The Lost Years

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Stay on the line,” Alvirah ordered.

  Willy drove slowly, going west on 55th Street, stopping and starting to stay even with Richard’s pace.

  “He’s crossing Eighth Avenue… Ninth Avenue… Tenth Avenue… He’s going into a luncheonette,” Richard told them. “Hang on.”

  When Richard spoke again it was to report that Greg had come out of the luncheonette, carrying a brown paper bag. “It looks pretty heavy,” he said, a hopeful note entering his voice. “There’s a parking garage across the street. He’s going into it.”

  “On that block he can only go east,” Alvirah said. “We can turn right at Eleventh Avenue and come back up 56th Street. We’ll pick you up there.”

  Three minutes later they were turning onto 56th Street. Richard was crouched down between two parked cars. As they watched, an older black sedan came up the ramp from inside the garage. There was no mistaking that it was Greg at the wheel. As he turned left onto the street, Richard darted back into the car.

  “He’s driving a different car!” Alvirah exclaimed.

  Careful to keep several vehicles between them and the black sedan, they followed him down to lower Manhattan, then across town to the South Street area near the Williamsburg Bridge. Greg made a turn onto a shabby street with a row of boarded-up warehouses. “Be careful. Don’t get too close to him,” Richard warned Willy.

  Willy stopped the car. “He can’t be going much further,” he said. “This is a dead-end street. I know this area. When I was in high school I used to work part-time stacking cartons onto trucks. There was a loading area for all of those warehouses.”

  They watched as the black sedan traveled to the end of the street and then made a right turn. “He has to be going into one of those buildings,” Willy said. “But it looks as if they’re all shut down.” He waited until Greg’s car was out of sight, then followed him, stopping before they would become visible in the open area behind the buildings.

  Richard got out of the car and looked around the corner to see where Greg was going. Then he raced back into the car, shouting, “Follow him, Willy. He’s opening that large garage door. Don’t let him lock us out.”

  Willy stepped on the gas. The car skidded as he made the sharp turn, then closed in on the sedan and tried to follow it into the garage.

  The forty-foot-wide garage door was coming down. Alvirah shrieked as it hit the roof of their car and continued to grind lower. The doors flew open and they all managed to scramble out, just before they would have been trapped inside the mangled frame.

  Three feet from the ground, the garage door was finally stopped by the body of the crushed automobile. For a moment they stood in shocked silence. Then they heard the sound of feet pounding across the macadam. “Police!” someone yelled. “Stop!”

  Richard was already on the ground, crawling into the warehouse through the space held open by the car.

  “Stay back,” one of the detectives warned Alvirah and Willy as they rushed to follow Richard. “I’m ordering you. Stay back.”

  82

  He was upstairs, with the lift raised back up, again flush with the ceiling of the lower level, before they were able to stop him. How long would it take before they found the switch to bring the lift down again? Not long, he thought. I know it won’t be long.

  That detective was sharp enough to make me think that I was safe.

  But I’m not safe. I’m doomed. It is the end. I fell for their trap.

  Furious, Greg flung aside the bag of sandwiches. He had only a dim light on in his private empire. He flipped on the overhead lights and looked around. Beautiful. Magnificent. Spectacular. Art. Antiquity. All worthy of the finest museums in the world. And he had gathered it here himself.

  When he was nineteen, the lonely nerd, he had accomplished with a computer what Antonio Stradivari had accomplished with a violin. He had masterminded programming through unimaginable flights of fantasy. By the time he was twenty-five, he had quietly become a multimillionaire.

  Six years ago, on a whim, I went on that dig and discovered the world that I belonged in, he thought. I listened and learned from Jonathan and Charles and Albert, and in the end I surpassed all of them with my expertise. I began to manipulate and divert shipments of priceless antiques without a single trace of where they had gone.

