by Webb, Debra
Sarah watched Dwight West carefully as he considered how to answer her question. The PI was a large man who likely intimidated most people. His heavily muscled build told her that the gym was one of his favorite hangouts. On the way here, she’d run a quick background check. He had never been in any real trouble. A couple of run-ins with ex-husbands and ex-boyfriends of clients, but charges had always been dismissed before a court appearance.
West had established his business in the DC area ten years ago. Prior to that he’d worked with a partner down in New Orleans. His face bore the scars of more than a few battles. Despite the war wounds and minor brushes with the law he had a solid reputation. His website was loaded with what appeared to be legit testimonials from clients. Considering he’d been willing to come to his office on a Sunday morning to answer their questions, Sarah figured he was pretty decent guy.
“I spoke to Mary Cashion on Friday morning.” He leaned back in his chair. “She was leaving her husband.” West reached into his desk and removed a large padded envelope. “She paid me for a new identity.” He held on to the envelope, his gaze resting on Tom. “Some people believe creating alternative IDs for a situation like this is a crime. You one of ‘em, Agent Cuddahy?”
“We’re here about Mary Cashion’s murder and her missing daughter.” Tom shrugged. “Your assistance is greatly appreciated. We have no interest in your other activities unless they relate to missing or exploited children.”
“I guess we’re on the same page then.” He tossed the envelope to Sarah. “Lawrence Cashion has been abusing his wife for fifteen years.”
Sarah studied the passports and other papers West had created or purchased. “This is very good work.”
“My clients pay me well. Only the best will do.”
Sarah tucked the documents back into the envelope and placed it on his desk. “She was so afraid of her husband she felt it necessary to have a new identity?” Lawrence Cashion had no record. His wife apparently never reported the abuse. It pained Sarah to hear stories like this. Didn’t matter that she’d been a cop for more than a decade, the helplessness, fear, and suffering of women like Mary Cashion still got to her. There needed to be better, more efficient ways to protect abused women. And the children… the thought twisted like a knife in her side. Anyone who harmed a child deserved to be slaughtered.
West nodded. “She’d tried to leave him before. He always brought her back.” He made a face, and then flared his hands. “Look, she said he beat her up from time to time—always below the neck. Never any broken bones or concussions, she claimed. But,” he hesitated, “this is just my gut instinct, I think he killed their first child, Catherine.”
Sarah’s heart rate picked up as her own instincts started to hum. “The report on Catherine Cashion’s death says she fell down the stairs.”
“She was autistic,” Tom added. “According to her health records she had a habit of injuring herself.”
“Asperger Syndrome,” West corrected. “She was a brilliant kid with the occasional violent episodes. That’s the way it works sometimes. Yeah, she beat her head against the wall a time or two when she got angry. Threw things. That’s not uncommon. Throwing herself down the stairs is not so common.”
“You sound as if you’re familiar with the problem,” Sarah commented.
“My son has Asperger Syndrome. He’s sixteen and life is hell sometimes. Yeah, I know a little something about it.”
“Other than your personal experience,” Tom redirected, “did Mrs. Cashion say anything that led you to believe Cashion was responsible for their daughter’s death?”
“She said plenty. Danced all around it. Trouble is, I don’t think she actually witnessed the incident. I think she heard the screaming, heard the fall, then saw her husband at the top of the stairs and her daughter crumpled at the bottom. She never said he pushed the child. What she said was she didn’t want to wait until something bad happened again. What does that tell you?”
“A great deal,” Sarah agreed. “Is there anything else she spoke of, maybe related to Cassie? As you know, we’re desperate to find her.” And the others.
“She was a lot more vague about their youngest. She mentioned she had to protect her. That she was special.”
When the PI fell silent, Tom prodded, “Nothing else? No explanation of what she meant by special?”
West shook his head. “I hate this shit, you know.” He heaved another sigh. “I do what I can, but sometimes it’s just not enough. If that kid is dead, too, I’m gonna feel guilty about it the rest of my life.”
“Why is that? From what I see, you were doing all you could to help.” Sarah certainly understood some level of regret even when you did your best.
“She wanted to leave on Friday while her husband thought she and her daughter were at a birthday party. Get a couple hours’ head start, but she had to wait.” He gestured to the envelope. “That stuff didn’t come in until yesterday morning. By then it was too late.”
The idea that Mary Cashion had been that close to escaping sickened Sarah. She stood. “Thank you, Mr. West. We may need to call on you again.”
He pushed out of his chair and looked from Sarah to Tom. “I want you to get this guy. Anything I can do, I’m there.”
Frustration hammered at Sarah as she and Tom exited the building. Setting it aside wasn’t so easy. Put together the tidbit Schneider had given them and the story West had provided and they had basically nothing. The information presented a certain insight, but no direction. No true lead.
The chilly wind whipped around her, making her shiver. Despite the wind the sun was bright this morning. Sarah wished she’d remembered her sunglasses.
In her opinion, the only potential follow-up in front of them just now was Avalon. What was the real connection between these children and that hospital? Why these children in particular? Was a deceased sibling part of the criteria? Seemed too strong a connection to be coincidence, though for the life of her she couldn’t see it.
