‘Wish I were. It’s the bane of every fire station, and at least once in every fire chief’s career they get burned by it – no pun intended.’
‘That’s not what happened here, though.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘If it weren’t for Delia Preston getting murdered I’d put my money behind Doctor Trask getting careless. I still think the fire and the murder are two bad things that happened independently . . . then again I don’t know the whole story.’
‘So why’s Jim Warren a bastard?’ she asked.
His expression darkened. ‘Crap . . .’ He stared at the table, and the silence stretched. Finally, he met her gaze. ‘He’s not someone to mess with. He’s dangerous and for all of his surface charm the man is a snake . . . no, I shouldn’t say that. Snakes are good, keep the vermin down. There’s not a damn thing that’s good about Jim Warren.’
His vehemence surprised her. ‘Sam, where did all that come from?’
‘Lil . . .’ He stared at his coffee, apparently deciding about something. He looked across at her, his expression intent. ‘What I’m going to tell you can’t be repeated. I need your word on that.’
It reminded her of things patients would tell Bradley. Desperate to unload some painful truth they’d wait until he’d reassured them of total confidentiality. Occasionally he’d make some provision – ‘As long as you’re not planning to kill someone . . . including yourself.’ But mostly his reply: ‘It will never leave this room.’ And that’s what she said to Sam. ‘It will never leave this room.’
He let out a deep breath. ‘I’m not the only one who knows this, which doesn’t make it better. Or the fact that we were all kids, or that I was completely in awe of The Ravens and Jim and Dennis Trask were big stars. This happened so long ago, but I’ve never forgotten. At the time I assumed there’d be arrests and a trial, we all did, but then nothing. Days, weeks, months and it’s as if nothing happened that night. I thought it would be like on a TV show where detectives would pull us out of class and ask us what happened. You ever regret something, Lil? Something you did or didn’t do that just stuck with you . . . always wondering what if I’d had the courage to say something?’
‘Sure,’ she said, not wanting to break his flow. He was clearly tormented, and she reached across the table and took his hand. ‘Just go ahead.’
He glanced around the empty dining room, the waitress in back with the cook. ‘It was a party at the Trasks’. I don’t think there were any adults there, in fact I’m sure of it. I can’t remember where Dennis’s parents were, I know they were at the game – maybe there was another party; there must have been. Last game of the regular season and we were ten for ten and going into the play-offs for the second year in a row. We . . . they . . . were unstoppable. Thirty-four years ago and I can still see what she was wearing, one of those tube top things; it was blue-striped and a tight denim mini skirt. She was so pretty. I kind of had a crush on her. Me and probably half the boys in school. And she was smart, just not about Jim Warren. But he really liked her, had been saying he was her boyfriend. What they did to her . . .’
‘Who was the girl?’
He stopped, and then said, more to himself, ‘In for a penny . . . Vicky. Vicky Binghamton.’
The name was instantly familiar, but Lil didn’t match it to a teenager in a tube top and short denim skirt. Who she remembered was a little blonde-haired girl, with china-blue eyes playing in the kiddie corner of Bradley’s waiting room. ‘What happened to her?’
‘They got her drunk. The three of them, but it was mostly Dennis and Jim, playing with her, flattering her. She was so wasted, the three of them on the couch with her like she was a toy. Someone should have stopped it . . . I should have tried. I knew what they were doing was wrong. We all did, but no one said anything. No one even tried . . . and then they took her upstairs. And that’s not even the worst part.’
A tear trickled down Sam’s cheek. ‘She was screaming, screaming for them to stop. No one went up to help her . . . and someone turned the music up so we couldn’t hear. She was only fifteen.’
Lil sat taking in the story, and the hollow expression in Sam’s eyes. He’d been carrying this around a long time, and maybe it had nothing to do with the story. Then again, front and center at the rape of Vicky Binghamton – Wally, Dennis and Jim. Thirty-four years later a fire in Grenville and a woman is murdered and there they are again – the three Ravens. ‘What happened to her? To Vicky?’
