by Lisa Gardner
He didn't. He was concerned.
Then he got the call after two P.M. Some man who wouldn't give his name curtly stating that Melanie needed him. Brian didn't argue. He ignored his father's specific declaration that Brian Stokes was no longer welcome at Beacon Street and ran through two red lights in his haste to get there.
He still wasn't prepared for the scene in Melanie's room. He took one look at the old red wooden pony and the altar of lit votive candles and said, “Don't let Mom see that.”
“Are you kidding? For God's sake, get in here and shut the door.”
Brian entered the bedroom and shut the door. His sister stood across the room, still wearing pajamas though it was extremely late in the day. Her arms were wrapped around her waist. Tears stained her cheeks. The sight of her so obviously frightened undid him. Melanie was never frightened. Never.
“Melanie—” He took an automatic step toward her, then hesitated. She looked unsure of him, conscious of the gulf that had grown between them. That was fair, he decided. He was standing in this room and he was unsure.
Another awkward moment passed. She finally broke the silence.
“Brian, meet David Reese.” She pointed to the only other person in the room, who was moving around with purpose. “David Reese is a former police officer,” she explained. “He has contacts—”
“Former police officer?”
“Arthritis,” David said curtly. Brian nodded; he'd noticed the limp. “I called in a friend, an active detective, someone who knows how to be discreet. Your sister is real hung up on being discreet.”
Melanie was looking at Brian questioningly. He finally nodded his approval. He didn't know what he thought of David Reese, but he didn't know what else to do. He'd never seen anything like this before, and he didn't have any connections in law enforcement.
“Jesus Christ, what is this?” Brian finally burst out. “I mean . . . who would? How? Why?”
“Don't know yet,” the ex-cop said. “We'll start with the what, which is forty-four votive candles scented with gardenias. One red wooden pony, a scrap of old blue fabric, some bloodstains. Note the arrangement of the candles. Someone's sending a message.”
Brian turned slightly and gazed at the arrangement straight on. Shit. The flickering candles spelled one word. Meagan.
A distant memory returned to Brian. Baby Meagan on the floor. Brian grabbing her doll and ripping it apart. Meagan crying, not understanding. Brian shaking the stuffing all over the floor. “You gotta be tough, Meagan, you gotta be tough.”
The distance between them yawned again.
“I got up in the middle of the night,” Melanie said quietly. “I went downstairs. When I came back up . . . well, here it was.”
“You were up in the middle of the night?” Brian asked sharply. “Melanie, it's been years . . .”
“Do you sleepwalk?” David Reese asked her.
But Melanie was gazing at Brian, and in her eyes he saw what he'd been most afraid of: hurt. He'd hurt her. When Melanie got up in the middle of the night, Brian was supposed to be there for her. He was the one who always woke up, always followed her downstairs to keep guard as she stared at Meagan's portrait. He was her older brother. It was his job.
“I don't sleepwalk,” she said after a while. “Sometimes, I'm just . . . restless.”
“Melanie . . .”
“Later, Brian. Much later.”
David Reese cleared his throat, forcing their attention back to him. “Your mother could return home at any time, so we gotta get working here.” Without waiting for an answer, he continued brusquely. “Let's start with the horse. It's the one from the oil portrait downstairs, isn't it? Meagan's horse.”
“The chipped ear,” Brian murmured. “I did that. I threw it against the fireplace. I was . . . angry. She had it the day she was kidnapped, but it was never recovered. At the time the police said Russell Lee kept it as a—what did they call it?—as a trophy.”
“You never saw the horse again? Not even when they arrested Holmes?”
“No. Never.”
“And the fabric?”
“I don't know.” Brian studied it for a moment, not touching it but looking down at it. “It could be from her dress,” he decided at last. “It's blue. But that was a long time ago, you know, and it's so . . . stained now.”
“Was she found with her dress on?”
Brian glanced at his sister, hesitating. “Wrapped in a blanket.”
