by Lisa Gardner
He fell back; I found the chain lock.
“Come on, come on, come on…”
My fingers were shaking too hard, they didn’t want to cooperate. I was sobbing hysterically, losing control.
Then I heard it. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. A welcome, familiar voice. “Annabelle!”
“Bobby!” I managed to cry, then Ben tackled me from behind.
I went down hard, my nose thwacking against the door. Tears sprang to my eyes, another enraged scream bursting from my throat. The door shook, Bobby hurtling himself against it. But it held, of course it held. Because I had chosen this door for its strength, while accessorizing it with half a dozen locks. I had built a fortress to keep me safe, and now it would kill me.
“Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle!” Bobby roared in frustration from the other side.
Then Tommy’s rasping voice, hot in my ear. “It’s your fault, Amy, you made me do it. You’ve left me no other choice.”
From far away, I heard my father. His endless lectures, his constant preaching:
“Sometimes, when frightened, it’s difficult to make a sound. So break things. Bang your fist into the wall, throw furniture. Make noise, sweetheart, put up a fight. Always fight.”
Tommy, grabbing my shoulders. Tommy, flipping me over. Tommy, holding up Charlie’s bloody switchblade in his triumphant fist.
“You will never leave.”
“I’m gonna shoot,” Bobby yelled. “Get away from the door. One, two—”
Pinned to the floor, I tore the pendant from around my neck. Tommy raised his blade. I snapped the thin metal cap from my crystal pendant.
And I tossed my parents’ ashes into Tommy’s face.
Tommy reared up, wiping frantically at his eyes.
Just as Bobby opened fire.
I watched Tommy’s body jerk, one, two, three, four times. Then Bobby kicked open my shattered door.
Instead of going down, Tommy twisted toward the sound, charging like a wounded beast.
I sprang to my feet. Bobby feinted left. Tommy went tearing through the shattered doorway, hit the railing of the fifth-floor landing, and flailed his arms wildly for balance.
I thought he might make it.
So I hit him low and solid from behind.
Then, my father’s daughter, I watched my uncle fall to his death below.
THE TRUTH SHALL set you free. Another old saying. Not one I ever heard from my father’s lips. Given what I now know about his past, I think I understand.
Six months have passed since that last bloody evening in my apartment. Six months of police questioning, storage-unit recovery, DNA results, and, yes, even a press conference. I have my own agent. She believes she can get me millions of dollars from a major Hollywood studio. And, of course, there will be a book deal.
I can’t imagine myself talking to Larry King. Or profiting from my family’s tragedy. Then again, a girl’s gotta eat, and these days, the custom-window-treatment clients are hardly knocking at my door. I haven’t decided yet.
At the moment, I’m in the shower, shaving my legs. I’m nervous. A little excited. I think now, more than ever, that there is much to learn about myself.
Here are the truths as I see them, thus far:
One, my dog is strong. Bella did not die on my kitchen floor. No, my incredibly brave canine companion held up better than I did, as Bobby hustled us into the back of an arriving patrol car and raced us to an emergency vet. Charlie had sliced Bella’s shoulder all the way to the bone. Damaged some tendons. Cost her a great deal of blood. But two thousand dollars of the best medical care later, Bella came home. She is partial to sleeping on my bed now. I’m partial to giving her giant hugs. No jogging for us yet. But we’re building up our strength with some very brisk walks.
Two, wounds heal. I spent twenty-four hours in the hospital, mostly because I wouldn’t leave Bella’s side until the vet forced me to go, and by that time I’d lost plenty of blood myself. My cheek required twelve stitches. My legs, twenty. My right arm, thirty-one. I guess my cover-girl days are over. I like my scars, however. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I trace the fine, puckered lines with my fingertips. War wounds. My father would be proud.
Three, some questions will never be answered. In my father’s storage unit, I found my mother’s prized sofa; my baby album, complete with my original birth certificate; miscellaneous family memorabilia; and finally, a note from my father. It was dated one week after we had returned to Boston, when I imagine his anxiety had been sky-high. It didn’t provide an explanation. Instead, on June 18, 1993, my father wrote: Whatever happens, know that I always loved you, and tried my best.
Did he anticipate dying in Boston? Believe that returning to the scene of so much tragedy sealed his doom? I have no idea. I suspect he knew that his brother was still alive. No doubt my father had checked the papers for news of an unknown body found in an abandoned Arlington home, and when no such story appeared, realized his efforts hadn’t been as final as he had wished. Then again, why not come back and try again? Why return to my mother and me in Florida?
I don’t know. I will never know. Maybe killing isn’t as easy as it looks. My father tried it once and that was enough for him. So after that, we ran. Every time a child disappeared, any time an Amber Alert hit the local papers, that was it. My father bought new identities, my mother packed our suitcases, and my family hit the road.
