by Lisa Gardner
“He paid you in drugs?” Danielle asked sharply.
Greg shot her a look. “I turned him down.”
“Oh, well, so you do have standards after all.”
He flushed, squared his jaw, then returned his attention to the cops. “I turned down the drugs,” he repeated stiffly. “What’s-his-name said he’d pay me next week. I almost refused, but then Tika ran over and gave me this great big hug, and … I don’t know. That house. I knew I was screwed, but sometimes … It’s tough to walk away.”
“So what’d you do?” D.D. pressed.
“Played sucker three more weeks. Showed up, took all the kids to the park, never got a dime. And just so you know, it’s not all about the money. If I thought I could’ve helped Tika—hell, I would’ve continued. But man, that family … Her stepfather … They’re the kind of people you learn quickly to avoid. They’re not interested in getting better. They want you to take care of them. They want you to do all the heavy lifting. Meaning nothing you do is ever gonna be enough, and nothing you do is ever gonna make a difference. You have to walk away, or they’ll bleed you dry. Plain and simple.”
“And Lightfoot? You recommend the family to him?”
“I recommended he stay clear,” Greg answered dryly.
“And did he?”
Greg hesitated. “I don’t think so.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He seemed … interested in them. I mean, the parents were a mess, but the kids … Ishy, the oldest, clearly had some kind of autism, but he was a sweet, sweet boy. Then there was Rochelle, who was positively brilliant. And Tika … Tika was … complicated. Very sensitive, almost intuitive. Andrew seemed fascinated by all of them, but Tika in particular. Four old souls, he told me one day. Four old souls stuck in a corporal abyss.”
“Four?” Alex asked.
“The baby,” Greg supplied. “Apparently, Andrew had already met it on the spiritual superhighway.”
“Really?” D.D. said.
“Sure. He even knew it was going to be a girl. Don’t know, man, but sometimes … Andrew knew stuff. And sometimes he did work for free; he could afford to. So if he wanted to deal with Tika’s family …” Greg shrugged.
“Did he?” D.D. pressed.
“Don’t know. It’s not like we hang out.”
D.D. exchanged a glance with Alex. She could tell what he was thinking. Lightfoot had lied to them about not knowing Tika Solis. He’d also failed to mention that he was engaged in some manner of health-care fraud, billing the state for professional services he wasn’t qualified to render. Made D.D. wonder what other secrets the healer had been keeping.
D.D. turned back to Greg. “Jealous? I mean, here you are, tragic past, mentally ill sister, having to work so hard to scrape by. And there’s Lightfoot. He’s got the looks, the life, the house on the beach. How are you ever gonna compete with a guy like him?”
“Compete?” Greg asked.
“Sure. He tosses you fifty bucks to send him some work, but we all know he’d give you even more if you’d hand over your girlfriend.”
“Excuse me?” Danielle this time.
“Please. The way Lightfoot looks at you,” D.D. drawled. “Like you’re a dessert he wants to gobble up.”
“He only cares about my family history—”
“No he doesn’t.” Greg this time, voice curt.
Danielle turned to him. “What the hell?”
“He wants you. Always has. Anyone can tell by watching him watch you. What I don’t understand is why you don’t want him.”
“Because he’s an asshole?” Danielle offered.
“An asshole with money.”
“You do have issues,” she informed him, eyes blazing.
“Don’t we all.”
“Look, I had one dinner with Andrew, that was enough. Like I’m some commodity for guys to buy and sell.”
“You never had dinner with me,” Greg retorted. “How many times have I asked? One dozen? Two? Three? In your own words, you gave more consideration to the ‘asshole’ than you did to me.”
Danielle flushed. She slunk down in her chair, looked away. “Well, I honestly like you,” she muttered. “That makes a difference.”
“Assholes get dinner. Likable guys get squat.”
“As you said, we’ve all got issues.”
“Well, now I’m an asshole who milks desperate parents for money. Does that mean I can buy you dinner?”