“Are we interviewing Cashion again?” she asked as they reached Tom’s SUV. That would be her next move.
“Cashion had his interview.” Tom opened the passenger side door for her. “This time he gets an interrogation.”
Sarah settled into the seat and waited for Tom to get in on the other side. “The man did just have a heart attack.” Not that she had any sympathy, particularly after their talk with West.
“If he killed his wife and daughter,” Tom started the engine, “he’s going to wish that heart attack had done more than land him in the hospital.”
Sarah told herself to look away, but somehow she couldn’t. She hadn’t allowed herself to look directly at Tom any more than absolutely necessary and then not for more than a fleeting second or two. It hurt too much. Every time their eyes met she saw Sophie. Even now she wanted to look away, to make that thread of ever present pain subside, and she couldn’t.
Thirteen months, one week and three days had passed since they’d seen each other. Funny how she remembered the exact date of all their lasts—last time they slept together, last time they saw each other… last time they saw their daughter. Tom had tried repeatedly to mend the rift after having her committed. He would show up at her door and she would refuse to talk to him or even to open the door.
Finally, she’d stopped answering the phone as well and he’d given up.
There were lines around his eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before. If she looked really closely she was fairly certain there was a scattering of gray in his dark hair. He looked leaner than before. And tired. He looked so very tired.
The last five years had taken a visible toll on both of them. Had he cried himself to sleep as many nights as she had? Did he still wake up thinking Sophie would come bouncing into the room smiling and chattering the way she always had? Was he totally numb ninety-nine percent of the time the way Sarah was? Or had someone else given him what she no longer could?
An ache pierced her. Why didn’t
he just sign the damned divorce papers? All she wanted was to…
To what? Move on? Impossible. Put the past completely behind her? That was never going to happen despite her best efforts. Her entire existence was about work and not looking back.
He glanced her way. She whipped her attention forward.
“You can ask me anything you want.” He braked for a turn. “I’ll answer.”
“Who said I had any questions?” Her rapid pulse and the ache in her chest said plenty, but she intended to keep that to herself.
“I’ve known you since you were a freshman in college.” He glanced at her again. “I know your every expression, Sarah. You have questions.”
“You haven’t known me in a long time, Tom.” It hurt to say his name. She blinked at the foolish moisture that gathered in her eyes. She never said his name… never said their child’s—not out loud. “People change.”
“Why don’t I give you the answers I think you want?”
His arrogance irritated her. “Did your old friend teach you mind reading, too?” His silence deflated her irritation in one fell swoop. How the hell could he still affect her so—make her want to rethink her strategy for survival? “Give it your best shot.”
Another fleeting slant of those green eyes arrowed in her direction. “There’s no one else, Sarah.”
She hugged her arms around herself. “That’s too bad.”
More silence. It went on so long she decided she’d gotten her point across, but then he sighed, a weary, aching sound.
“I dream about you—both of you—most nights.”
He smiled sadly. She shouldn’t have looked, but she did.
“It’s crazy, I know. Sometimes I rouse, and in that moment between asleep and awake, I can hear her voice. She wants to take Sam outside. You’re telling her she has to wait until after breakfast.” He tried to laugh, but a catch in his voice disrupted the sound. “Sometimes I can smell her shampoo. I’d kiss her head and there was that sweet fragrance from the—”
“Johnson’s Kids Strawberry Sensation.” Sarah hugged herself tighter and bit her lip to keep it from trembling. There was nothing she could do to stem the burn in her eyes.
He stopped for a traffic light and faced her. “Sometimes, as I drift off to sleep, I can feel you touching me… I can taste your lips.”
She tried to look away. She really did, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t breathe or speak. She could only stare into his eyes… Sophie’s eyes.
A horn blared behind them.
He shifted his attention to the street and drove.
Some part of her wished they could just keep driving… until they escaped the horrible nightmare that was their lives.
Holy Cross Hospital
Silver Springs, Maryland, 12:55 p.m.
“I hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Tom announced as he and Sarah entered Cashion’s room.
“Let me call you back.” Cashion ended the call and laid his cell phone carefully on the portable table extended across the bed. “Have you found my daughter?”
“No, Mr. Cashion, we haven’t.” Tom braced his hands on his hips, pushing aside the lapels of his jacket to ensure his credentials and weapon were on display. He wanted the man intimidated. “As a matter of fact, we were hoping you could help us with that.”
Cashion shook his head. “I don’t know anything. I told you, I can’t remember. The last thing I remember is Mary and Cassie leaving for the birthday party. There’s nothing after that.” He shuddered. “Not until I woke up with blood on my hands.”
“Did you try to clean up the blood, Mr. Cashion?” Sarah asked.
He nodded. “I was scared. I tried to clean it up, then took a shower.”
“At any time while you were doing all this cleaning,” Tom pressed, his fingers itching to shake the bastard, “did you stop and consider where your daughter was?”
Cashion glared at him. “Of course I did. I searched the whole house. I couldn’t find her. She must have seen what happened,” he made a soft keening sound, “and ran away.” He shook his head. “I would never hurt my daughter. Never.”
