The Survivors Club

by Lisa Gardner

  The master bedroom had been unused for over a year and a half. The air smelled stale, the corners were draped with long, intricate cobwebs. The hardwood floor held a fine coating of undisturbed dust. Old ghosts fit in comfortably in a space like this. Jillian could look at the dusty wrought-iron bed, and for the first time picture perfectly what Carol had gone through. A man coming through that window under cover of night. A man pouncing, hitting, gagging, tying. A woman screaming, and still not making a sound.

  A woman victimized in a place where she had every right to feel safe.

  Meg had unconsciously taken Jillian’s hand. Then Carol walked right in, snapped on a light, and that easily the spell was broken. The room was just a room after all. One, as a matter of fact, in need of a good cleaning.

  “Everything in here,” Carol said briskly, “goes.”

  Twenty minutes later, they retired to the hallway. Carol sat on the floor with a sigh. Jillian and Meg followed suit, leaning their heads against the wall.

  “Any regrets?” Jillian asked softly.

  Carol opened her eyes. “Honestly? Not as many as I thought I would have.”

  “It’s a beautiful home,” Meg said. “You should be proud of what you did with it.”

  “I am. But you know, it is just a house. And for as much love and attention as went into renovating it, a lot of not so loving things happened here. It’s good to get out. I can get a fresh start. The money will help Dan make a fresh start. And you know, our new home is nice, too. Just on a much smaller scale. But that back family room, I’m already thinking . . . Take out a wall, add a few more windows, and we’d have the perfect sunroom right off the kitchen. Put up some plants, polish the hardwood floors . . .”

  She broke off. Jillian and Meg were smiling at her.

  “You’re hopeless,” Jillian said.

  “I like houses. All houses, I guess. Oh, hey. I’m a house slut!”

  She beamed proudly and they laughed.

  “Dan’s taking to corporate life?” Jillian asked.

  Carol shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Being on payroll again means less freedom, but it’s also a lot less stress than running his own practice. Plus, let’s be frank, we need the money.”

  “The auction will help,” Meg said.

  “Sure. Between downsizing the house, getting Dan a real job, getting me a part-time job, hey, we might actually be debt-free by the end of the year.” She smiled, though it was chagrined. “Not exactly what we were expecting as we hit our mid-forties. No savings, no retirement funds. No white picket fence.”

  “Is he going to his Gambler’s Anonymous meetings?”

  “He goes to his meetings, I go to my shrink. Ah, yuppie love.”

  “You put the new house in your name?” Jillian checked.

  “He insisted upon it himself. The car’s in my name now, too, and get this, we have only one credit card, which is owned by me. Even if he does slip, there’s not much damage he can do.”

  “He’s trying very hard, Carol.”

  “Actually, I’m proud of him. Maybe life isn’t what we were expecting. But maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. When we had everything we thought we wanted, we were miserable. Maybe by having nothing we’ll finally learn to appreciate one another. Own less, but have more. I think . . . well”—her tone grew brisk again—“we have to start somewhere.”

  “You love him?” Meg asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then you’re very lucky.”

  Carol smiled. She angled her head and looked directly at Meg. “Now, how about you, hon? You’re still very pale.”

  “Too many nightmares,” Meg said immediately, making a face. “You know what’s strange? I keep dreaming about Eddie Como. He’s the man lurking over me. I know that’s not right. I know it was Ron Viggio, but somehow . . . We spent so long focused on Eddie, it’s like my subconscious can’t make the change.”

  “He’s a symbol,” Jillian said softly.

  “Exactly.”

  Now they all made a face and looked away. Eddie was still a tough subject. They had spent too long hating him. Viggio seemed almost like an abstraction, whereas Eddie remained tangibly real. Poor Eddie Como, railroaded for crimes he didn’t commit, framed by a psychopath and then sacrificed at a courthouse just to lure a certain state detective onto the case.

