The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

  Molly sat on the floor of her bedroom and waited.

  CHAPTER 40

  Price

  “WE NEED A SUBPOENA—”

  “We have probable cause—”

  “The College Hill Rapist Case—”

  “Como donated sperm to a Pawtucket sperm bank—”

  “The rapist had to have access to those samples in order to plant evidence at the crime scenes—”

  “We need to see some personnel records. Now!”

  It wasn’t the most elegant arguing Griffin and Waters had ever done before a judge, but it did the trick. At five-eleven, they received their subpoena. They promptly drove ninety miles per hour back to Korporate Klean, burnt some rubber making the hard right turn into the parking lot and squealed around to the front doors.

  First thing they saw was Fitz, standing outside, hand on Mr. Green’s arm, talking furiously. Green was obviously trying to make good on his threat to go home at five. Fitz was obviously making good on his vow to stand guard.

  Griffin screeched to a halt directly in front of them, while Waters thrust the subpoena out his open window.

  “We require access to your files, now!” Waters announced.

  Sal Green sighed and shook his head at their persistence. Then he turned back toward the building.

  Five minutes later, he kicked an old gray metal filing cabinet three times, jerked the lower drawer open, then gestured to the emerging row of files. “These are my current employees.”

  Griffin eyed what appeared to be forty to fifty names. They didn’t have that kind of time. “People who work the sperm bank,” he said curtly. “Past and present.”

  “I rotate the crews—it keeps everyone on their toes.”

  “Date of hire November through April, Mr. Green. Move it!”

  For a moment, it looked like Green might protest. Griffin’s hands started itching at his sides. He was trying to remember what Lieutenant Morelli had said. For that matter, what his therapist, his brothers and Waters had said. Mostly, however, he felt himself descending down, down, down into that dark basement with its neat rows of sad little graves.

  Green started pulling files. Griffin figured it was the best decision the man had made all day.

  He, Waters and Fitz began skimming. Ten minutes later, Fitz won the prize. “I know this man! Ron Viggio. I arrested him myself, several years back. A regular Peeping Tom. The woman was embarrassed though, and wouldn’t press charges.”

  “Peeping Tom,” Waters said. “That sounds like a budding rapist to me.”

  “Hey, all I know about was an arrest for B&E,” Green protested immediately. “Viggio told me about it up front. It was all some misunderstanding, he was trying to plant a surprise in his girlfriend’s apartment and a neighbor took it the wrong way.”

  “He was caught breaking into a woman’s home?” Griffin asked sharply.

  Green shrugged. “He was charged, not tried. At least that’s what I was told.”

  Griffin was already dialing his cell phone. “Sergeant Griffin here. I need you to run a name through the system. Ronald Viggio.V-I-G-G-I-O. Yep. Uh huh.” And two minutes after that. “Current address?”

  “All right.” He grabbed the file. “Let’s go.”

  “Hey now!” Green started to protest again, but no one waited around to hear.

  Five-thirty P.M.

  The state marshals appeared and led David to the waiting transport van. Courtesy of his lawyer’s timely delivery, David was wearing his own clothes for the first time in a year and a half—a pair of tan khakis, a dark blue button-down shirt and dark brown loafers. The clothes had been searched and run through the metal detector, of course. So had he.

  Now his hands and ankles were shackled. A state marshal walked on either side, both heavyset faces grim. David smiled at his escorts. He smiled at the assembled corrections officers. He smiled at the waiting blue van. He was in a good mood.

  They loaded him up.

  “Try anything, buster,” one of the state marshals said, “and we’ll grind you into dust. Capisce?”

  “I don’t speak Italian, you English-challenged hump.”

  The marshal growled at him. David smiled back.

  The van doors closed. Soon the prison gates would open.

  Five thirty-five P.M. So close to freedom, David could taste it on his lips. Five, ten more minutes, and the gates would open. Five, ten more minutes, and his real journey would begin.

  Thank you, Sergeant Griffin, he thought. And of course, thank you, Meg.

  “Apparently, Ron Viggio didn’t feel the need to tell his employer about his entire criminal history,” Griffin said as he hurtled his car onto the interstate and Waters called for backup. “Turns out he wasn’t arrested for B&E, but for first-degree sexual assault. He also spent three years behind bars in the mid-nineties for breaking into a woman’s home.”