“You wouldn’t push her down the stairs if she made you angry?”
Cashion’s face went deathly pale. “I didn’t hurt Catherine. That was an accident.”
“Was it?” Sarah argued. “You never hit Catherine the way you did Mary?”
“I never hit my wife! Who said such a thing?”
“You did hit your wife,” Tom challenged. “You abused her for years. Her statements about your abuse are documented.”
Cashion blinked once, twice. “I never hurt my daughters. Never.”
“How can you be so sure, Mr. Cashion?” Sarah argued. “What about the blackouts? You said yourself this wasn’t the first time.”
His lips trembled. “I didn’t hurt either of my daughters.”
“Tell us what happened to Catherine,” Sarah urged, her voice gentler now.
“Mary and I had been fighting. Catherine woke up and started screaming. I went upstairs and tried to calm her down, but she just kept getting more and more hysterical. Finally, I gave up. I was going to take her downstairs to her mother when she suddenly bolted away from me. I tried to grab her, but...” He started to sob. “She fell all the way to the bottom of the stairs.”
“Did Cassie have an accident, too?” Tom demanded. He had no sympathy for the bastard. “Is that why you had to kill your wife? Two children dying in separate freak accidents would be a little difficult to explain.”
“I swear,” Cashion wailed, “I would never hurt my child.”
Sarah held up her hands. “You know what, Mr. Cashion.” He stared at her. “I believe you. I don’t think you hurt either of your daughters.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Tom warned him, “to keep the detective from overlooking the truth. I don’t believe you for a second. I think you murdered both your daughters and when your wife threatened to call the police, you killed her, too.”
Fear clouded the man’s expression. “My daughter is missing and you’re wasting time with these interrogation tactics!”
“Maybe your daughter’s disappearance has something to do with Avalon,” Sarah suggested, staying in good-cop mode. “We have seven others missing who were born at that hospital. Maybe they even killed your wife to get to your daughter.”
Cashion’s eyes widened. “What’re you talking about?”
“You don’t watch the news?” Tom shook his head. “For a mover and shaker like you, that’s hard to believe.”
“Are you referring to the children who’ve gone missing the past couple of weeks?” He turned his attention back to Sarah. “All those kids were born at Avalon?”
Sarah nodded. “You see what I mean? I believe there’s a connection.”
Something new flashed in the man’s eyes. “Are you investigating the hospital?”
Tom had a hunch. “We are. We told the administrator that we were following up on the leads you provided?”
“What?” Sheer terror danced in his eyes then.
“You have some reason to be afraid of the hospital’s administrator, Mr. Cashion?” Sarah asked.
“You don’t understand,” Cashion grabbed his cell phone as if he feared he might need to call for help, “we signed a nondisclosure statement. I can’t talk about it. You have to leave now.”
“The others are already talking,” Tom lied. “Senator Adams is pushing hard for us to get to the bottom of what Avalon has done.”
Tiny beads of sweat glistened on Cashion’s face. “We were desperate.”
Tom exchanged a knowing look with Sarah. She placed her hand over one of Cashion’s to comfort him. He flinched. “Losing a child is devastating.”
Cashion nodded. “They did everything they could at the ER.” He cleared his throat. “But Catherine’s neck was broken. They couldn’t save her.”
“She died here,” Tom said, “in this ER.”
Another weary nod from Cashio
n. “A man came into the room. We thought it was another of the doctors, but he wasn’t on staff here.”
“He had a proposition for you?” Tom prompted.
“He said he was sorry for our loss.” Cashion looked from Tom to Sarah. “Then he asked what we would be willing to give to have our daughter back. Not another child. Not someone who looked like Catherine… Catherine.”
Sarah gasped, but she covered it well with a cough.
“How did he propose to do this?” Tom prepared for the part of this mystery he’d been expecting to unfold. They were close. He could feel it.
“He said they would take genetic material from Catherine before her body was taken away and then they would… clone her. Mary would carry her just as she’d carried her the first time.” His lips spread into a smile even as the tears slid down his face. “She looked exactly like Catherine when she was born. Everything, from her first word to her first step was exactly the same. Except for the Asperger. They took care of that problem. Cassie is perfect.”
Tom looked to Sarah, but she didn’t appear ready to ask the next question. He pushed on. “You’re saying they created an exact replica of your daughter?”
Cashion nodded. “Yes. Lately she’d even been remembering things she couldn’t possibly have known, and yet, somehow she did.” He shrugged. “Meltzer couldn’t explain that one. She surprised us all with her knowledge of things that happened… before.” Another wobbly smile. “They kept their promise. They gave us Catherine back.”
Tom suspected the doctor at Avalon understood precisely what was happening. More of those random errors. “We need the name of the doctor who gave you your second daughter.”
“We were forced to agree to never divulge anything about this,” Cashion went on. “Mary and I assumed there were other families who went through the same program, but we never knew who they were.” He frowned. “So all those missing children…?”
“The name,” Tom pushed. “We need his name.”
“Dr. Detlef Meltzer. The program was his brainchild.”
Meltzer wasn’t the name Tom had expected to hear. He’d been certain Avalon’s administrator was the one.