“Excuse me,” D.D. interjected. “Hate to intrude, but forget dinner: Next place Gym Coach here is heading is jail. You knew all the families. You had opportunity to hang Lucy and poison Lightfoot. You’re also obviously familiar with the more deadly uses of strychnine, plus have a history with family annihilations—”
“Technically, no.” Greg interrupted. “I have a family history of patricide. My sister killed my parents. That’s not family annihilation.”
“He’s correct,” Alex spoke up.
D.D. glared at him.
“And I have an alibi,” Greg continued. “Thursday night, the Harringtons, right? I was working, watching Evan Oliver, the boy who was brought in this afternoon.”
“Wait a minute.” Alex leaned forward. “The boy who was admitted today. That’s the one who stabbed his mother, right?”
“Evan Oliver, yes. I work for his mom once a week.”
“You met the family outside the unit?”
Greg nodded.
“What about Lightfoot? Did he work with the boy, too?”
“I might have referred him. He might have paid me fifty bucks.”
Alex leaned back. Looked at D.D. Looked at Greg. “Experienced with firearms, Greg?”
“Hardly.”
“What about Tasers?”
“What? Come on, look at me: I don’t have to resort to toys.”
“Not even a pillow, maybe to suffocate a baby?”
“What?” Greg appeared horrified.
D.D. turned back to Alex. “You think?” she asked.
“I’d like to ask Healer Boy a few questions,” Alex agreed. “Including why he lied about not knowing the Laraquette-Solis family, when he decided to start billing for his ‘gift,’ and what kind of alibi might he have for Thursday or Friday night.”
“Then it’s a good thing we know where he’s at.” D.D. pushed back her chair. Alex followed suit. “You two,” she addressed Danielle and Greg, “stay put. If you’re lucky, when I return I’ll decide not to arrest you. But I make no promises.”
She smiled at them wolfishly. Then she and Alex were on the hunt again.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
VICTORIA
A rumbling sound from the hallway wakes me up. My eyes pop open. I feel a moment of intense, overwhelming nausea, and roll onto my right side to vomit.
Then the queasiness passes, and I’m left disoriented and shaken. Slowly, I return to my back. I stare at the blank ceiling of my hospital room and give myself a moment to adjust.
Playing with my son. Speaking with my ex-husband. And then … this.
Should I cry? I want to. I think if your child stabs you, crying is probably a logical thing to do. But I can’t summon any tears. I feel stark, hollowed out. For years I’ve fought a war. Then, in thirty seconds, I lost it.
Now there’s no going back. This is the new reality. My son is a violent offender and I’m his first victim.
At least it wasn’t Chelsea, I think, and then I do cry, low, muffled sobs of relief, because Michael wasn’t the only one who’d spent years terrified that one day he’d have to harm his son to save his daughter. At least it didn’t come to that. At least not that.
Then I picture Evan again, his bright blue eyes and infectious giggle as we raced around the backyard, and I cry harder.
I will always look at Evan and know what he did. And he will always look at me and know what he did, too.
Can’t go back. No going back.
It comes to me again. The burning, obsessive rea
lization: I have to get out of here. I can’t be this person anymore. I can’t lead this life. It hurts too much.
I sit up. The movement sends a sharp, bolting pain through my left side. I gasp, falter, then catch myself. After everything I’ve been through, I refuse to be cowed by something as trivial as physical pain. I grit my teeth, and force my way to standing.
My legs wobble. I grab the metal bed-rail and hang on tight.
When I’m finally convinced I won’t collapse, I turn my attention to the row of machines. I turn off the heart monitor first, unclipping the plastic lead from my finger. Next, I remove the tape holding the IV needle in the back of my hand, sliding the needle free. A single drop of blood appears against my pale skin. I wipe it away and will myself not to bleed again.
I walk gingerly, five steps across the room; I’m not going to make it. With each inhale, my insides feel like they’re being flayed by shards of glass. I’m light-headed, achy. I need to lie down. I can try again tomorrow. But when I turn back to the bed, I can’t do it. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe Evan isn’t the only one who broke this morning. But I can’t go back. I won’t.
