by Lisa Gardner
The first crack as the window began to give way. Not much time left.
“You are Adeline,” I informed her. “You are a successful, well-educated woman who was just violently attacked by your older sister. Hence, the blood on your face, your uneven steps. When Superintendent McKinnon questions you, keep your answers short, while modulating your voice the best you can. Just remember it all happened so fast. You don’t know what set your sister off, you didn’t expect the attack. No, you’re not that injured. You simply want to go home and rest. Flash the MedicAlert bracelet a lot. It’s a detail they associate with me and will lend your disguise that much more credibility, whether they’re aware of it or not.”
“But you don’t look like me,” Shana burst out desperately, nose nearly touching mine. “Maybe with these clothes, the hair, the bloody face, I can almost pass for you. But they’re never gonna believe you’re me.”
“You’re right. One last step.” I held up the razor. Placed its edge against my right cheek. “Your history of self-mutilation is about to become your salvation. Untouched, I can’t pass as you. But once my face has been shredded to ribbons . . .”
I started to slide the razor. No pain, not even a sensation of cold, as by now, the razor was prewarmed by my own blood.
“Wait!” Shana grabbed my hand.
Guards, voices louder now, as the glass window surrendered to the constant assault and displayed the first array of spiderwebs.
“I’ll do it. You don’t have enough experience. You’ll cut too deep, leave behind a scar. It wouldn’t be right.”
She stopped talking, taking a deep breath. Then her fingers plucked the razor from mine.
Shana, leaning closer, trying to see in the dark. I could feel her eyes, fixed on mine. One second. Two. She placed the razor against my right cheek. Three seconds. Four.
“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Remember, I won’t feel a thing.”
My sister drew the first line down my face. I could feel her breath wash over me, a sigh, both mournful and ecstatic. I wonder if she had looked like this all those years ago, marking my arm with scissors in the foster home. Or if she was being true to her word now, trying hard not to cut too deep and disfigure me permanently.
“’Kay?” she asked after the first cut, her voice thick.
“More.”
“Jesus, Adeline.”
“More. Make them believe, Shana. For both our sakes, they must believe.”
Another cut. Across my nose, I could feel the razor like a pen tip, someone drawing across my face. Then the sensation of wet raining down my cheeks.
“Forehead,” I commanded. “Nothing bleeds like a head wound.”
My sister’s eyes glistened. Unshed tears? Unwanted emotion? But she didn’t stop. I was handing her freedom. Why would she stop? After this, she would walk out the door, Dr. Adeline Glen. Fulfill her deepest fantasy of taking over my life. My car, my condo, my office. I had handed her everything.
Shana Day. The most notorious female killer in the entire state. Who had ruined Mrs. Davies’s life. And the Johnsons’ and the Sgarzis’, before talking three men to their own deaths.
And yet she’d saved her fellow inmates and still mourned a five-year-old boy.
My big sister. The monster I was releasing upon the world.
I reached out, placing my fingertips against her cheek, even as she continued to draw the razor across mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure why. I was the giver; she was the taker.
Yet I could see in her eyes, positioned so close, this was costing her, too. Shame, because she was hurting me, combined with an unholy glee, as some part of her reveled in it. Her nature and her nurture. Just like mine.
My sister drew a fifth line, and I tasted blood upon my lips.
The last edge of the window frame gave way, the entire panel collapsing with a shatter of glass. Then they were upon us, men in black armored suits screaming at me—Shana—even as others jerked Shana—Adeline—away, and I heard my sister cry, high-pitched, distressed:
“Help her, please, help her. She smuggled in a razor somehow. I think she may have cut her throat. Dear God, please help!”
A big man loomed over me, visor down, face obscured as he shouted.
“Hands, fucker. I wanna see your hands!”
I merely smiled, picturing the sight I must make, with the red blood rimming my white teeth.
A Shana-worthy moment to be sure.
Then I was grabbed and hustled away.
As my sister, Dr. Adeline Glen, staggered into the hall, still inside the prison but already on her way to freedom.
Chapter 33
WHEN D.D. SAW PHIL’S NAME appear across her call screen, she snatched up her cell phone, fully expecting to hear that he’d finally located Samuel Hayes. Instead:
“Shana Day has escaped.”
“What?”
“Shortly after nine this morning. Attacked her sister with a razor, then swapped their clothes so that Adeline was dressed in her prison jumpsuit, while Shana appeared to be Adeline. After that, it was a simple matter of walking out the door.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Phil sighed. “That sums it up nicely. Adeline is still in the prison infirmary, getting treated for her injuries. I’m heading over there now to talk to Superintendent McKinnon—”
“I’ll be ready in thirty minutes,” D.D. answered quickly.
She could nearly see Phil’s smile across the airwaves. “See you then.”
He ended the call. She flung down the phone and bolted off the sofa.
“Alex, Alex! I gotta shower and change. Help, please. Help!”
• • •
SUPERINTENDENT MCKINNON MET THEM in the MCI’s lobby. Given the big doings for the day, D.D. was surprised that the place looked much the same as usual. Other than the armored guards standing out front, of course, and an occasional helicopter conducting a flyby overhead.
