by Lisa Gardner
“Hospital security,” D.D. mused, then perked up. “Security cameras. We’re going to need access to them.”
Alex nodded, but glanced pointedly at his watch. Viewing security footage could be arranged, but would take hours to execute. And in the meantime …
“It’s a reenactment,” Alex told them. “Andrew’s going family by family, following some agenda only he understands. Assuming he’s abducted Evan and Evan’s mother, he will look to staging next.”
“The boat?” D.D. wondered. “Very private.”
“Not the right feel. It needs to be domestic.”
“His house?” That didn’t sound right to her. Lightfoot’s house was an architectural marvel, not a suburban daydream.
“Why not the Olivers’ house?” Greg suggested. “Evan and his mom live in Cambridge, no more than ten, fifteen minutes from here. Andrew would know where it is; he worked for them.”
“Shit. You and me,” D.D. said to Alex, “to Evan’s house. I’ll call for backup along the way.”
She and Alex took a step forward. Greg caught her shoulder.
“I want to go,” he started, then waved to the screaming kids behind him. “Obviously, I can’t. But you’ll find Danielle, right? You’ll keep her safe. Return her to us. She’s … she’s special to me.”
“Give me an hour or two,” D.D. said with forced optimism, “and hopefully you can tell her that yourself.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE
DANIELLE
“It’s dark.”
“The electricity’s out. Evan, my name’s Danielle, I met you earlier this evening. I’m a friend of Greg’s.”
I eased into Evan’s bedroom, mindful of shadowed corners and Andrew’s unknown location. Victoria thought he was downstairs, but neither of us was certain. She was going to try to free Michael, one more foot soldier to join the war. I was supposed to ask Evan to surf the mumbo-jumbo superhighway on our behalf. Find an angel, locate a gun. What the hell.
“It’s dark,” Evan said again, sounding more petulant than frightened. I made it to his bed, where I saw he was lying on his side, hands and ankles captured in zip ties.
“I can cut you loose,” I offered. “Do you have scissors anywhere?”
“Not allowed sharp objects,” Evan said.
On second thought, that made sense. Not sure how to proceed, I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, trying to find Evan’s face in the early-morning gloom.
“It’s dark,” he said for the third time.
“The sun will be up soon.”
Somberly, he shook his head. “That won’t help you.”
I wondered if Andrew had told him something. Warned him, or tried to win him over to his side. Maybe it was just as well that Evan was tied up. Clearly, he was a kid capable of doing damage.
“Your mom says you’ve been working with Andrew,” I started. “She says he’s been teaching you how to control the energies around you.”
“The dark,” the kid insisted again. “You must learn to control the dark.”
“The dark? Is that how you refer to the negative energies?”
“They’re all around you.”
“Yes, the power is out.”
“No,” he said, “they’re all around you.”
It took me a second, then I finally got it. Evan wasn’t talking about the lack of overhead lighting. He was talking about me. Apparently, I was the source of negative energy, a walking, talking black hole.
Given how tired and scared I currently was, that made perfect sense.
“Evan, can you tell me how you fight the dark?”
“Call upon the angels,” he reported. “Close your eyes. Picture a white light. Call it to you. Seven hugs from seven angels. They will help you.”
“Can you do that for me? Call the angels? Then, when you feel the light, can you ask the angels a question?”
In the gloom, Evan blinked at me, curiously.
“Andrew has hidden a gun,” I said quietly. “The angels know where it is. We need to find that gun, Evan. Can you ask the angels to help us?”
“Guns are bad,” said Evan.
“So is Andrew. Help us, Evan. Your mommy and daddy need you.”
Evan’s chin came up. He regarded at me solemnly. “I will help you.”
I hid Evan, still bound, inside his closet, beneath a pile of pillows and clothes. Ten minutes had to be up. Andrew was coming. With the gun. Without the gun. I scoured Evan’s room for possible weapons. Maybe a lamp, clock radio, or a framed picture. Victoria ran a tight ship. No feasible weapons in her violent child’s room.