  “So first he’s a Peeping Tom, then he’s breaking into women’s homes, then he goes for assault. Wow, he’s positively textbook.”

  “Yeah. Unfortunately, the sexual-assault charge didn’t stick. The woman had had a prior relationship with Viggio—they’d dated briefly—and since she’d slept with him willingly in the past, she got worried the jury wouldn’t believe her claim. Or maybe she just got freaked out at the thought of the trial. It’s not exactly a walk in the park.”

  “Why try the defendant when you can beat up the victim?”

  “Exactly. Viggio entered Intake in December, his accuser dropped the charges in January. His probation officer can probably tell us even more stories.” Griffin came to the Cranston exit, flashed his lights at the sluggish traffic, then whipped around them, cursing. Some jerk pulled out in front of him. He slammed the brakes hard and swore, and Waters grabbed the bullhorn. “To the right. NOW!”

  That put the fear of God into the asshole. Of course the driver shot them a dirty look as they went barreling by. Civilians.

  “Viggio had four weeks at Intake during the same time as David Price,” Griffin said, breathing hard, his palms dampening with a combination of adrenaline and anticipation. He found the proper side street, his speedometer over eighty and his attention focused on the wheel.

  “Oooh, is it just coincidence?”

  “Or is it probable cause? By December, Viggio had probably figured out that it was only a matter of time until he attacked a woman again. But he also knew his DNA and prints were already in the system, so the first time he gave in to impulse, he’d have two detectives knocking on his door. Then he remembered good ol’ David Price, who lived next door to a cop and still got away with killing ten kids. Good ol’ David Price, who’s conveniently locked up with him in Intake.”

  “Even rapists need role models,” Waters said.

  “Unfortunately for us. And now, unfortunately for Viggio. Hang on a sec, we’re here.” Griffin saw the street sign belatedly, hit the brakes and let the momentum of the car’s back end whip them around the turn. He promptly killed the grille lights and eased up on the gas. He didn’t want to spook Viggio by racing down the street, lights flashing. First, they would conduct a casual drive-by to assess the home.

  They neared the address and immediately spotted a man walking out the front door, heading for his car in the driveway. The man wore dark blue pants, a light blue chambray shirt and, from the back at least, could’ve been a double for Eddie Como. Hello, Ron Viggio.

  “Jesus Christ,” Waters murmured in awe.

  “He’s gonna bail!” Griffin warned. He grabbed the radio. “Everyone, greenlight, greenlight, greenlight!”

  Griffin whipped his car sideways onto the driveway, blocked Viggio’s vehicle and slammed on the brakes. Viggio’s head popped up. He registered the two unmarked cars and one police cruiser bearing down on him. And then he ran.

  “Move, move, move.” Griffin was out of his car. Up ahead, he saw Fitz swerve his Taurus into another driveway in an attempt to stop the fleeing suspect. Viggio leapt onto the Taurus’s hood, jumped down the othe
r side and kept moving.

  Shouts now. Waters bellowing, “Police, stop!” Residents peering out of their homes and yelping in surprise at the commotion. Officers yelling as they tore out of their cruisers and prepared to give chase.

  Griffin had the lead. He scrambled over Fitz’s hood and thundered down the sidewalk. He’d show Ron Viggio what a five-minute mile meant. Vaguely he was aware of Waters racing right along beside him. Fitz panted somewhere in the distance.

  Viggio glanced frantically over his shoulder and saw them closing the gap. He darted right, headed between two small houses and leapt a low wooden fence. A woman shrieked. A dog barked. Griffin heard it all from far away as he vaulted the fence, homed in on Viggio and dove for the man’s legs.

  At the last minute, Viggio spun left, avoiding the tackle and reaching a tall chain-link fence. Griffin went down, rolled into the fall and was back on his feet in time to see Viggio and Waters disappear over the barrier. He jumped onto the chain link and resumed pursuit.

