by Lisa Gardner
A military-grade Taser was found on the front seat of Lightfoot’s car. Tests determined it met the voltage requirements of the Taser used to attack Patrick Harrington, Hermes Laraquette, Danielle Burton, and Victoria Oliver. The Taser also contained custom cartridges, apparently available on the black market, that powered the device’s twin wires without leaving behind any traceable confetti.
A search of Andrew’s Rockport home also revealed a package of zip ties, same size, color, and durability as the ties used to subdue Danielle Burton and the Oliver family. Then there was the duffel bag in his car trunk, which lit up like the Fourth of July when tested for bodily fluids. The bag revealed three different blood types, most likely cross-contamination from once containing clothing stained with the blood of multiple murder victims.
Andrew Lightfoot was a known associate of all the victims. The police found no alibis for him on the nights of the murders, and security cameras showed him entering the hospital the evening Lucy was hanged. Fire investigators recovered fifteen smoke bombs in the ventilation system; latent prints recovered Andrew’s prints from several of the devices, tying him explicitly to the emergency evacuation.
As far as D.D. was concerned, that was a wrap. Andrew had taken his world of spiritual interplanes a bit too seriously, convincing himself that the fate of his father’s soul was more important than the continued corporal existence of various individuals. He had murdered A, believing he was saving B. Or more likely, he had just wanted to terrorize Danielle Burton after she rejected him.
Naturally, Alex argued with her. “He was a spiritual healer. Man did good work, according to his clients—”
“Converts.”
“Clients. You don’t go from being a respected shaman to a mass murderer overnight.”
“He was obsessed with Danielle. She wanted nothing to do with him. How much rejection can one man take?”
“According to her testimony, he wanted her to save his father’s soul. How does killing two entire families accomplish that?”
“It didn’t accomplish that,” D.D. pointed out with a shrug. “Poor problem-solving skills. Definition of a murderer right there. Some guy wants a divorce, but doesn’t want to lose half of his assets, so he kills his wife instead. Did he have to kill her? Were there other options that might have ended his marriage while preserving his bank account? Of course. But murderers don’t see other options. That’s why they’re murderers.”
They were sitting in D.D.’s office. The other taskforce members had left. Case was closed, not to mention they’d heard this same conversation a couple of times before. That didn’t stop D.D. and Alex.
“Yeah?” Alex continued now. “And where in business school and shaman studies did he cover how to slaughter an entire family? Single killing blow to a grown woman, as well as an athletic teenage boy? Not to mention how stone cold you gotta be to chase a screaming girl down the hall, then drag her back to her death. Or shoot a young girl in a dog bed. Or suffocate a baby in a cradle.”
“Merely proves how compartmentalized he was. Think about it: The man had two lives—Ficke the investment pro, Lightfoot the soul saver. Ficke was definitely not nice; he fucked women and screwed friends, all in the name of high finance. Then one day, Ficke up and reinvented himself as the kinder gentler Lightfoot. Maybe in the beginning he honestly believed he saved his friend’s life. Maybe, given some of the accounts of his work, he lived the life of woo-woo. But think about it: Healing is its own power trip. Next thing you know, the New Age adrenaline rush triggered his old predatory instincts. Andrew begins defrauding the state, taking advantage of overwhelmed mothers, and feeding his inner ego. Lightfoot returns to being Ficke, this time armed with a bunch of spiritual mumbo jumbo for manipulating the masses.”
“He wanted Danielle,” Alex said.
“Absolutely. All comes back to Danielle. The girl his father had once saved. The woman who still wouldn’t do what Andrew said. Andrew wanted her, and Andrew always got what he wanted. Or no one else did.”
“Meaning one stubborn woman can drive a man over the edge.”
“It’s a gift,” D.D. said modestly. “Now case is closed. Perpetrator is dead. It’s seven p.m. I haven’t slept in four days. Why the hell are we still at work?”
“Because you haven’t said yes.”
“To what?”
“To the chicken marsala I’m planning on making you. With a side of Italian bread, and a bottle of Chianti.”
“Is there tiramisu for desert?” D.D. asked.
“Vanilla bean gelato.”
D.D. looked at him. Alex looked at her.
She sighed, took off her pager, set it carefully on her desk.
“Alex, take me home.”
DANIELLE
According to the police’s final report, Andrew Lightfoot allegedly went crazy and murdered twelve people in his quest to gain my attention and save his father’s soul. They used the term “allegedly” because murdering twelve people is a complicated way of saving someone’s soul. Or perhaps that’s why they ruled him crazy.