David nodded. Meagan had been found in only the blanket.
“How did someone get in?” Melanie interjected finally. “We have an alarm system.”
“Was it set?” David demanded.
“Of course it was set!” She looked at him dryly. “Come on, you're dealing with a family who knows exactly what can go wrong. You'd better believe my father sets the alarm each night.”
“Huh.” David mulled this over for a minute. “Who stayed the night?”
“Myself, of course,” Melanie said. “Mom and Dad. María, the live-in. Also, we'd planned for Ann Margaret, my boss and friend from the Red Cross Center, to stay in the guest room—it's a long drive back to Dedham that late at night. I imagine that she did, but we'd have to ask María to be sure.”
“Does your dad search the house before setting the alarm?”
“Why would he do that?”
“You had three hundred people in your house last night. Any one of them could've slipped unnoticed upstairs, and—”
“And simply waited,” she finished for him.
“Shit,” Brian said.
“There's got to be a connection between Larry Digger and this,” Melanie said. “Maybe he sneaked in after we spoke. Maybe he found this stuff when he was following Russell Lee Holmes.”
David shook his head. “Too subtle. How could a man dressed like him—smelling like him—slip unnoticed upstairs?”
“He got into the house the first time—”
“Wait a second!” Brian broke in. “Larry Digger? The reporter from Texas? Larry Digger was at our house last night?”
His sister smiled thinly, smiled tiredly, and then she told him.
Brian sat through the whole story stony-faced. He thought he should have a reaction. He didn't. The best he could come up with, staring at forty-four candles arranged in his dead sister's name, was fatalism. Texas was already back in his dreams, already messing with his mind. They couldn't move on, that was the problem. None of them had ever learned to move on, and now Russell Lee Holmes was going to get them in the end. Had they really thought something as simple as death could conquer a man like Russell Lee Holmes?
“Brian?” Melanie asked quietly. “Brian, are you okay?”
He touched his cheeks. Shit, he was crying. “And you didn't even call and tell me,” he whispered.
“I called you today.”
“Things have changed that much, have they, Mel?”
She looked at the floor. “You were the one who went away, Brian. You were the one who decided to hate all of us.”
She was right. Brian wanted to take her hand, squeeze it gently, remind her of the old times. He couldn't.
“Forget about Larry Digger,” he declared rashly. “I'll take care of everything, Mel. I promise.”
“No! That's not what I want, Brian. I can handle the situation.”
“There is no situation! Larry Digger was a sleazy half-rate journalist then, and he's a sleazy half-rate journalist now. You are not the daughter of Russell Lee Holmes, and I will not tolerate someone approaching my baby sister with this kind of bullshit. This has nothing to do with you, Mel, nor should it.”
Melanie's eyes turned hard. “Nothing to do with me? Why? Because I'm not a real Stokes? Because even after twenty years you still treat me like a guest—”
“Dammit, that's not what I meant. You know me better than that, Mel.”
“No, I don't anymore! So you'd better explain what you meant, Brian, because as far as I'm concerned, all developments, attacks, a
nd threats on our family—on my family—have everything to do with me!”
“It does not,” he roared back. “With all due respect, you weren't part of this family when Meagan was kidnapped. Do you know that BOLO means Be On the Look Out for? Do you know that local postal companies will deliver hundreds of thousands of copies of a missing child flyer for free? That major airlines will carry them to airports all across the United States?
“Do you know how it feels to deliver ransom money and then just wait? Or what it's like when the police stop talking about recovery and show up with cadaver dogs? Or even better, what it's like to go to a morgue viewing room to identify the remains of a child? You don't, Mel. You don't know, because Meagan had nothing to do with you and that's the way we want to keep it!”
“Too late,” she said crisply.
His sister stormed away from him toward David Reese. He was the older brother, dammit. He should be allowed to protect his sister if he wanted to. And he did not want Melanie involved with Meagan.