  They had arrived in someone’s personal version of a salvage yard. A small white house sat forlornly in the middle of a pile of twisted, burnt-out wrecks. For a moment, Griffin couldn’t see anyone at all. Then he heard a clatter as Viggio darted past a pile of rusty hubcaps, and Waters went careening around another gutted car.

  Griffin watched Viggio’s line, saw the obvious destination—a kid’s bike by the home’s front door—and raced around the other side of the house.

  He burst into view twenty feet in front of Viggio. “Boo!” Griffin roared.

  A startled Ron Viggio drew up short.

  And Waters took him out with a flying tackle.

  Ten minutes later, Ron Viggio sat handcuffed in the back of a Rhode Island police cruiser, sullenly refusing to talk. They let him be for now and descended upon his home. In the bathroom, Waters found the neatly stacked boxes of latex gloves. In the kitchen pantry, Fitz bagged and tagged three rows of Berkely and Johnson Disposable Douches, all Country Flowers. Then, of course, there were the vials they found in the freezer.

  The kitchen table held an open package of model rocketry igniters and was covered with some sort of gray clay. Griffin sniffed the gray material suspiciously, then left it for Jack-n-Jack to figure out. They checked the upstairs bedrooms, the downstairs bathroom and all the closets. Still no sign of Meg.

  Griffin finally found a door beneath the staircase, a door leading to the basement. He took a deep breath, motioned to Waters, and together they descended into the depths.

  “Meg?” Griffin called out. Something grazed the top of his head. The end of a pull chain for an overhead light.

  Still no sound in the dark.

  Steeled for the worst, he yanked the chain and turned on the light.

  Thirty seconds later, he and Waters had walked the entire length of the dank, empty space.

  “Floor doesn’t even looked disturbed,” Waters said. “I don’t think anyone’s been down here for a bit.”

  Griffin thought about it. “Car?” he asked with a frown.

  “Gotta be.”

  “Shit.”

  They were back up the stairs and out of the house. Car wouldn’t be good. Trunk of a car would be even worse. Hold it together. Remember the lessons of the past year.

  The driver’s-side door wasn’t locked. Waters opened it with gloved hands, while Griffin ran around to the trunk. He had his firearm out, just in case. On the count of three, Waters popped the trunk.

  Griffin leveled his gun.

  “Hey,” he said a split second later. “Isn’t that a bomb?”

  Carol had started to move. Dan didn’t know if it was good movement or bad movement. At first, just her right hand twitched. He’d taken that as a good sign, stroking her fingers, trying to talk his wife back to life.

  Then, her left leg had started to twitch, and she had developed a hitch in her breathing. He wasn’t sure what that meant. The doctors had told him that the high dosage of Ambien and alcohol in her bloodstream had effectively shut down her system. In theory, however, her kidneys would do their job, removing the impurities from her bloodstream, and she would respond by waking up. At least that’s what they hoped.

  Was twitching the same as waking? Did people regain consciousness by first suffering labored breathing?

  Dan was standing now. He patted Carol’s hand, smoothed back her hair from her pale, cool forehead.

  “Come on, honey,” he murmured. “Come back to me, love. It’s going to be all right. I promise you, this time, things are going to be better.”

  Her left leg twitched again. Her breathing hiccupped.

  Dan leaned forward. He gazed down at his wife’s quiet, peaceful face, as beautiful now as the first day he had met her.

  And he realized for the first time that her chest was no longer moving. Her breathing had not returned.

  A machine started to beep. Dan dropped his wife’s hand. He raced into the hallway, his voice already frantic.

  “Help, help! Somebody, help us, please!”

  Five forty-five P.M.

  The massive ACI gates swung open. The blue transport van pulled forward. David Price, still grinning, was on his way. In the Pesaturo home, Lieutenant Morelli finished up last-minute details of the meeting, including handing Tom and Laurie bulletproof vests.

  They had told Molly they were going to play a game. They were going to a park for a police officers’ picnic. They would have some punch, eat some cookies and she could watch all the police officers do their jobs. A man might come and play pretend, too. But not to worry. He was just part of the game.

  Molly regarded them solemnly. Children always knew when adults were telling a lie.

  They were walking out the front door, faces somber, moods grim, when Morelli’s cell phone rang.