  It was glorious when I touched that sacred parchment. When I told Jonathan about the extraordinary computer program that I had developed to authenticate antiquities, he let me examine it. The parchment is authentic. It’s been handled by many people over the centuries, but there is a single DNA sample on it that is extraordinary. This unique DNA carries chromosomes with only the traits of a mother, who has to be the Virgin Mary. He had no human father.

  This letter was written by the Christ. He wrote it to a friend, and two thousand years later I had to kill a man whom I loved as a friend because I had to have it.

  Greg walked into the room that was full of his treasures. For once he did not pause and savor their beauty but looked first at Lillian. She was lying near the sofa, with its golden brocade and intricate carvings, where he always chose to sit.

  Since Wednesday morning, when he had first brought her here and then decided to wait before he killed her, he had enjoyed his brief visits, sitting on this sofa with her feet on his lap and talking to her. He had relished explaining to her the history of one after another of his treasures. “I bought this artifact from a dealer in Cairo recently,” he’d said about one artifact. “Their museum was looted during a civilian uprising.”

  Now he stood over Lillian. Her wide brown eyes were frantic with fear. “The police are surrounding me!” he shouted. “They’re downstairs. They’ll find a way to get up here.”

  “You’re so greedy, Lily. If you had only given the parchment back to Mariah, you would have a clear conscience. But you didn’t do that.”

  “Please… don’t… no… no…”

  As Greg slid a silken cord around Lillian’s neck, he was sobbing. “I offered Mariah the love I never thought I would be capable of feeling for any human being. I worshipped the ground she walked on. And what did I get in return? She couldn’t wait the other night to finish dinner and get rid of me. Now I’m going to get rid of her and rid of you.”

  83

  This place is empty, but he can’t have vanished into thin air,” one of the New York detectives snapped. “This is the ground floor. There’s got to be a way to get upstairs. I heard something, but I don’t see anything.” He flipped on the radio attached to his belt and called for backup cars to respond.

  The second detective began thumping on the walls, hoping to hear a hollow sound from within.

  Ignoring the orders of the police, Alvirah and Willy crawled past the wreckage of their car and into the garage. They had heard the detective bark his call for backup into the radio. It may be too late, Alvirah thought frantically. Greg has to know that he’s trapped. Even if Mariah is still alive, we may not be able to get to her in time.

  A minute passed… two minutes… three minutes. It was an eternity.

  In desperation, Richard ran to the light switch and jiggled it. For a moment the room plunged into total darkness, then the lights came back on. “There’s got to be a switch somewhere that will open something,” he said bitterly. Alvirah hurried over to thump the area around the light switch herself. Then she looked down. “Richard, Richard!” She was pointing to the cover of an electrical socket just above the floor. “See… it’s not embedded in the wall.”

  Richard dropped to the floor and tugged at the outlet. It snapped open. He pressed the button behind it. They heard a loud rumbling sound and as they watched, a huge portion of the ceiling at the far end of the room began to descend.

  “That’s the lift to get upstairs!” one of the detectives yelled as he raced over to it.

  84

  In the agonizing forty minutes since she had awakened, Mariah had summoned every ounce of her remaining strength to try to survive. She had manag
ed to wiggle to her feet by leaning her back against the marble table where Greg had laid the silver chest containing the parchment. Inch by painful inch she had pushed her body upward, slipping and sliding back to the floor over and over again until she finally succeeded in standing on her feet. Her light jacket was shredded from being rubbed up and down against the ornate leg of the table, and her back was scraped and raw.

  But now she was standing.

  It was then that she had heard the rumble of the lift and knew that he had come back. She knew she had only one chance to try to save herself and Lillian.

  It was impossible to free or even loosen the bindings around her hands and feet.

  She heard Greg get off the lift. Because of the marble statues shielding her, she knew he could not see her. She heard him talking to Lillian, his voice rising with every word.