I didn’t contradict anything they said, though I had my own opinion on the subject. Nothing I could prove. Frankly, until a month ago, not even something I believed. But I work with children, and children are a powerful litmus test of human nature. At one time, kids loved Andrew. They responded to him. Even if I didn’t consider myself a mumbo-jumbo sort of gal, I’d seen some of his results.
I don’t think a madman could’ve helped those kids, particularly the hypersensitive ones, who would’ve perceived the taint. I think Andrew used to be Andrew. And I think, somewhere in his exploration of the celestial superhighway, he encountered a negative energy beyond his control. He met my father’s corrupt soul, hoping to use him to learn more about his own father. Unfortunately, my father’s spirit used Andrew to hunt me down in order to finish what he’d started twenty-five years ago.
There are things I’ll never know. When carrying me into Evan’s house, Andrew urged me to open my heart, to find the light. Was that the real Andrew pushing through, trying to help me survive? Or did my father simply assume that if he could get me to visit the land of interplanes, he could hurt me, too?
Don’t know.
Is my father back in the abyss, even now waiting for the next corporal existence? I know I saw him that night, his eyes shining from Andrew’s face. And I know I felt my mother, Natalie, Johnny, even Sheriff Wayne. Or maybe I just wanted to feel them. Maybe it was the illusion of seeing them that gave me strength. Then again, I found the gun. Surely that argues for my father’s involvement, or I had a way-lucky guess.
I go back and forth, a thirty-four-year-old skeptic, discovering late in life that some part of her wants to believe.
I feel different these days. I remember my family more often, and with less pain. I’ve lost my mother and siblings, and yet they’re still with me.
Maybe there really are angels? Or maybe I’ve finally completed the five stages of grief?
Don’t know.
What about Andrew? Assuming his soul was hijacked by my father’s, did the end of corporal existence finally set him free? I asked Evan one day. He told me Andrew is an angel, and he talked to him just last night. Evan seemed relaxed about it, so I let it go. Evan’s word is good enough for me.
The state buried Lucy. We took up a collection to pay for the marker. I ordered it shaped in the form of a sleeping cat, though the granite guy thought I was nuts. After her funeral, a giant rainbow appeared on the horizon. Strictly speaking, rainbows are a matter of light hitting water particles. I decided to view it as Lucy’s spirit, granting us one last smile.
Maybe I do know.
I have a date.
He’s handsome, solid, and currently unemployed. Karen fired Greg four weeks ago, saying his violation of unit policy left her no choice. Greg’s thinking of either returning to school to become a psych nurse like me, or establishing a full-time respite-care business. In the meantime, he’s busy assisting various f
amilies and soon, of course, he’ll be even busier having sex with me.
I have moments when I’m still angry. I hate how easy it is for a parent to destroy the life of a child. I still see cases that break my heart. And I still make sure I walk way around any sewer grates.
But I get up each morning. And I find myself making the same vow each night.
I’m going to live with more light in my heart. I’m going to continue my work with troubled kids. And I’m going to fall in love with a really good man.
I’m the lone survivor, and this is what I’ve lived to tell.
AUTHOR’S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When you hear of a first-grader being expelled for violence, you have a tendency to think of a kid with those parents. You know, the parents who don’t care, aren’t engaged, are perhaps violent themselves. So I was shocked two years ago when the troubled kid wasn’t a stranger, but the son of a good friend. As parents went, she and her husband were caring, resourceful, and involved. And they still felt they were losing the war to save their child.
I’m indebted to this family for sharing their experiences with me. Their sessions with various specialists. Their multiple stays in a locked-down pediatric psych ward. And yes, their interaction with a spiritual healer who they believe has done the most to reach their child. They shared their story in hopes of garnering more understanding for mentally ill children and their often overwhelmed caretakers.
They’d like you to know that not all kids who can’t sit still are brats. Not all kids who refuse to sleep are troublemakers. And not all kids who scream at the top of their lungs are disobedient.
They’re kids. And they’re trying. And so are their parents.
My deepest appreciation to Kathy Regan and her staff at the Child Assessment Unit in Cambridge, Massachusetts. They tirelessly answered my questions, while allowing me to spend time on a real psychiatric ward. I could not have created my fictional psychiatric children’s ward, PECB of the Kirkland Medical Center, without the benefit of learning about their experiences and approaches. While I allowed the fictional PECB to use a progressive approach inspired by CAU’s impressive work, the center itself, its staff, and their actions are purely products of my (highly disturbed) imagination and bear no resemblance to the first-class operation run by Kathy and her staff at CAU.
For anyone who’d like more information on the CAU’s progressive approach, I recommend Opening Our Arms: Helping Troubled Kids Do Well, by Kathy Regan. I also recommend The Explosive Child, by Dr. Ross W. Greene, for a detailed look at the collaborative problem-solving (CPS) approach.