“It gets worse, Brian,” his sister said. “I'm seeing Meagan Stokes, and I don't think the images are dreams.
“I think I'm finally remembering, Brian,” she told him quietly. “And what I'm remembering is the last days of Meagan Stokes's life. When she was kept in a wood cabin. When she clutched her favorite wooden toy. When she still believed she would get to go home alive.
“And there's only one way I could know that, Brian—if I was also there. If I was with her. If I was Russell Lee Holmes's daughter. I'm sorry, but I think Larry Digger just might be right.”
Brian suddenly started to laugh.
“Of course, of course,” he heard himself gasp. “Evil never dies. It just becomes part of the family. Welcome to the real Stokes family, Mel. Welcome home.”
EIGHT
A PAGER WENT OFF. Brian returned the call, then announced he had to go to the “goddamn” hospital to see a “goddamn” patient. David took that to mean that he was still a little bit upset.
David and Melanie walked him down to the front door. Brian was muttering that everything was screwed, Melanie was murmuring that everything would be all right, and David was wondering when Chenney was going to show up. They'd just gotten Brian out the door with promises to keep him posted and blood oaths not to mention anything to his mother, when Chenney came trotting up the stone steps, juggling four heavy evidence kits and looking wired for action.
“You need to change,” David stated brusquely to Melanie.
Melanie nodded, looking subdued. The exchange with her brother had obviously taken its toll, robbing her eyes of the fierce spark that had entertained David just hours before and leaving her looking bruised. Tough day for Melanie Stokes.
“I'll grab some clothes, change in the guest room,” she murmured.
David's voice came out gentler this time, almost soft. “Well, sure. We won't be up for a few minutes anyway. You know. Take your time.”
He shrugged a bit, feeling awkward now for no good reason. Chenney was staring at him in disbelief, while Melanie flashed him a grateful smile that unnerved him a bit more. He wasn't that prickly, was he? He had manners. He'd even been raised to hold doors, pull out chairs, and chew with his mouth closed. He could be charming.
He scowled. He was losing focus.
Melanie disappeared upstairs; he turned to Chenney.
“What am I doing?” the rookie said in a rush. “What do I say? What's my cover? Do I need a badge?”
Christ, where did the academy get these kids?
“Chenney, you're passing as a cop. Use your real name and, for God's sake, real procedure when bagging the crime scene. Got it?”
Chenney nodded. “Got gloves, got bags, got fingerprinting kit, got vacuum. It'll be clean.”
“You're golden.”
“That's all? That's all I'm doing?”
“I know, it's not like the full-color brochure. You'll get used to it.”
“I don't understand what this has to do with healthcare fraud,” Chenney mumbled.
“That's why they pay us the big bucks.”
“Lairmore know about this?”
David stiffened. “Not yet.”
Chenney looked at him squarely, showing the first real spark of intelligence that David had seen. “He's not going to like this. Your position is becoming involved, now you have me running around impersonating a police officer, and none of this seems directly pertinent to the case. If this blows up . . .”
“I'll be sure to say none of it was your idea.”
“That's not what I meant,” Chenney protested, appearing honestly injured.
“Whatever. Upstairs, Chenney. We need to finish before the parents come home.”
“Why?”
“Work now, debrief later. That's the drill.”
David led the way up the stairs, knowing the kid was right about Lairmore and feeling even more tense. He needed to get Melanie talking about her family, particularly Dr. Harper Stokes. He needed to start tying this stuff together in a nice, clean case analysis.
Behind him Chenney lugged the heavy vacuum cleaner and fingerprint kit. “Well, if they're paying us the big bucks, why can't he afford a personality?”
Things smoothed out upstairs. David had to give the junior agent some credit. At the first sight of the altar with the now-extinguished candles and child's toy, Chenney settled right down, donning a pair of latex gloves and looking all business. By the time Melanie walked into the room clad in a nubby wool sweater and ripped-up jeans, he'd already started documenting the scene.