Goddammit, after the past eight years, I’m entitled to at least one nervous breakdown.
Tighter binding, I decide. Something wrapped around my ribs to support my weakened side.
Good news: I’ve spent years quietly repairing the results of Evan’s rampages. I’ve reset finger bones, superglued deep cuts (I saw it on the Discovery Channel), and taped fractured ribs. All I need is a few supplies, and I’m a surprisingly decent medic.
Well, I am in a hospital.
I shuffle slowly into the hallway, clutching the back of my hospital gown. The clock on the wall shows it’s after midnight. Sunday is over. Monday has officially begun. I try to find strength in that. A brave new day. Mostly, standing in the middle of the overbright corridor, I feel lost and alone.
The ward is quiet, the nurses’ station empty. I keep moving. Four doors down, tucked against a wall, I find a cart of first-aid supplies. I slip a roll of gauze and a box of butterfly clips into my hands, then shuffle back to my room, shutting the door behind me. I have to rest. My head is spinning. I chew some ice chips, then crawl into bed. My lips hurt. I chew more ice; then, despite my best intentions, I fall asleep.
When I wake up, the wall clock tells me two hours have passed. Someone has placed a blanket over me, and a small duffel bag rests on the chair. Michael, probably. I feel an ache in my chest, as if my ex-husband has left me all over again. Crazy. I’m going crazy.
I don’t care.
I’m still clutching the first-aid supplies. That fortifies me, returns my sense of purpose. I climb out of bed; my legs feel stronger this time and my breathing remains even.
I peel off my flimsy hospital gown, inspecting the bandage on my side. Dark pinpricks of rust. Old blood. Not fresh. Good enough for me.
I work carefully, wrapping the gauze around my rib cage, pulling it tight with each pass, until the constriction forces me to elongate my back and breathe in shallow gasps. Finally, I secure the binding, stabilizing my ribs and easing the sharpest edge of my pain.
Next I explore the duffel bag. Michael has thrown together the basics: sweats, underwear, socks, flip-flops, toiletries. I have a sense of déjà vu, then it comes to me: The duffel bag holds the same items as the hospital bag I packed for Chelsea’s birth, and the one I’d planned to pack for Evan’s birth, had I not gone into premature labor.
I struggle again. Wanting to finger each item as if it’s a talisman of the life I can’t give up, of the woman I’d hoped to be. I’ll sit here. Cry pathetically with my sweatpants on my lap.
The wash of self-pity disgusts me. I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of loving a man who left me. And I’m sick of nurturing a child who drove a knife between my ribs, then phoned to tell me he’d get it right next time.
The life I thought I was going to lead is over. It’s time for a new beginning, a new woman. One who walks white sandy beaches in a long purple peasant skirt, with a salt-rimmed margarita in hand. Maybe I’ll meet a young, handsome surfer dude. We’ll have sex under the palm trees and get sand in interesting places. I’ll watch the sun rise while listening to the call of the gulls. I’ll think only of myself and what I want to do every minute of every day. And I’ll like it.
I have lost my mind.
Fuck it. I get dressed.
It hurts like hell. I use the pain to stiffen my resolve. Underwear. Sweatpants. T-shirt. Flip-flops. I brush my teeth and comb my hair. World, look out.
I’m sweating. My side burns. I drink the water left in the cup by my melted ice.
I have no money, no passport, no sanity. Not exactly a recipe for success.
And I remember now that I’ve never really liked the sun. I burn too easily, especially the top of my head. I don’t want a margarita. I don’t even want a surfer dude.
Mostly, I want to see Evan again.
Eighth floor, they said. Maybe I could creep upstairs, gaze in on him sleeping.…
I will tell him that I love him, whisper it in his ear, the way I used to do every night when he was a baby.
I’ll touch a blonde curl, the stubborn cowlick above his right eye. I’ll finger its softness, and that’ll remind me of all the times Evan hugged me, Evan kissed me, Evan told me he loved me.