  Tawnya had finally dropped her lawsuit. Because Eddie’s semen was definitely found at the four rape scenes, her lawyer explained that he could no longer make the case for police negligence or corruption. Plus, the police had found the editing software that Ron Viggio had used to make the computer image file of Eddie threatening Jillian with violence, further evidence that Eddie had been deliberately framed by a madman. In the end, Eddie really hadn’t done anything worse than be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like them, he had been a victim.

  Two months ago, Jillian, Carol and Meg had gone together and put flowers on Eddie’s grave. It was as much as they could do for now. After that visit, on her own, Jillian had written another check for Eddie, Jr.’s, college fund.

  “At least there won’t be a trial this time,” Meg said now.

  “Thank God,” Carol echoed.

  Jillian was more philosophical. “It would’ve been too hard for D’Amato to argue the case. Viggio’s lawyer would simply keep saying Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, and the whole thing would’ve grown too confusing. A plea bargain was probably better all the way around.”

  “Cool, composed, Jillian,” Carol said, but smiled.

  Jillian’s look was more somber. “He killed my sister, Carol. I would’ve liked to see him on trial. I would’ve liked to hear twelve jurors find him guilty. And maybe it would’ve helped us make a better transition, refocus our anger where it belongs.”

  “He’s never getting out of jail,” Meg spoke up.

  “Yes, but if only he could’ve died like David Price.”

  No one argued that. As part of Viggio’s plea bargain, he had to make a full allocution of his and Price’s scheme. The details had been chilling. How Viggio had grown increasingly convinced that he needed to come up with the perfect way to commit rape. How he had approached David Price while they were both being held in ACI’s Intake and worked with David to devise the perfect plan. Viggio had already heard about Korporate Klean from his last time behind bars. One of the big jokes among inmates was that when you finally get out, the only job you could get would be cleaning up after a bunch of “jerk offs”—everyone knew Korporate Klean had the contract for the sperm bank.

  From there, things fell into place. Viggio spotted Eddie in the waiting room and realized they were a close physical match. He struck up a conversation with the guy, found out he worked for the Rhode Island Blood Center and needed some extra money because his girlfriend was pregnant. He started shadowing Eddie at the college blood drives and realized this was the perfect opportunity. He could attack socially conscious college coeds, and it would simply further implicate Eddie in the eyes of the police. He’d written the details to David Price, who had recommended using latex ties. That would make the frame airtight. David had also kindly suggested Meg as the first victim. A suitable “trial run,” he’d called her.

  Even if Viggio did screw up, they figured Meg wouldn’t go to the police. She wouldn’t want to have to admit her association with David Price, whose name Viggio made sure to mention during the rape. That the trauma of the attack induced amnesia wasn’t part of the plan, but hardly hurt them.

  Viggio scoped out the other victims in advance. Carol was a last-minute substitute but felt safe to him: he’d spent enough time in her neighborhood to figure out her husband’s car was never in the driveway. Trish met his criteria of a young coed living alone. Jillian’s intrusion had startled him, but it had proved irrelevant to his plan.

  By this point in the allocution, Viggio’s voice was cocky. In theory, he’d suffered three complications—Meg’s memory loss, Carol’s substitution and Jillian’s unexpected arrival,
and none of them had stopped him. He was invincible. Then the women had gone on TV, and not even that mattered. The police did the sensible thing. They arrested Eddie Como, and phase two of the plan went into effect.

  David’s involvement hadn’t been free, of course. He saw Eddie’s frame-up as the perfect opportunity to get out of prison. Viggio had instructions to hire an assassin, kill the assassin, then immediately strike again, leaving Eddie’s sperm at the scene. The new rape would stir the public into a panicked frenzy. And David could step to the plate with his offer to save the day. A hop, skip and jump later, and David would finally be out of prison.

  Viggio, of course, had had his reservations. But once he figured out he could kill David Price the same way he’d killed the hired gun, he hadn’t minded anymore. He’d followed David’s instructions and inserted the wooden lock pick and Alka-Seltzer tablets into David’s favorite pair of clothes, which were then dutifully retrieved by David’s lawyer from David’s storage area. Then Viggio had kidnapped Meg to increase police pressure to release David. Finally he’d secured a getaway vehicle, to be left at David’s former home.