  He was telling her that he had been followed. That the police were downstairs. But he shouted that they wouldn’t find the way to get up here in time to save either one of us. Horrified, Mariah listened as he boasted that the parchment was genuine and then sobbed, “I loved Mariah…”

  Lillian was begging for her life. “Please don’t… please don’t…”

  Once again, Mariah heard the grinding of the lift. It had to be the police, but they would be too late by the time the lift went down and came back up again.

  With her bound wrists she struggled to grasp the silver chest and managed to hold on to it. Her heart pounding, she inched her way past the statues the short distance to the couch, grateful that the heavy grinding of the lift would prevent Greg from hearing her approach.

  He can’t hear me, but if he looks up it will still be over for both of us, she thought as she shuffled quietly on the heavy carpet the last few steps to the couch.

  While Greg wrapped the cord around Lillian’s neck, Mariah raised the silver chest and with all her strength smashed it down on the back of his neck. With a startled grunt, Greg toppled over Lillian and slid to the floor.

  For a long minute Mariah stood leaning on the couch to keep herself from falling. She was still fiercely holding the chest. Balancing it on the back of the couch, she opened the lid and took out the parchment. Touching it only with the tips of her fingers, swollen from the tight cords around her wrists and arms, she held the parchment to her lips.

  That was the image that Richard saw as the lift stopped. Two detectives raced over and tackled Greg as he was struggling to his feet. A third detective rushed to Lillian and released the cord that had been tightening around her neck. “You’re all right now,” he said. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

  Mariah managed a weak smile as she watched Richard running toward her. Instantly realizing that she was holding the sacred parchment, he gently slid it from her hands, set it down on a table, and enveloped her in his arms.

  “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he said, his voice breaking.

  Mariah felt a sudden peace, a peace that was beyond understanding, fill her being. She had saved the parchment and by doing that she knew that she had at long last made her own peace with her beloved father.

  Epilogue

  Six months later, Mariah and Richard walked arm in arm through the empty rooms of her childhood home in Mahwah. These were the last few minutes that she would ever be here. She had thought in the beginning about staying, more for her mother’s sake than hers, but as much as she had always loved this home, it would forever be the place where her father had been murdered. And it would forever be the place where, as Greg Pearson had confessed to the police, Rory had so treacherously left the gun outside and the door unlocked for him.

  After the charges against Kathleen had been dismissed, Mariah had brought her mother home. As she had feared, it quickly became clear that this house was no longer a comfort to Kathleen but rather a constant reminder of the horror she had endured.

  On Kathleen’s first night back, Mariah had watched as her mother had gone straight into the closet in the study, where she curled up on the floor and sobbed. It was at that moment that she knew that Greg Pearson had not only robbed them of her father but had also robbed them of their home. It was time to leave it forever.

  The movers had just loaded the last of the furniture and the carpets and the boxes of dishes and linens and books that she had kept for the roomy new apartment. Mariah was glad that her mother wasn’t here to see this. She knew how painful it would be. Mom has adjusted better than I ever expected, she thought wistfully. The impact of the Alzheimer’s had worsened and now Mariah had to comfort herself with the knowledge that her mother, whose memory had virtually slipped away, was content and safe. The nursing home where she now lived was in Manhattan, only two blocks from where Mariah and Richard would soon be living. In the six months since they’d moved Kathleen there, Mariah had been able to visit her almost every day.

  “A penny for your thoughts?” Richard asked.

  “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she answered. “Maybe there just are no words.”

  “I know,” he said gently. “I know.”

  Mariah thought with relief about how Greg Pearson had pleaded guilty to the murders of her father and Rory and to kidnapping her and Lillian. He would be sentenced to life without parole before judges in New Jersey and New York in the next two weeks.

  As much as she dreaded seeing him again, she intended to go to both courtrooms and to speak about the wonderful human being that her father had been and the devastation that had been inflicted on her mother and her. After she was finished, she would know that she had done all she could for the two loving parents she had been so blessed to have. And Richard would be standing next to her.

  He had been with her in the hospital that night as the doctors had cleaned and stitched the painful gash on her head, and he had barely left her side in the weeks thereafter. “And I’m never leaving again,” he had told her.