  It was Griffin. “We got him, we got him, we got him! We’ve found boxes of latex gloves, plus the douches. Ron Viggio, former cleaner of the Pawtucket sperm bank, is definitely the College Hill Rapist.”

  “And Meg?” Morelli asked sharply. Tom and Laurie froze, stared at her.

  “Not here.”

  “Where the hell is she?”

  “We don’t know yet. Viggio’s not talking. But we can apply some pressure, retrace his steps. We’ll find her, Lieutenant. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Morelli looked at Tom and Laurie. “We have a man who may be the College Hill Rapist,” she told them quietly, “but we haven’t found Meg.”

  “Do they have any leads?” Laurie asked.

  “Sergeant Griffin believes it is only a matter of time.”

  “How much time? Does she have food, does she have water? What if she’s being held somewhere outside? We want our daughter, we need our daughter to be safe.”

  “Don’t let him go, Lieutenant,” Griffin was saying excitedly into the phone. “Don’t let Price out. We can do this on our own. We don’t need Price anymore.”

  Morelli looked again at the Pesaturos’ anxious faces. She glanced at her watch. Five fifty-five P.M. She said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. It’s too late.”

  CHAPTER 41

  The Candy Man

  MEG WAS FRIGHTENED. HER ARMS AND SHOULDERS HURT seriously now, throbbed with a low keening ache. Her fingers, however, she barely felt at all. They were slow, sluggish, like a separate entity that no longer belonged to her.

  Sometimes she felt moisture in her hair, a slow, steady drip. At first, she thought the ceiling had developed a leak. Now she realized it was more blood from her torn, shredded wrists.

  She still swayed back and forth, slower now, with less force. Sometimes the wall anchor moved. More often than not, it remained rigidly fixed. She was slightly built, admirably thin. In other words, she didn’t have the mass to get the job done. And now she was feeling tired beyond tired. She had strange spells where she couldn’t tell whether she was asleep or awake. Her lips were dry and cracked. Her tongue felt glued to her mouth.

  Perversely, her bladder had finally given out on her. She hadn�
�t gone to the bathroom since first thing this morning and she simply couldn’t hold it any longer. The shame was worse than the discomfort. To be a grown adult with urine-soaked pants; it wasn’t right.

  And now, to add insult to injury . . .

  She missed her captor. She genuinely wished, way down deep, that he would return to her. Maybe, her fuzzy, fatigued mind reasoned, he would cut her down, ease the ache in her shoulders. Maybe, she fantasized, he’d give her a bath, let her feel human again.

  And if he did touch her after that, if he did demand some kind of payment . . .

  She wouldn’t be in the dark anymore. She wouldn’t be lost with wet jeans and bleeding wrists. She wouldn’t be alone in a musty basement that felt too much like a grave.

  These thoughts were bad, she realized in the saner corner of her mind. These thoughts let him win. She had to hold tough, be strong. She had to ignore her pain. To focus her anger, as Jillian liked to say.

  We are not victims. The minute we believe that, we let the rapist win. When it boils down to brute strength, ladies, perhaps we can’t protect our bodies. But we can always control our minds.

  Oh please, oh please, oh please let her get out of this. Before her arms gave out completely. Before she did anything she’d regret. Before . . .

  Before David Price arrived.

  David couldn’t see out of the van very well. The transport vehicle offered no side window, and there was a mesh screen between him and the two state marshals, which blurred the front windshield.

  That was okay: he didn’t need to know where he was or where he was going. That was not relevant to matters at hand.

  David leaned forward and pretended to stretch out his back. Then he shifted restlessly from side to side, his fingers slipping along his left shirtsleeve until he found the slim wooden shape sewn into the cuff.

  The bulk was barely noticeable. The quarter-inch-thick, heavily lacquered wooden lock pick was tucked inside the top seam of the cuff, where the heavy chambray fabric already formed a ridge. If nothing else, Viggio was very good at following instructions. Then, in a move he’d spent the past four months practicing, David leaned forward and bit the hem of his right pant leg. Inside the pant cuff, his tongue found the waiting treasure—what appeared to be crumbled bits of white chalk. Pieces of Alka-Seltzer—too small to be easily noticed, and like the wooden pick, guaranteed not to set off a metal detector.