  Of course, what David didn’t know was that Viggio had taken the liberty of booby-trapping the getaway car with a bomb. For Viggio, David getting out of prison equaled David winding up dead, which equaled Viggio attacking, torturing and killing young women forever. It was the perfect plan.

  Until the police pulled up in his driveway, and Detective Waters tackled him in a neighbor’s salvage yard. Viggio wasn’t going anyplace anymore.

  And the three women . . . The three women were doing their best to heal.

  Now Meg turned to Jillian. “Your turn,” she said. “Carol is getting a fresh start with Dan, I’m getting a fresh look at my sordid past. Now what’s new with you?”

  “Not much.”

  Carol and Meg exchanged looks.

  “I would never call Sergeant Griffin ‘not much,’ ” Carol drawled.

  Jillian promptly blushed.

  “Uh huh,” Carol said. “So that’s the way it is.”

  “You have a dirty mind!”

  “Damn right. Come on, Dan and I are seeing a sex therapist who has literally banned us from having sex for the next six months. I have to live through someone.”

  Both Jillian and Meg looked at her curiously. “Does that work?” Meg asked.

  Carol’s turn to blush. “Actually . . . well, yes. It . . . it takes the pressure off. Sometimes, before, when he would touch me, I would freeze up. I was already thinking, then he’s going to want to touch here or touch there and I just couldn’t handle that level of intrusion. I wasn’t ready. Now—now I know a kiss will be just a kiss. I can focus on that. On him kissing me. And when I do that, all the other things go away. I’m not in the bedroom anymore. It’s not dark, the TV’s not on. I’m just a woman kissing her husband of over ten years. It’s . . . nice. Honestly, we’re dating again.”

  “I’m going to cry,” Meg said thickly, and rubbed her eyes. “You’re getting to fall in love all over again, and I can’t even figure out if I’m ever going to have a normal relationship. Look at me! I’m almost twenty-one, my sister is really my daughter, and the total sum of my sex life boils down to one pedophile whom I thought I loved, and one rapist who was a present from the pedophile. Now that’s sick!”

  “Molly is your sister,” Jillian said evenly. “You’ve said yourself it’s better to keep it that way.”

  “If I’m her mother, then she must have a father. I don’t want her to ever ask about her father.”

  “Then remove that from the equation. Molly is your little sister, you love her, your parents love her and she is very happy.”

  “Molly is very happy.”

  “The rest . . . Meg, you were only thirteen when David first approached you. That’s much too young to know better. And you certainly can’t blame yourself for being raped. So that means you’ve made only one mistake, as a thirteen-year-old girl. You’re nearly twenty-one now. You’re strong, you’re resilient, you’re smart. You’re going to be all right.”

  Meg sniffled a little. “What if I meet the right guy, freeze up, and he goes away?”

  “Then he’s not the right guy,” Carol said firmly.

  But Meg was looking at Jillian. “I wasn’t raped,” Jillian told her.

  “You were assaulted.”

  “I . . . I have moments.”

  “You think about your sister,” Meg said quietly.

  “I do.”

  “Poor guilt-ridden Jillian.”

  She didn’t deny it. “Griffin told me something earlier, during his investigation. And it was one of the hardest, saddest, truest things I ever needed to hear: Trisha loves me.”

  “She does,” Carol said immediately.

  “She does,” Meg seconded.

  Jillian smiled at them. “I lost sight of that. I don’t know why. But I’m remembering now. I’m . . . enjoying . . . my memories of Trish, and that feels good. And Griffin understands that Trish is a part of me, just as I understand that Cindy is a part of him. Sometimes we just talk about them. It feels right.”

  “He’s a lucky man,” Carol said seriously.

  “I’m a lucky woman. Well, and Libby isn’t doing so badly either. Have you seen how much she flirts with him? I swear, she hasn’t taken this much care with her appearance since she discovered the UPS man was single.”

  “Ooh, competition!” Meg teased.

  “He definitely has a soft spot for her. Next thing you know, she’s going to add the word stud to her picture book.”