‘She left school. And left town. I saw her once after . . . after they did that to her. It was after school, she was with her mother and they were cleaning out her locker. Her entire face . . .’ His mouth twisted and tears squeezed from his eyes. ‘It wasn’t just a rape. They beat her. She was such a beautiful girl, bubbly and so full of life. But the look in her eyes . . . empty and frightened. They should have gone to jail for what they did. To this day I can’t figure what happened. They say that in cases of rape it goes unreported over half the time. That’s what it would have had to have been.’
‘Did you speak to her?’ Imagining the scene, and sensing there was more.
‘No, and after she was gone it wasn’t discussed. At least not by anyone I knew. There were dozens of us at that party. We all heard; we all knew. And no one said a thing.’ He looked up, his mouth twisted. He grabbed a napkin and dabbed his eyes. ‘You can’t imagine how disgusted I felt with myself. It’s the one thing in my life I’d give anything to do over. Why didn’t I stop it?’
‘Was it just her and her mother?’ Lil asked, wracking her brain for an image of Victoria Binghamton and her mother. But all she could see was that little girl with a giant picture book.
‘I think so,’ he said, staring at his hands and regaining composure. ‘Her mom was a secretary or something like that. I don’t think they had money. They might have been living in Glenndale.’ He was referring to Grenville’s only apartment complex. ‘For thirty-four years I’ve carried that around. What was wrong with me? Why didn’t I help that girl? Why didn’t any of us?’
‘What stopped you?’ Lil had to ask.
‘Fear. And thinking about it now . . . how pathetic. But that’s what it was. Those three ran the school. People knew to not get in their way. It’s like this fire is God’s way of finally setting things right. Wally’s dead, Dennis’s father – dead, Jim Warren in some kind of big trouble, if not for arson for fraud. That just leaves Dennis, and of the three of them let me tell you, he is one scary bastard.’
She was about to press for a definition of ‘one scary bastard’ when Sam’s pager beeped, and then his cell chimed in. ‘Lil, I didn’t want to tell you any of this . . . and now that it’s out there . . . I know you think I was trying to cover something up. At least with the fire I still think it was an accident . . . but I can be wrong.’ He slid out of the booth.
As he did, dozens of questions queued in Lil’s head, and the one that made it to her lips: ‘Why didn’t you say something about the typo on the Nillewaug license?’
His shoulders sagged. ‘My dad’s in that place.’
She nodded. ‘And Jim Warren cut you a deal.’
‘Yeah, I know I have to resign, Lil, but if you could keep that piece out of your story . . . at least for a little.’
‘Sure,’ she said, and she watched him leave the restaurant. Her head swam, and she thought of calling Fleming with what could potentially be not one, but two big stories. The fact that all of Nillewaug Village had been licensed as a nursing home added a layer to this whole fraud thing. She imagined it would also implicate someone – maybe more than one – in state government, much higher up than sad Sam King. Nursing homes get inspected annually, after ten years you’d think someone might have noticed that the seven hundred beds on the application bore little reality to the one hundred beds in Nillewaug’s two nursing-home units. Someone had to have been paid off. But while big, it was the story of fifteen-year-old Victoria Binghamton that stuck. Sam’s retelling, his obvious torment. Where was she now? Lil
wondered. She nodded to the waitress, and asked for a check. There was no point in calling Fleming, he’d either tell her to give the information to a ‘real reporter’ or something equally dismissive.
As the waitress handed her the check, she gave a tentative smile. ‘I couldn’t help overhear that you’re the reporter writing about the fire. My gran lived in that building. She’s staying with my mom for the while. She lost everything she owned, not that she had a lot that was valuable. But all her stuff, her pictures, clothes. If someone set that fire . . . they need to pay.’
‘What’s your name?’ Lil asked.
‘Carrie . . . Carrie Ingraham. My gran is Mary Cody.’
Funny, Lil thought, this is the story you’re supposed to be doing. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Vicky Binghamton – that poor girl, how terrified she must have been. And Sam’s words: ‘This fire is God’s way of finally setting things right.’ But what if God had nothing to do with this? It was a bizarre thought that took root. What if – leaving cash and a generous tip – what if Vicky Binghamton, after all these years, had come back to take revenge against her rapists? Wally Doyle – dead; Dr Trask, the man whose house she was raped in – dead; his son, Dennis – being questioned by the cops; Jim Warren – federal investigation. It was far-fetched, but for Sam to break his silence after 34 years . . . You’re not the only one thinking this, Lil. And regardless of what Edward Fleming did, or did not, want her to write she knew one thing. I’ve got to find Vicky Binghamton.