“The perimeter team has already been activated,” Superintendent McKinnon informed them briskly, the immediate response team being the go-to unit for prison escapes. “They found Adeline’s vehicle badly damaged several miles down the interstate, but still no sign of Shana.”
“Badly damaged?” D.D. asked.
“Shana hit several other cars attempting to exit the parking lot, let alone what she might have done on the freeway. She’s been locked up since she was fourteen, remember? Most likely, this was her first time behind the wheel.”
D.D. blinked. She hadn’t even considered that fact. They were basically searching for an institutionalized lifer. A woman who’d never owned a cell phone, driven a car, let alone experienced the full frenzy of the modern world. Shana might as well be a cavewoman, suddenly freed from a block of ice.
“She have computer experience?” D.D. asked now.
“Shana’s taken several continuing ed classes. Depending on her behavior, she’s sometimes had a radio in her cell. She also reads a lot, meaning she may know a lot, she just hasn’t . . . done a lot.”
“Our best odds are to catch her now,” Phil muttered. “Before the learning curve sets in.”
Superintendent McKinnon escorted them back to her office. “I’m assuming you will want to speak to Dr. Glen.”
“Absolutely.”
She nodded. “Adeline is in the infirmary. The cuts to her face are mainly superficial, but given her inability to feel pain, doctors are worried about her wounds becoming infected. In particular, there’s significant damage to her hands. They’re pumping her full of antibiotics now.”
“Her hands?” D.D. asked.
“They were badly slashed, including a severed tip on her left index finger. Defensive wounds, I would guess, as she tried to block the razor.”
D.D. looked away. Cuts were hard for her to take. She didn
’t know why. Gunshots wounds, rope burns, acute poisoning, not so bad. Slicing and dicing, on the other hand, gave her the heebie-jeebies.
“From the beginning?” Phil asked, whipping out his recorder.
He set it on the desk, and the superintendent began.
Adeline had set things in motion, shortly after 7:00 A.M., by requesting a visit with her sister.
“Regarding the Rose Killer?” D.D. interjected.
“Personal business, she said. Something to do with their father.”
D.D. and Phil nodded.
Upon arrival, one of the corrections officers had escorted Adeline to the private visitation room normally used for her and Shana’s meetings. About eight minutes into their conversation, however, there was a disturbance outside.
“What kind of disturbance?”
Superintendent McKinnon sighed heavily. “Firecrackers. Rolled underneath one of the vehicles in the rear of the parking lot. At first, of course, it sounded like gunfire. A guard sounded the alarm, then mobilized the tactical unit.”
“You got cameras on the parking lot?” Phil asked sharply.
“Covering the first few rows. Unfortunately, the car in question was parked too far away. According to my chief officer, the fireworks were planted sometime before; someone had attached a long, slow-burning cord. His initial impression was that it was simple criminal mischief, perhaps related to the vigil last night. Of course, given what happened next . . .”
“What happened next?”
“Officer Maria Lopez turned just in time to see Shana tackle Dr. Glen. Apparently, Shana leapt right over the table and slammed into Adeline, taking her down—”
“Hang on,” D.D. interjected. “Aren’t Shana’s hands normally restrained?”
“They were. Everyone had followed protocol. Everyone was doing their job to the best of their ability.” McKinnon uttered the words tersely. “Of course, we’re duty bound to follow the same patterns and procedures. Whereas, someone like Shana has spent years with nothing better to do than think of ways to outsmart the system.”
“What did she do?”
“She jammed one of the chairs under the door, then killed the lights. Officer Lopez immediately alerted the tactical unit, but given that they were already responding to the incident in the parking lot . . . It took several minutes. Five, I’m told, until the full team was assembled outside the visitation room.”
“During which time?”
“Officer Lopez couldn’t see that far into the room given the lack of lighting and the table blocking the lower part of the window. It appeared to her that Shana and Dr. Adeline were in some kind of struggle on the floor. She could just see bits and pieces as they rolled around. When the response team arrived, they went to work on the shatterproof window, popping it from its frame.
“Upon entering the room, they found Dr. Adeline Glen—they presumed—leaning over Shana’s body. Both women were covered in blood. Dr. Glen’s wounds, however, appeared superficial; whereas, the inmate, Shana, had deep cuts all over her face. Dr. Glen—they presumed—claimed that Shana had attacked her with a razor, before turning on herself. Given Shana’s long history of suicide, that story didn’t arouse immediate suspicions. A razor blade was recovered from the scene—”
“How did Shana smuggle a razor into the room?” D.D. again.
The superintendent shot her a look. “We don’t know, Detective. Officer Lopez swears she conducted a thorough physical exam, internal as well as external, before escorting Shana to the visiting room. Then again, how has Shana gotten any of her assorted blades, shanks and razors? For the record, I feel strongly that my staff is among the best there is. They do a tough job brilliantly. Only Shana can make us look like idiots.”