Ironically enough, the police believe Uncle Tommy never followed us. The bullet may not have killed him, but the brain damage it caused seemed to derail most of his psychotic impulses. He took a job with UPS. He became a model, if somewhat antisocial, citizen. He got on with his life.
Only my family remained rooted in the past, always running, always searching for a sense of safety my father didn’t know how to find.
Four, some truths aren’t meant to be told. For example, after much investigating, the police officially ruled Ben/Tommy’s death an accident. In an armed confrontation with law enforcement, the suspect was shot four times through a locked door by an identified officer. The officer was then able to force open the door, at which time the wounded suspect raced from the apartment in a desperate attempt to escape. In his pain and confusion, he accidently flipped over the fifth-story banister and fell to his death.
Needless to say, Bobby and I don’t discuss this incident. Neither does D.D., who was in the downstairs lobby, and thus, according to the official report, was not in a position to see what happened before the giant splat.
Though, a few weeks ago, she gave me a T-shirt that reads: Accidents Happen.
Five, even psychopaths have community spirit. Charlie Marvin turned out to be former Boston State Mental patient Christopher Eola. The Boston PD now believe he murdered at least a dozen prostitutes while posing as a selfless advocate for the homeless. Taking a page from Ted Bundy’s handbook—Bundy had volunteered at a suicide hotline—Charlie had cleverly used his position to ingratiate himself with potential victims while continuing to deflect the attention of the police.
He’d recently grown bold, however, with his latest target being lead investigator D.D. Warren. A handwriting expert confirmed that the note left on D.D.’s car was most likely written by Charlie. The four dogs shot and killed the night of the rendezvous at Boston State Mental all bore identity chips that were traced to two different drug dealers/dog trainers, who confirmed a kindly older gentleman as the person who purchased their prized “pets.”
Best guess—Charlie insinuated himself into the investigation in an attempt to identify and contact the original perpetrator of the mass grave. Along the way, however, he became infatuated with D.D. and started some head games of his own. The police found bomb-making materials in Charlie’s Boston apartment. Apparently, he’d been plotting further misdeeds when Tommy had stabbed him to death in my kitchen.
Eola’s parents refused to claim his body. Last I heard, his remains were dispatched to an unmarked grave.
Six, closure is harde
r to come by than people think. We buried Dori this morning. By we, I mean her parents, myself, and two hundred other well-wishers, most of whom had never met Dori when she was alive but were touched by the circumstances of her death. I watched retired Lawrence police officers cry, neighbors who twenty-five years ago searched in vain for her in the woods. The BPD task force attended the service, standing in the back. Afterward, Mr. and Mrs. Petracelli shook hands with every single officer. When Mrs. Petracelli came to D.D., she grabbed the sergeant in an enormous hug, then both women broke down crying.
Mrs. Petracelli had asked me if I would say a few words. Not the eulogy; their priest did that and he was okay, I guess. She was hoping I might tell people of the Dori I knew, because none of these people had ever gotten a chance to meet that child. It sounded like a good idea. I thought I would. But when the time came, I couldn’t speak. The emotions I felt were too strong to share.
Mostly I think I should take that movie deal. Because I would like to donate the money to Mrs. Petracelli’s foundation. I would like more Doris to be returned to their parents. I would like more childhood friends to have the opportunity to say “I love you, I’m sorry, good-bye.”
The truth shall set you free.
No, the truth just tells you what was. It explains the nightmares I have three or four times a week. It explains the pile of vet bills and medical bills that I still face. It tells me why a UPS man I thought I knew only in passing listed one Amy Grayson as his sole beneficiary. It explains why that same UPS man spent the first fifteen years of his service constantly changing routes, apparently searching the entire state of Massachusetts for a family he was convinced couldn’t have moved that far away. Until one day, quite by accident, all his searching was rewarded and he found me.
Truth tells me that my parents really did love me, and it reminds me that love, alone, is not enough.
Really, what a girl needs is a sense of identity.
I’m as clean as I’m ever going to get. Legs and armpits shaved. Pulse points dabbed with oil scented with cinnamon. I should put on a dress. It’s just not me. In the end I go with low-riding black slacks and a really cool gold-sequined camisole I picked up for next to nothing at Filene’s Basement.
Definitely heels.
Bella starts to whine. She recognizes the signs of my impending departure. Bella doesn’t like to be alone in the apartment anymore. For that matter, neither do I. I can still see Charlie Marvin’s lifeless body sprawled in my kitchen. I’m sure Bella can still smell the blood soaked into the floor.
Next week, I decide. I will apartment hunt. Thirty-two years later, it’s time for the past to be the past.
Doorbell rings.
Shit. My palms are sweating. I’m a wreck.
I cross briskly to my brand-new door, careful not to trip in my heels. I start working the locks—three, a slight improvement from five—while praying I don’t have lipstick on my teeth.