TWENTY-ONE
Lil arrived home to chaos. As she turned into the cul-de-sac she spotted Kyle in blue scrubs and a lab coat following a leggy strawberry blonde – almost redhead – to a gleaming white two-door Mercedes SLK convertible with the top down. In the passenger’s seat Alice looked out smiling. Her mouth was moving and Lil imagined what was coming out – ‘Are we going home . . . Where’s Johnny?’ or the ever annoying: ‘Which one’s the boy?’ Hanging back at the top of the hill were Ada and Aaron.
She pulled up behind the convertible as the blonde threw a small overnight bag into her tiny trunk and then opened the driver’s door. ‘Kyle, you’ve done enough. This is crazy, you’re working yourself to death for people who don’t give a shit.’
‘Kelly!’ His face flushed, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘You don’t have a clue. She’s not a lap dog. You don’t have a plan? How the hell do you think you’re going to take care of her?’
Lil quickly pieced together the scene. This was obviously Kyle’s sister, plenty of family resemblance, both tall and angular. But where his dark, hooded eyes gave him a haunted poetic look, Kelly was a bombshell. The kind of woman used to turning heads, from her riotous mass of curls, to her voluptuous curves in a beautifully draped cream suit with a mid-thigh slit that revealed long, toned legs that ended in a pair of stylish pumps. But it was her eyes that left Lil breathless, a pure cornflower blue, and in the late afternoon sun, dazzling. ‘And these two,’ Kelly said, casting Lil a dismissive glance, and then up at Ada. ‘You leave Grandma with perfect strangers . . . and you’re calling me the irresponsible one? Really?’
‘Kelly, please. You have to think this through. Where will she stay? You’re not prepared . . .’
‘Sweetie, I love you more than life itself. But give it a rest.’ She eased into the tan leather and swung her legs in a single graceful arc. She pulled out a pair of shades. ‘Here,’ she said, grabbing the seat belt and pulling it across Alice’s shoulder and lap. ‘There we are. Grandma, ready to go home?’
Alice was ecstatic. ‘Yes, please!’
The engine roared and off they went. As they turned at the end of the road, Alice gave a backward glance. She seemed so happy, her dyed-red hair whipped in the breeze, her eyes fixed on Kyle. Restrained by the seat belt she gave an awkward wave.
Kyle stood motionless and defeated, his shoulders sagged. ‘This is not going to work. Crap!’
Lil went to his side. ‘Sorry,’ she said, but she had more pressing things to attend to and started up the walk.
‘She’s right, you know,’ he said, and Lil stopped. ‘What’s holding me here? I took this job so she could have a place to live, and now . . . But the funny thing is, I can’t leave.’
‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Too many people need you right now. You’re a good man, you did your best with Alice, and stuff happens. It’s no one’s fault.’
‘I need to get back to Nillewaug. Kelly will figure it out, probably call me in a couple hours wanting to bring Alice back.’
‘If she does,’ Lil said, ‘we’ll take her back. Don’t think twice about it.’ But as the words left her mouth, she felt a guilty twinge. For God’s sake let his sister take care of Alice. The poor man had enough on his plate, and Lil had been around enough to know what happens to good people . . . They finish last. ‘Kyle, I think your grandma will be fine. And maybe if your sister doesn’t have you to bail her out, she’ll do what needs to be done. Sometimes people step up to the plate, but you have to give them the chance.’ And, not knowing what else to say, she headed up the path.
‘Lil.’ Ada grabbed her hand at the top of the hill. ‘Are you OK?’
She looked down at their entwined fingers. Aaron had headed back in. ‘Where’s your mother?’
‘Cooking,’ Ada said. ‘She feels awful about letting Alice wander off.’ She cracked a smile. ‘Whenever my mother feels like she needs to apologize she’ll never say it with words . . . but with pot roast.’