On the more mundane side of research, a happy shout-out to my favorite pharmacist, Margaret Charpentier, who once again helped me pick the perfect poison. It’s been a while since we’ve gotten to collaborate. I think the results are fun, as always.
Kill a Friend, Maim a Buddy: Congratulations to Audi Solis for being chosen as the sixth annual Lucky Stiff. I hope you enjoy your grand end. Sharing the fun across the Atlantic, Jo Rhodes won the Kill a Friend, Maim a Mate. According to Eleane Rhodes, it was the least I could do.
For anyone else who wants in on the action, the next sweepstakes should be up and running by September. Visit www.LisaGardner.com for more info.
Under “Care and Feeding of Authors,” thank you to Michael Carr, whose pen functions more like a scalpel when editing a manuscript. I cried only for a little bit, and the book is better for it. My appreciation to my first readers, Kathleen, Barbara, and Diana, for doing an excellent job, as always, with the page proofs. And finally, the big guns—I couldn’t do this without Meg, Kate, and the support of my entire publishing team. Thank you for making the magic happen.
On the home front, my love to my patient husband and my not very patient but always adorable child.
Finally, this book is in memory of Michael Clemons, a good man, gone too soon. We miss you.
Love You More is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gardner, Lisa.
Love you more : a novel / Lisa Gardner.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90811-4
1. Police—Massachusetts—Boston—Fiction. 2. Boston (Mass.)—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3557.A7132L68 2011
813′.54—dc22 2010042093
www.bantamdell.com
Cover design: Scott Biel
Cover photo: portrait of a woman by Jason Homa/Photographer’s Choice/Getty Images
v3.1_r1
Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Love You More
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Preview of Pilot Script for AMC’s The Killing
Author’s Note and Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Who do you love?
It’s a question anyone should be able to answer. A question that defines a life, creates a future, guides most minutes of one’s days. Simple, elegant, encompassing.
Who do you love?
He asked the question, and I felt the answer in the weight of my duty belt, the constrictive confines of my armored vest, the tight brim of my trooper’s hat, pulled low over my brow. I reached down slowly, my fingers just brushing the top of my Sig Sauer, holstered at my hip.
“Who do you love?” he cried again, louder now, more insistent.
My fingers bypassed my state-issued weapon, finding the black leather keeper that held my duty belt to my waist. The Velcro rasped loudly as I unfastened the first band, then the second, third, fourth. I worked the metal buckle, then my twenty pound duty belt, complete with my sidearm, Taser, and collapsible steel baton released from my waist and dangled in the space between us.
“Don’t do this,” I whispered, one last shot at reason.
He merely smiled. “Too little, too late.”
“Where’s Sophie? What did you do?”
“
Belt. On the table. Now.”
“No.”
“GUN. On the table. NOW!”
In response, I widened my stance, squaring off in the middle of the kitchen, duty belt still suspended from my left hand. Four years of my life, patrolling the highways of Massachusetts, swearing to defend and protect. I had training and experience on my side.
I could go for my gun. Commit to the act, grab the Sig Sauer, and start shooting.
Sig Sauer was holstered at an awkward angle that would cost me precious seconds. He was watching, waiting for any sudden movement. Failure would be firmly and terribly punished.
Who do you love?
He was right. That’s what it came down to in the end. Who did you love and how much would you risk for them?
“GUN!” he boomed. “Now, dammit!”
I thought of my six-year-old daughter, the scent of her hair, the feel of her skinny arms wrapped tight around my neck, the sound of her voice as I tucked her in bed each night. “Love you, Mommy,” she always whispered.
Love you, too, baby. Love you.
His arm moved, first tentative stretch for the suspended duty belt, my holstered weapon.
One last chance …
I looked my husband in the eye. A single heartbeat of time.
Who do you love?
I made my decision. I set down my trooper’s belt on the kitchen table.
And he grabbed my Sig Sauer and opened fire.
1
Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren prided herself on her excellent investigative skills. Having served over a dozen years with the Boston PD, she believed working a homicide scene wasn’t simply a matter of walking the walk or talking the talk, but rather of total sensory immersion. She felt the smooth hole bored into Sheetrock by a hot spiraling twenty-two. She listened for the sound of neighbors gossiping on the other side of thin walls because if she could hear them, then they’d definitely heard the big bad that had just happened here.
D.D. always noted how a body had fallen, whether it was forward or backward or slightly to one side. She tasted the air for the acrid flavor of gunpowder, which could linger for a good twenty to thirty minutes after the final shot. And, on more than one occasion, she had estimated time of death based on the scent of blood—which, like fresh meat, started out relatively mild but took on heavier, earthier tones with each passing hour.