Think, think, think.
My heart was beating too hard. I felt a dull roaring in my ears, becoming hyperaware of too many things at once: Evan’s low whisper, “Breathe in, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.… Exhale, one, two, three, four, five.…” Myself, standing unarmed in the middle of his darkened bedroom.
Then another sound, farther down the hall. The creak of a floorboard.
Andrew, coming up the stairs.
My father, singing as he approached my room. My father, blood spattered across his cheeks—my mother’s, my sister’s, my brother’s.
I wouldn’t curl up under the covers this time. I wouldn’t hide in a bedroom.
I wanted to fight.
I needed to fight.
If I just had the damn gun …
Then, in the next heartbeat, it came to me. I didn’t need Evan. I didn’t need to visit the celestial superhighway. This was all about my father, right?
I knew exactly where the gun was.
I’d dumped my father into the damn sewer system, and the son of a bitch had been trying to escape ever since.
When Andrew topped the stairs, I was waiting for him in the hallway. I sat cross-legged on the floor, hands quiet on my lap. I had my eyes closed, listening to the low murmur of Evan’s voice from the neighboring bedroom. I could feel currents of air whispering against my cheeks. Cold and warm. Light and dark.
I felt different. Tingling. Flushed. Powerful. As if maybe I was in the company of angels. The memories, I realized. I’d finally opened my mind. Allowed myself to know everything that I knew, and now it was as if I were back in the house that night, except this time my mother and siblings were beside me. We were united. Four against one.
And the images that filled my mind were both violent and painful.
“You don’t have the gun,” Andrew stated. “You failed.”
He took the first step forward, and I finally opened my eyes.
“Sheriff Wayne saved me,” I said, my voice strong. “My father didn’t kill himself that night. Sheriff Wayne killed him.”
“You … you spoke to him?” Andrew sounded bewildered. He paused, six steps away, knife pressed against his pant leg.
“My mother loved him. Have you seen her on the interplanes? Have you asked her about that? Sheriff Wayne was a good man, and she cherished him for that.”
Andrew became immediately agitated. It proved what I was beginning to suspect.
“She called the sheriff after I spoke to her, after my father came home. She wanted to kick my father out. But my father refused to go. So she called your father—her lover, Sheriff Wayne—to assist.”
“He shouldn’t have left his family,” Andrew snapped.
“Even a good man can be tempted,” I answered. “Even a good man can want something he shouldn’t have. Wayne came over as a man, not an officer of the law. He hoped to reason with my father, convince him to leave the property. Bullies crack under pressure, right? And everyone knew my father was a first-class bully.”
More agitation. The whap whap of the blade against Andrew’s pant leg.
“It didn’t go the way anyone planned. My father refused to budge from the bedroom, so Sheriff Wayne went upstairs to fetch him. They started to yell. Then my father spotted his gun, resting on the nightstand. He grabbed it, pointed it at Sheriff Wayne, just as my mother got between them. She took the b
ullet meant for her lover, dead before she hit the floor.”
Pictures again, like an old home movie streaming through my head. Had I crept out of my room that night, seen more than I’d known I’d seen? Or were the images from something else? The warmth caressing my cheek. The feel again—my mother, Natalie, Johnny. Four against one. The way it should’ve been that night, twenty-five years ago.
“My dad hesitated,” I whispered now, “shocked by my mother’s death. It gave Sheriff Wayne the time he needed to bolt from the house to his car. Service firearm, locked in the glove compartment. He had to work the key, hands trembling. Get the door open. Retrieve the nine-millimeter. Check the chamber.”
More images. A fourth presence, joining me in the hall.
“While he was gone, Natalie stuck her head out of her room. Johnny made a mad dash for the stairs. And my father started walking down the hall toward my bedroom.”
The air currents again, shifting. Hot and cold. Light and dark. Swelling.