The superintendent’s voice broke off harshly. Up until this moment, D.D. hadn’t realized just how personally the woman was taking this. But this was her facility, her staff, her domain. And yeah, thanks to Shana’s latest escapade, Superintendent McKinnon didn’t look so good.
“So,” Phil interjected smoothly. “Your team does the logical thing: They cart off the injured woman in jailhouse orange to the secure medical ward. While, Shana, posing as Dr. Glen . . .”
“I personally came down to debrief her. She assured me she was physically fine; the blood covering her face belonged to her sister, not her. She was merely shaken, and wanted to return home immediately. She kept twisting her MedicAlert bracelet, however, so I could tell she was rattled. Of course, I questioned her further. What had happened, what had set Shana off? She claimed she didn’t know. She’d mentioned the name Donnie Johnson—”
Phil and D.D. exchanged a look.
“And Shana attacked her. The whole thing happened too fast. There wasn’t anything she could tell me. I offered her additional medical treatment, even an ambulance ride to the hospital of her choice. She declined. As a friend—” The superintendent’s voice broke slightly. She caught herself, got her chin up. “I offered to drive her home. I also suggested she contact either of you, as you all seem to be working together, in order to request additional security now that her sister was on the loose. Obviously, she declined.”
D.D. couldn’t help herself. “How long did you speak with her?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“And you never figured out it wasn’t Dr. Glen?”
The superintendent’s dark eyes gleamed. “No.”
Phil made a sound in his throat, the one he usually made when he wanted D.D. to back off. She leaned back in her chair, adjusting her position for better comfort.
“When did you figure out the switch?” he asked now.
“Not for another forty-five minutes, when Adeline finally recovered enough to talk. I immediately activated the tactical unit, as well as notifying all major law enforcement agencies, and now here we are.”
“How did Shana get the keys to Adeline’s car?” Phil asked.
“From Adeline’s purse, which she’d stashed in the lobby locker. According to Adeline, Shana threatened to kill her unless she gave up the combo.”
D.D. considered the matter. “Okay, we have an escaped murderer, most likely now on foot, since you’ve recovered the vehicle. Plus, she doesn’t have enough experience driving to make stealing a new vehicle useful to her. We have a description of her clothing, which are really Adeline’s clothes, not to mention they’re pretty gory.”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t think it would be too hard for Joe Public to spot someone that conspicuous,” D.D. said, “which begs the question, four hours later, why haven’t there been any sightings?”
“She had help,” Phil stated quietly. “The person who set off the firecrackers in the parking lot. She drove down the freeway to meet him. Not so far away she’d have to drive for too long but far enough the security team or cameras wouldn’t catch her making the switch.”
“But who?” Superintendent McKinnon quizzed. “Shana doesn’t have friends or fans.”
“Oh, she may not have a friend,” D.D. said, “but I think she does have a fan.”
Phil glanced at her. “The Rose Killer.”
“Meaning we’re not looking for just an escaped murderer or just a serial killer. Now, we’re looking for a killing team, squared.”
. . .
• • •
ADELINE WAS SITTING UP when D.D. and Phil followed Superintendent McKinnon into the infirmary fifteen minutes later. Her face was covered in white bandages, making it nearly impossible to determine her features. But she had a determined look in her eyes as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Superintendent McKinnon demanded sharply.
“Leaving.”
“Now, wait a minute—”
“Don’t make me yell,” Adeline gritted out. “It’ll pull my stitches.”
; Superintendent McKinnon thinned her lips, crossing her arms sternly over her chest. D.D. didn’t know how she did it. For a gorgeous black woman, the superintendent was one of the most imposing people D.D. had ever met.
She stepped around the superintendent’s planted form, Phil coming around the other side.
Adeline regarded their approach, then sighed heavily. “I just want to go home.”
“Think that’s wise?” D.D. asked. “Your sister has the keys to your condo.”
“If she’d wanted to kill me, she already could have.” The doctor fingered her bandages. “Not so hard, you know, to go from slicing one’s face to slitting one’s throat.”
“So why didn’t she?”
“You’d have to ask her.”
“Still think she’s protecting you?”
“I have dozens of stitches in my skin. I’m missing a fingertip. Protective isn’t the word I’d used to describe my sister right now.”
D.D. nodded. She stood on one side of Adeline, Phil on the other, effectively blocking the doctor’s escape. Once more, the woman sighed.
“What do you want?”
“Why did you meet with your sister this morning?”
“I wanted to ask her about our parents.”
“And Donnie Johnson.”
Adeline skewered her with a look. Or tried to. The doctor’s eyes were slightly glassy, the remnants of shock, fear or painkillers, D.D. thought, before remembering Adeline wouldn’t have needed any painkillers. She wondered how much that had freaked out the attending doctor, stitching up the face of a fully conscious, fully lucid patient as she stared back at him.
Adeline licked her lips. “I have a theory about Donnie Johnson. I wanted to test it.”
“What’s your theory?” Phil asked.
“I think Shana suffered a psychotic episode—”
“You mentioned that yesterday.”
“Yes, but the more I thought about it, the more I’m convinced. . . . Do you know what happened to our father? The last moments of Harry Day?”