Still holding hands Lil inhaled. ‘It smells delicious.’
‘It will be,’ she said. ‘Think the paparazzi’s watching? I mean really, “Lesbians in their Midst.” They stole that from your column . . . Tchotchkes in the Mist.’
‘That’s what I thought. And I stole that from Dian Fossey. How are you holding up?’
Ada gave her a worried expression. ‘The truth?’
‘Yes.’
‘Scared, and angry. How dare they?’
‘I know, the first of those pieces about us appeared yesterday, and then one today.’ She stood with Ada, feeling the warmth of her fingers. But something else, they were standing in front of their home, and someone, someone very close had been spying on them. ‘We have got to find out who did this. I refuse to be frightened in my own home, and I can’t stand that this happened to you.’
‘Aaron’s been on that blog trying to figure who it might have been, obviously someone who knows us, and knows enough about Pilgrim’s Progress to find their way around.’
Lil glared across the walk. ‘Bernice?’
‘Or the bastard next to her,’ Ada offered. ‘But we’ll figure it out. How did your interview with Sam King go?’
‘You were right about that; he had quite the story to tell,’ Lil said, turning away from the neighbors, convinced they were being watched. She stared deeply into Ada’s eyes, their hands still connected. ‘Have I told you how much I love you?’
‘You have, and it’s good to hear. You want to hear something cute that Aaron said?’
‘I could use it.’
‘He said we’re in the Blue Lagoon phase of our relationship.’
In spite of everything Lil cracked a smile, feeling like she could lose herself in the warmth of Ada’s gaze. ‘He’s right.’
‘We have work to do, don’t we?’ Ada said.
‘You don’t have to . . .’
‘Please, I’m not just talking about your story. But I’ll be damned if some creepy imbecile is going to try and intimidate me and my girlfriend.’
‘Really?’ And, mimicking the recently departed Alice: ‘Which one’s the boy?’
Two hours later, and they’d not stopped. Lil had filled Ada in on Sam King’s horrible story. Now, sitting next to each other – Lil on the desktop and Ada with her laptop – they were staring at two small mug shots of a tired-looking woman, her face bones and angles beneath pockmarked skin, and a limp mass of skunk-root blonde. Across her chest an identification number and her name – Victoria Binghamton
. Only her china-blue eyes gave a trace of the beautiful child she’d once been. Next to Lil’s keyboard was a small stack of Victoria Binghamton’s electronic footprint, on the top was her obituary dated six years ago. She’d died at Bronx Memorial of an overdose. There was no mention of any family. Just her last address, age – 34, and date of birth – 4/23/62. Beneath that was a print out from the New York Department of Corrections website; it was her criminal record, mostly drug and small larcenies: sale of a controlled substance in various degrees, possession of stolen goods, two violations of parole. The list filled the computer screen and, when added up, it appeared that since her twenties, Victoria Binghamton had spent much of her life in prison.
Ada turned slightly, the Grenville high-school website open on the laptop. She flicked through 1976 and 1977, and in the latter found Victoria (Vicky) Binghamton’s Sophomore portrait. ‘It’s the same girl. So now what? She’s dead, and those three bastards just got away with it . . . you said Bradley treated her when she was a little girl. Any chance we still have the records?’
‘Come on,’ Lil said, scribbling down Victoria’s date of birth. They headed to their bedroom. ‘I hate doing this,’ Lil said. ‘Bradley’s got to be turning in his grave.’
‘Yes, and . . . why do you hang on to them?’
‘Touché. But it’s not like I can just throw them out.’
‘They have been helpful,’ Ada added.
‘But it’s wrong.’ Lil turned on the closet light and pulled back a rack of clothes to reveal two towers of neatly stacked archival boxes of patient records. These represented decades of his private practice. When he’d turned it over to a younger physician, he’d handed over all the records for active patients. But everyone who was dead, had moved away, or had not responded to the notice about his leaving the practice, he’d held on to their records; it was a sizeable number. ‘I still don’t know what to do with them.’
‘OK,’ Ada said, ‘let’s agree that this is the last time we do this.’
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