I’ve been calling the police ever since Eddie was shot, poor guy. The minute I heard he was gunned down at the courthouse, I knew the letters were for real. This guy, you see, he framed Eddie and then he killed Eddie so it would look like a dead man was attacking Providence’s coeds. He’s smart, Maureen. Very smart. That’s what I’ve tried to tell the police.”

  “You’ve actually spoken with the police?”

  “Sergeant Griffin finally met with me this morning. It didn’t go well, though, Maureen. He threatened me with interfering with a police investigation. Then he got mad and started going on about his wife. I’m telling you, we were just friends!”

  “Did you show Sergeant Griffin the letters you received?”

  “He never gave me the chance. From the beginning, it was obvious he thought I was lying.”

  She leaned forward intently. “Are you lying, David?”

  David looked straight at the camera, and deep into the eyes of the viewing public. “No, Maureen. And the fact that I know about the douches should be proof enough. Call the ME, call a Providence detective. They’ll tell you that a Berkely and Johnson’s Disposable Douche with Country Flowers was found at every rape scene, even this last one. Now how could I know that if I hadn’t learned it from the real College Hill Rapist?”

  Maureen turned toward the camera. She said somberly, “In fact, I learned just this morning from an inside source that douches are considered a signature element of the College Hill Rapist’s attacks, something that has never before been revealed to the general public. Also, police found a used douche in the home of slain college student Sylvia Blaire, raising the theory that she is the College Hill Rapist’s latest victim.” She turned back to David, her expression grave. “David, I don’t think you’re lying. The viewing public doesn’t think you’re lying. So tell us the real name of the College Hill Rapist.”