  Carol and Meg chortled. Jillian rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, too. She felt lucky these days. Sometimes she found herself humming at work for no good reason. Clients seemed less annoying, the days were brighter, the evenings more beautiful. When the weather was nice, she had picnic lunches with Libby and Toppi in the park. And sometimes she left work early, sometimes she came in late, and one day she brought in four giant pots of yellow mums simply because she’d seen them at the florist and thought they were beautiful. Her employees looked at her curiously a lot, but no one complained.

  “Speaking of family,” Jillian said.

  “We should return to the fold,” Carol agreed.

  “Think they’re done with the kitchen?” Meg asked. “We could pick up some pizzas.”

  Food would be good, they all agreed. They climbed up from the floor and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, Jillian spotted Griffin first. He had Molly perched on his shoulders, running a duster along the top of the kitchen cabinets.

  “I’m a dust bunny!” she cried.

  “Well look at you,” said Meg and held out her arms for her little sister.

  Griffin swooped the giggling girl down onto the ground. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt today, with dust on his left cheek and cobwebs in his hair. Griffin looked good in jeans and a T-shirt. Libby had actually blushed when he’d pulled into their driveway and assisted her into the van.

  Right now, his twinkling blue eyes were on Jillian. She felt his gaze as a warmth in her chest. Tonight, they were having Mike Waters over for dinner. Toppi had taken quite a bit of interest in the lanky detective’s recovery. She’d bought a new outfit for tonight. You never knew.

  Now Griffin opened his arms and wagged a brow in a look that could only be called a leer. She, of course, pretended to look coolly away. In response, he thundered across the kitchen and playfully swept her into his embrace.

  Molly shrieked, Meg and Carol smiled. Libby pretended to chastise.

  Jillian simply slipped her arms around Griffin’s narrow waist. She leaned into the warmth of his broad chest, felt the strength of his arms around her shoulders. He didn’t step back.

  “Pizza!” Molly yelled, and they all prepared for dinner.

  About the Author

  LISA GARDNER is the New York Times bestselling author of The Perfect Husband, The Other Daughter, The Third Victim, and The Next Accident. She lives in New England with her husband, Antho
ny, and two highly spoiled dogs and two incredibly pampered cats, where she is at work on her next novel, The Killing Hour.

  BY LISA GARDNER

  The Perfect Husband

  The Other Daughter

  The Third Victim

  The Next Accident

  The Survivors Club

  Turn the page for an exciting early look at Lisa Gardner’s latest thriller, THE KILLING HOUR, coming in hardcover from Bantam Books in July 2003.

  The

  Killing

  Hour

  LISA GARDNER

  CHAPTER ONE

  Quantico, VA

  3:01 p.m.

  Temperature: 95 degrees

  “God, it’s hot. Cacti couldn’t take this kind of heat. Desert rock couldn’t take this kind of heat. I’m telling you, this is what happened right before dinosaurs disappeared from the earth.”

  No response. Another awkward stretch of silence. “You really think orange is my color?” the driver tried again.

  Finally a reply: “‘Really’ is a strong word.”

  “Well, not everyone can make a statement in purple plaid.”

  “True.”

  “Man oh man, is this heat killing me!” The driver, new agent Alissa Sampson, had had enough. She tugged futilely on her shockingly orange, definitely vintage 1970s polyester suit, smacked the steering wheel with the palm of her hand, then blew out an exasperated breath. It was ninety-five outside, probably one hundred and ten inside the Bucar. Not great weather for polyester suits. For that matter, it didn’t work wonders for twenty-pound bulletproof vests. Alissa’s suit bled bright orange stains under her arms. Kimberly’s own mothball-scented pink-and-purple-plaid suit didn’t look much better.

  Alissa’s fingers drummed along the steering wheel, her other hand leaving a damp palm print on the edge of her seat.

  The street was quiet. Nothing happening at Billiards; nothing happening at City Pawn; nothing happening at the Pastime Bar-Deli. Minute ticked into minute. Seconds came and went as slowly as a bead of sweat trickling down Kimberly’s sunken cheek, across her pale jawline, then over her already wet neck to join the sopping collar of her white silk shirt.