To the moon and the stars and back again …
I don’t want to run away. I just want to hold my son. I want us to be all right again.
Eighth floor. Not so far. Not so hard. A short elevator ride to Evan.
I crack open my door, peer down the hall. Coast is clear. I make a break for it, hobbling my way to freedom.
I pass the nurses’ station, getting halfway down the hall, then three-quarters of the way. Almost to the elevator banks. So close. Fifteen more feet. Ten. Five. Two more steps, I’ll be able to reach out—
“Victoria?”
The voice behind me brings me up short. I turn reluctantly, feeling doomed. I can’t go back, I think wildly. I need my son. I need my freedom. I need something other than this incredible ache in my chest.
“Victoria?” my lover says again. His face a picture of concern. “What are you doing up? You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“I’m feeling much better, thank you.”
“Victoria, I think your side …”
I look down. What do you know? I’m bleeding.
He holds out an arm. “Come on, follow me.”
“No.”
“Victoria?”
“I have to go upstairs. Find Evan. Please. Please help me.”
I realize for the first time that he’s holding a large black gadget between his hands. It looks like a gun, but not really. “What’s that?” I ask.
He looks around. Still no nurses in sight. “Expediency,” he says.
He points it at me. I feel a sudden electric jolt, and then …
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
D.D. and Alex bypassed the elevators in favor of the stairs. They needed to stretch their legs, and the empty stairwell was excellent for talking.
“What d’you think?” she asked Alex the moment the heavy fire door closed behind them.
“About Gym Coach Greg?”
“About all of them. We have Nurse Danielle, whose family history dovetails with the crimes, as well as having a personal connection to both Lucy and Lightfoot.”
“Lightfoot?”
“He was into her, even if she wasn’t into him.”
Alex considered this as they descended the first flight of stairs. “Meaning, if someone were targeting Danielle, the methodology of the first two crimes and the targets of the second two crimes would make sense.”
“Which also points the finger at Gym Coach Greg, who has motive.”
“Unrequited love.”
“Exactly. Worships Danielle for years, can’t even get dinner with her, though she accepts Lightfoot’s invite. He has opportunity—knows the Harringtons, knows
the Laraquette-Solis family. He was on duty the night Lucy disappeared, and working tonight when someone spiked Lightfoot’s drink.”
“He claims to have an alibi for the Harringtons’ murders.”
“An alibi not easy to verify, given that the mother has been stabbed and the child’s psycho.”
“Attack gone awry?” Alex mused.
“What d’you mean?”
“The son stabbed the mother. Sounds a bit like our first two crime scenes.”
D.D. shook her head. “Too small. This family is just a mother and child. No father figure, and in the first two attacks, the father figure mattered. That’s who had to be posed just so. The crimes had to reflect on the fathers.”
“Dads are evil.”
“At least the ones who kill their families.”
Alex seemed to accept this. “Problem is, Lightfoot knew the families, too. So now we have two suspects to consider. Both of whom have lied to us.”
“Lightfoot told us he didn’t know Tika Solis, when he did.”
“And Greg said he’d never met Tika’s family, when he had.”
“Actually,” D.D. pointed out, “Greg never said he hadn’t met the family. He just said they didn’t visit the ward.”
Alex gave her a look. “You’re letting him off on a technicality? Remind me to wear more tight-fitting T-shirts and speak in a baritone.”
D.D. rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong—Gym Coach still makes the most sense. After all, Lightfoot wasn’t working the night Lucy was hanged. Plus, there’s the matter of him being poisoned.”
Alex nodded. “Kind of wonder,” he said as they rounded the fifth-floor landing. “First we had no links between the families, now we have all kinds: the unit, an MC/respite worker, and the local spiritual healer. Begs the question, who else don’t we know about? Mentally ill kids appears to be a small and incestuous world. So maybe there are other experts—a psychiatrist, a therapist, a respite worker, a nurse?”