David made the introductions. He was aware of how young and fresh Melanie looked with her un-made-up face and clipped-back long blond hair. They caught Chenney up on the situation. He took a lot of notes, then they took a little field trip across the hall to Brian's room.
It seemed very dark, decorated in shades of forest green and deep burgundy. Brian hadn't lived in the house for ten years, but the big captain's bed carried the clear imprint of someone having sat on it.
“So the subject sneaked up here after the party, made himself comfortable, and waited for lights-out,” Chenney deduced, then ruined the professional image by looking to David for approval.
“You're the cop,” David reminded him with a bit of an edge. The rookie stood straighter, then looked at Melanie Stokes.
“Well, at least he wasn't trying to hurt you, ma'am,” Chenney said.
Melanie was startled. “What do you mean?”
“If the guy was here all night, he could've come into your room anytime. But he waited until you left to make his move. Just look at the candles. Votives are good for about eight hours. They were nearly burned down to the base by two P.M. So we can assume he entered your room after four A.M.—when you had vacated the premises.”
“Thank God for small favors,” Melanie muttered.
Chenney shrugged. “The perp definitely didn't want to have a confrontation with you, ma'am. At this stage, he just wants to do his little displays. So you figure he sets it up while you're gone. Forty-four candles, the horse, the fabric. I'd say it took him at least an hour. So maybe he departed the house around six—”
“He couldn't depart,” Melanie interrupted with a shake of her head. “That would set off the alarm system. Any opening of an external door, whether from the inside or outside, activates the system.”
They all looked back at the bed. “So he set it up, lit it, and went back into hiding,” Chenney said.
“Waited until someone got up and deactivated the alarm.” David filled in the picture in his head and liked none of it. “Then he just sauntered out the front door.”
Melanie was looking shaken again.
“There's another consideration,” David mused out loud. “The subject was already in the house. He/she/
it could've chosen any room for the display, but he went to Melanie's room, not her parents'. I'd say that makes you the target, not them.”
Chenney seemed a bit taken aback by this blunt disclosu
re, but Melanie simply nodded. David hadn't thought she'd mind. From what he could tell, Melanie worried a lot more about her family than she did about herself.
“It's getting late,” she said at last. “I'm surprised my mother hasn't come home as it is, so . . .”
Chenney took that as his cue. “I'm gonna need an hour or so. You start thinking of a plausible excuse for my presence, I'll start working through the scene.”
“Thank you, Detective.”
“No problem, ma'am!” Chenney left.
Melanie and David were suddenly alone. She crossed over to the large bank of windows, looking out over the Public Garden, where the cherry trees were in bloom and young lovers were walking hand in hand. With the fading sunlight catching her profile in shadows, she looked at once vulnerable and pensive. She looked lovely, David thought. Then he shook the thought away.
“We have a few more questions. You ready?”
“I made my brother cry.”
“He's a big boy. He'll get over it.”
“There is a shrine to a murdered child in my bedroom.” Her voice rose a notch. “It's in my head, David. Dear God, it's in my head.”
She pressed her forehead against the window, as if the contact might chase the images from her mind. She took a deep breath, then another. Her hands were shaking. David watched her weather the storm and didn't do a thing. After another minute she pushed herself away from the window and squared her shoulders.
“Well,” she said briskly in that tone of voice he'd come to know well, “what's done is done. Detective Chenney will take care of everything and let me know what he learns?”
“He'll send the evidence to the lab. See what comes up.”
“Like fingerprints, right?”
David arched a brow. “There won't be any fingerprints.”
“You don't know that—”
“Come on. This guy spent hours staging a scene. He's not going to make a mistake that obvious.”
She looked deflated for a minute, then bounced back stubbornly. “Well, the detective will learn something.”
“Maybe. Look, if you want answers, let's start right now. Lab work isn't everything. Most info comes from interviews, and we have just a few questions for you.”