  Wally Gruber had received five-year sentences in New York and New Jersey, which he would serve concurrently. Peter Jones, the new county prosecutor, had sat down with Mariah and Lloyd and Lisa Scott, and they had given their approval to this reduction in his sentence, which otherwise would have been three times longer. “He didn’t do anything out of the goodness of his heart, but he did save my mother from spending the rest of her life in a mental hospital,” Mariah said.

  “I’m glad he took my jewels and I’m glad he got them back,” Lisa Scott declared.

  After his sentencing in Hackensack, a cheerful Wally had left the courtroom beaming. “Piece of cake,” he’d said loudly to his long-suffering lawyer, who knew that the judge had heard the comment and was not pleased.

  In a plea agreement, also with Mariah’s approval, Lillian had been sentenced to community service for trying to sell the rare stolen parchment. The judge had agreed that after her horrible ordeal, there was no real need for further punishment. The irony was that when Greg had planted the rumor that Charles was shopping the parchment, he had not been wrong.

  Jonathan had showed it to Charles and told him that Lillian was holding it for safekeeping. Jonathan was horrified when Charles offered to sell it for him. After Jonathan’s death, Charles called Lillian, offered to find a black market buyer for it, and split the profits.

  After Mariah and Richard stepped out of the house for the last time, they walked to the curb where his car was parked and got inside. “It will be nice to be with your mom and dad tonight,” she said. “I feel like they’re already my family.”

  “They are, Mariah,” Richard whispered. Smiling, he said, “And never forget: As proud as they were when I was in the seminary, I know they can’t wait for us to give them grandchildren. And we will.”

  Alvirah and Willy were getting ready to go to Richard’s parents’ home for dinner. “Willy, it’s been over six weeks since we’ve seen Mariah and Richard,” Alvirah said as she reached into the closet for her coat and scarf.

  “Not since we met them and Father Aiden and the Scotts for dinner at Neary’s Restaura
nt,” Willy agreed. “I’ve missed them.”

  “It has to be hard for her.” Alvirah sighed. “Today was the last day she’ll ever spend in her childhood home. That’s got to be so tough. But I’m so glad that they’re moving into that lovely apartment after the wedding. They can’t help but be happy there.”

  When they arrived at the dinner they tightly embraced Richard and Mariah. In the few minutes that they allowed themselves to discuss the awful events they’d experienced, Alvirah told Mariah that, despite all of the tragedy, she had known when she touched the sacred parchment that she was holding something very special and wonderful.

  “That’s right, Alvirah,” Mariah said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And what is also very special is that it is back in the Vatican Library where it belongs. And my dad can rest in peace.”

  Read About the Inspiration Behind Other Classic Novels by Mary Higgins Clark

  Stillwatch

  When I was about twelve years old, there was a murder in the rectory of our local parish. The priests were lingering over coffee. The housekeeper, a young woman of twenty-eight, lived in the basement with her husband and five-year-old daughter.

  Suddenly shots were heard. The priests rushed downstairs. The housekeeper’s husband had murdered her and killed himself. The next day the newspaper read, “Their five-year-old daughter, bathed in the blood of her mother, was screaming and screaming.”

  That was the basis for Stillwatch. I wondered how much the little girl remembered of the terrible scene after she grew up. I decided to set the book in Washington because it is obviously the center of the political world in America and I wanted to use that background as well.

  Weep No More My Lady

  At the time I wrote that book I had just gone to a famous spa, Maine Chance in Arizona. It was the ultimate in luxury and something I could never have afforded if I hadn’t by then become a successful writer. I asked myself, wouldn’t it be interesting if in a place like this, where everyone is waited on and pampered, that a killer is stalking his victims and waiting in a wet suit at the bottom of the pool to drown them? The prospect gave me the shivers, and I was on my way. Incidentally, that was the first book that Alvirah Meehan appeared in, and she’s been my good friend ever since.