“Sheriff Wayne saved my life,” I said loudly. “He shot my father. He carried me from the carnage. Then he called for backup, never telling anyone what really brought him to the house that night. No point in harming his family with his dirty secret, now that my family was dead. As the officer in charge, he controlled the crime scene. That made it easy for him to write it up as a one-man rampage—my father killing most of his family before turning his gun on himself.
“Sheriff Wayne carried his guilt to his deathbed, where he finally confessed to his son. Is that what brought you to find me? Is that what convinced you I had to face my past, Andrew?”
I wondered if I’d see a spark of recognition in his eyes, a reaction to his name. But the swirling darkness around him remained impenetrable.
Evan’s voice crested inside the closet, summoning the final angel, calling for the light.
“You didn’t have to kill anyone,” I told Andrew. “Your father’s soul was freed the moment he confessed. He wasn’t trapped in the void between the interplanes. But my father was.…”
Andrew snarled. Fresh rage as he understood what I’d finally figured out. He raised his knife.
And I curled my fingers around the handle of the gun I’d found in the master bath. From my father’s ashes dumped down a sewer, to his old service weapon taped to a toilet. In these last few seconds, it all started to make sense.
Andrew stormed down the hall.
And I had seen my father staring from his eyes.
My mother always smelled of oranges and ginger. She would feed me strawberry Popsicles on hot days, and stay up with me when I was sick. She loved the Sunday comics and used to pore over Vogue magazine, debating which expensive outfit she would one day love to buy.
Natalie liked to snack on fresh lemon slices sprinkled with sugar. She’d eat out the pulp, then curl the yellow peel over her teeth and smile at everyone. That last summer, she’d started using lemon juice to bleach out the freckles spattering across her nose. Though I never told her, I secretly loved her freckles and hoped every day to see some on my own face.
Johnny’s favorite game had been hide-and-seek. He could contort his body into the tiniest spaces, and we couldn’t find him. One day, he wedged himself behind the water heater and couldn’t get out. Natalie laughed, but I could tell he was scared. I held his hand while my mother doused him in vegetable oil. Later, after he’d taken a bath, he shared his favorite comic book with me just to say thanks.
Andrew, charging. Six yards away, five, four …
My father, a crush of darkness roaring down upon me like a freight train.
… three, two …
“Evan!” a man cried behind Andrew. Michael Oliver, cresting the stairs.
“Michael, Michael, the police. They’re here, they’re here!” Victoria screamed from downstairs.
“Mommy!” Evan yelled from the bedroom closet. “Mommy, Daddy!”
And then Andrew was upon me.
“Look out!” Michael roared.
A crash of breaking glass from the entryway.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
Love and light. Light and love. A family’s last stand.
“Die!” Andrew howled into my face, knife arcing down.
I thought of my mother’s love. I remembered my siblings’ goofy grins. And this time I didn’t hide.
I pulled the trigger.
The recoil snapped my arms up. The gun connected with Andrew’s chin, knocking him backwards. Did I hit him? Was he bleeding? I couldn’t tell. My ears were ringing, my eyes tearing from pain. My right hand throbbed, burnt from the ejecting brass.
Evan still screaming. Footsteps pounding up the stairs.
“Police, police! Drop your weapons!”
Andrew picking himself off the floor, shaking his head.
I noticed two things at once. His right side was bleeding, and he still held the knife.
He looked down at me and started to grin, just as Michael Oliver tackled him from behind.
“Son of a bitch. How dare you hurt my family. Son of a bitch!”
“Drop your weapon! For God’s sake, drop it!”
Sergeant D.D. Warren had topped the stairs, blonde curls flying. She had her drawn weapon pointed at me, and her gaze locked on the tangle of grown men. Her partner, and Victoria, poured into the hall behind her.
“The police, Michael,” Victoria was trying to say. “The police.”
“Mommy?” Evan cried from the closet.
“Drop your weapon!” D.D. screamed again.
I put down the gun, my gaze still on Andrew.
“Kick it away. Behind you,” D.D. ordered.