I open the door, and I’m not disappointed. He is wearing khakis with a light blue shirt that complements his gray eyes, topped with a navy sports jacket. His hair is still damp from his shower; I can smell his aftershave.
Yesterday, at 2:00 p.m., with the last set of remains identified and no one alive to prosecute, the Boston police officially ended their investigation into the Mattapan crime scene and dissolved the task force.
Yesterday, at 2:01 p.m., we struck our deal.
Now he holds out a bouquet of flowers and, of course, a dog treat. It goes without saying that Bella won’t be left behind.
“Hello,” he says, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Bobby Dodge, pleased to meet you. Have I mentioned yet that I have a thing for barbecues, white picket fences, and barky white dogs?”
I take the flowers, hand Bella the chew bone. Keeping with the script, I stick out my hand.
He of course kisses the backs of my fingers and sends shivers up my spine.
“Nice to meet you, Bobby Dodge.” I take a deep breath. “My name is Annabelle.”
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
AS ALWAYS, I’m indebted to quite a few people who helped make this book possible. From the Boston Police Department: Deputy Daniel Coleman; Director of Communications Nicole St. Peter; Detective Juan Torres; Detective Wayne Rock; Lieutenant Detective Michael Galvin; and finally, my dear neighbor and fellow Kiwanian, Robert “Chuck” Kyle, BPD retired, who helped set all the wheels in motion (and has more stories than one author could ever hope to honor in a single novel). These people gave patiently of their time and expertise; naturally, I exploited all of them and took substantial fictional license.
My humble gratitude to Marv Milbury, former AN at the Boston State Mental Hospital. Marv is an exceptionally nice man whose stories are guaranteed to curl anyone’s hair. During our lunch, even the waitress gave up working and started listening to him talk. Again, more stories than one book could hold, but I did my best. For people who are really into the history of mental institutes, I did have to fudge the time line of operations but tried to keep to the spirit of the mental institute experience.
Thanks also to forensic anthropologist Ann Marie Mires, who gave generously of her personal time to help me understand proper protocol for exhuming a thirty-year-old grave. For the record, the information on wet mummification came straight off the Internet, is probably totally incorrect, and shouldn’t be held against Ann Marie. That’s what fiction writers are for.
To Betsy Eliot, dear friend and fellow author, who came to my rescue once more. Not many people will still take your calls after you’ve asked them to set up a shooting in Boston. Betsy not only assisted invaluably with Bobby’s first book, Alone, but when I called her up this time and told her I needed to tour an abandoned mental institute, she cheerfully drove me straight there. At dusk. In rushhour traffic. Love you, Bets.
To the real-life D.D. Warren, neighbor, dear friend, and good sport, who never questioned me using her name for what we both assumed would be a fairly minor character in Alone. Leave it to D.D. to steal the show and end up in two novels. The real D.D. is as gorgeous as her fictional counterpart and, fortunately for all of us, equally dedicated to serving her community. She is also blessed with a handsome, funny, brilliant husband, John Bruni, who got to be a lieutenant in Alone but had to sit this book out. You’re a good sport, John, and a wonderful poet.
To my brother Rob, who graciously volunteered his coworkers to populate and staff the Boston State Mental portrayed in my novel. See, I’m not the only member of the family who’s devious and twisted.
To good friends and seamstresses extraordinaire Cathy Caruso and Marie Kurmin, who provided some basic information on custom window treatments. I didn’t get to use as much as I would’ve liked—my fault, not yours. I swear I will do better next time.
And to the lucky Joan Barker, winner of the third annual Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy sweepstakes at www.LisaGardner.com. Joan named her dear friend Inge Lovell to be the lucky stiff in my latest novel. This is what friendship will do to you. Hope both of you ladies enjoy, and for the rest of you, hey, come September the search for literary immortality will begin once again….
Finally, under the care and feeding of authors: to Anthony, for all the reasons he knows best; to Grace, who is already at work on her first novel (she’s partial to hot pink ink); to Donna Kenison and Susan Presby, who let me crash at the gorgeous Mt. Washington Hotel so I could make my deadline and preserve my sanity; and to our dear neighbors Pam and Glenda, for Monday ladies’ night, cheese cookies, and leftover salmon. It’s the little things that make a neighborhood feel like home.
Read on for a preview from Lisa Gardner’s upcoming novel
LOVE YOU MORE
Available March 2011
PROLOGUE
Who do you love?
It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing.
Who do you love?
/> He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip.
“Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent.
My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason.
He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”
“Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”
“Belt. On the table. Now.”
“No.”
“GUN. On the table. NOW!”
In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side.
I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start shooting.
Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished.
Who do you love?
He was right. That’s what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?
“GUN!” he boomed. “Now, dammit!”
I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. “Love you, Mommy,” she always whispered.