I did as I was told. Michael was on top of Andrew now, bashing Andrew’s forehead into the floor.
“Stop it!” D.D. yelled angrily. “Police! Get up, get away. Now!”
Her voice must have finally penetrated. Michael slowly released Andrew’s hair. He rose shakily, breath shallow, expression wild. D.D.’s partner stepped forward to assist.
“Evan’s in his closet,” I spoke up. “He needs help. Please?”
Those words seemed to finally rouse Michael. He stepped back from Andrew. Victoria was already scurrying by the detectives into her son’s room. She returned a minute later, Evan in her arms.
She looked at her husband. He looked at her. The next instant, they were together, parents, holding tight, their child cradled between them.
And I felt an ache, deep and endless inside my chest. My mother, Natalie, Johnny.
I love you. I love you. I love you. And I miss you so much.
A brush against my cheek. A flutter, like butterfly wings against my right temple. I wanted to hold on, hold close.
I love you, I thought again. Then I let go, as I should’ve done years ago.
The other detective was beside Andrew’s prone form. He reached down to feel for a pulse while D.D. covered him with her gun.
The detective frowned, looked back at D.D., made a small shake of his head.
I realized then what we’d all missed before: the pool of blood slowly growing beneath Andrew’s body. When Michael tackled him, Andrew had still been holding the knife. Apparently, it had finally found a target.
“Everyone out,” D.D. ordered flatly.
We moved to the driveway, where the sun was coming up. Michael and Victoria remained huddled close, Evan nestled between them, refusing to let their son go. I stood off to the side, turning my face toward the light.
EPILOGUE
VICTORIA
We’ve found a school for Evan. It’s full-time care in a family-friendly environment in southern New Hampshire. The kids live in actual homes, with trained caretakers serving as surrogate parents. The campus includes a lake, huge gardens, and neighboring woods. The curriculum combines a structured schedule with plenty of outdoor time, where kids get to breathe fresh air, learn to garden, and benefit from the healing powers of nature.
The school even utilizes meditative training to help agitated children imp
rove their self-soothing skills.
Evan’s nervous, but not morally opposed. We can visit on weekends. If his behavior improves, he can come home for the holidays. It’s beginning to feel manageable. Yes, he’s on medication. Yes, he’ll be going away. Yes, we have many “learning opportunities” ahead.
But the school is beautiful. Evan’s calmer. And our family is healing again.
The DA decided not to press charges against Evan. Our lawyer argued Evan had been unduly influenced by Andrew Lightfoot’s now obviously violent tendencies. Prosecuting a child who’d just been kidnapped by his spiritual healer didn’t make for great headlines, so the matter was quietly dismissed. After another week at the acute care unit, a bit of tweaking with Evan’s medication, and the development of a long-term plan, Evan was allowed to come home to finish out the summer before heading to his new school.
It gave me time to heal and go back-to-school shopping with my daughter.
Last week, Chelsea visited Evan and me twice, Michael acting as chaperone. Evan became overexcited, slamming his fingers in the front door, then tripping over his own feet and knocking his sister into the TV. But Chelsea hung in there, I hung in there, Michael hung in there. The calmer we remained, the calmer Evan became. By the end of the second evening, we even managed a family game of charades. Chelsea won. When I gave her a congratulatory hug, she clung to me and cried. So I cried with her.
Sometimes, that’s just what you need to do.
The wedding has been postponed. More pressing matters to tend to, Michael told me, and I thought I saw some of the old familiar heat in his gaze. I know I felt it in mine.
I’m thinking of returning to interior decorating. I’m thinking of prizing every single second I have with my children. I’m thinking of being me again, independent, beautiful, and strong.
And I think if I do that, Michael doesn’t stand a chance.
D.D.
D.D. loved it when a case came together. Andrew Ficke, aka Andrew Lightfoot, died at the scene, bleeding out after severing his femoral artery. Evidence, however, had a life of its own, and they found plenty of it.