by Lisa Gardner
Verifying the death certificate for Mary Beckett was more difficult. The doctor who’d signed the original certificate was dead and the hospital bureaucrats had bigger matters than hunting down records on someone who’d died twenty years earlier.
The person came back on the line. Detective Epstein stopped twirling his pencil.
“Archives? What do you mean by archives? In a separate storage facility. Well, sure I understand the volume of records you must have. Is there a system? Can you send some exhausted intern to search? Well, ma’am, I’d send an officer, but you’re not really going to let us paw through your records unattended, are you? That’s what I thought. So what time is good for you? Yeah, an hour it is.”
He hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. Technically his shift had ended two hours ago. It was about to extend for several hours more.
Night was falling soon. The first night with Tess Williams in her old house, and Team A was feeling the pressure. If they could find Jim or Samantha Beckett ahead of time, they’d save everyone a lot of trouble. There were twelve of them working now. Epstein had taken over confirming the last death certificate. Four officers were hunting down the numbers Shelly Zane had forwarded calls to over the last two years. Eight officers still reviewed the hotline logs, following up leads, chasing down ghosts. Shit, this case was killing them all.
Epstein had known Difford. He’d respected the lieutenant very much. Once they’d gone to a Red Sox game together. Difford had been one of the few locals who’d remained loyal to the Red Sox even in the rotten years—the long, long periods of them.
Epstein picked up his jacket. “Andrews, you available?”
“Only if I have to be.”
“You have to be. Grab your coat. We have an appointment.”
“Where to?”
“A storage facility. We have a haystack to search for a needle.”
“Jesus, Epstein. You sure know how to show a guy a good time.”
Marion sat in the middle of the floor in the office she’d borrowed. She was surrounded by a sea of maps, all wearing different shades of pastels. She had New England maps, Massachusetts maps, Berkshire County maps, and Williamstown maps. They frolicked around her, holding the secret to long life.
She’d been staring at them all day, and now her vision was blurred. She was also having difficulty concentrating.
For no good reason she remembered being seven years old and ducking with J.T. behind a sofa cushion as Melhelia, their maid, launched another sock grenade over the defensive perimeter of decorative pillows.
J.T. was laughing. Merry Berry was giggling. It defied the imagination.
She shook her head. She blinked her eyes three times, then popped them open and focused on the maps. She didn’t want to think of herself or long-ago days. She didn’t want to think of the shadow that hovered behind the laughing Merry Berry, the dark shadow that tinged the edges of all her memories, even the good ones.
She wanted to think of Beckett. She wanted to crawl behind his eyes.
“We have more in common than you can imagine,” she muttered. “Ice. It’s all about ice.”
No empathy, no compassion. Just the cool practicality and efficient ruthlessness of immoral genius. No restraints, no boundaries. If you could think of it, you could do it.
She stared at the maps harder, willing the dispassion in her blood. Focus, focus, focus.
A knock sounded on her office door, making her flinch. She scowled, rubbed the back of her neck, and pulled herself together.
“Come in.”
A secretary cracked open the door. “Roger MacAllister on line one for you.”
“Tell him I’m not available.”
“He’s called several times now, Agent.”
Marion turned to the Williamstown map. “Tough.”
She ran her finger down the streets, trying to see the small, quaint town the way he saw it. Trying to know it as he knew it.
Jim Beckett was number one. Jim Beckett was here. Jim Beckett was here.
She stared at the map harder and at Tess’s house, which she’d marked with an X.
“Oh,” she said at last, the pattern clicking in her mind. “Oh.”
Eight P.M. The sun was down, the streetlights on. In the generic white van Lieutenant Houlihan and Special Agent Quincy sat in silence. The snipers were in place on the roof, woolen mittens pulled over their hands for warmth. At the end of the block a young college girl in black tights, black boots, a short red skirt, and beige barn jacket arrived home with her backpack, opened her front door, and stepped inside.
At six o’clock the tiny residential block had showed signs of life. Now things were settling down. The few families who lived there were eating dinner. The college students had already departed again, heading for a Friday night of college entertainment. Houlihan didn’t imagine they’d see much more traffic until one or two A.M.
Linden Street was a quiet place.
The radio crackled briefly to life. Patrol teams Alpha, Beta, and Omega all reported in. So far, no signs of Jim.
“Get ready for a long week,” Houlihan muttered.
“Where’s Agent MacAllister?” Quincy asked.
“I don’t know. She’s your agent.”
Quincy looked at his watch again and frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought she’d blow it this early on,” he murmured. He went back to staring out the window. He hated stakeouts.
Houlihan finally picked up the cell phone and checked in at headquarters. “Any news?” he asked the sergeant in charge.
“No, sir.”
“What about Team A? Have they found any leads on Jim or Samantha?”
“No, sir.”
“All the death certificates are confirmed?” Houlihan pressed. He was damn tired of hearing “No, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought they had a lead?”
“I just spoke with Detective Epstein himself. Hospital archives revealed a copy of Mary Beckett’s death certificate. His family is dead, sir. If someone is helping him, it’s someone we’ve never heard of. They’re still working on the phone list.”
“Just wonderful.” Houlihan grumbled a bit more, then hung up the phone. Quincy remained silent.
They stared down the street. Waiting.
Marion changed clothes. She pulled on a pair of designer jeans, a peach silk turtleneck, and a cardigan of hand-woven Irish wool. She left the cardigan unbuttoned so she could reach easily for her gun.
The clothes were much nicer than what a college student would normally wear, but at a glance they would do.
She pulled the first pin out of her hair. Then the second, then the third. The pale gold locks uncurled slowly, as if they were afraid of the unexpected freedom. She picked up a brush and worked on her hair until it gleamed.
She had no bangs and no natural wave. Just fine flaxen strands that reached the small of her back. She added a headband and thought she looked like Alice in Wonderland. Perfect.
The clock glowed 8:30 as she pulled on her gray wool overcoat. Her shoulder holster fit comfortably. Around her ankle she had a .22.
She took out her FBI shield and studied it one last time. Fidelity, bravery, integrity, it said. I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.…
She placed the shield on the middle of the bed. There was one last matter to attend to. She kept the note simple:
J.T.
I do remember the pillow fort and the GI comic books and the night we cried because Snake still hadn’t come to take us away. Sometimes I still dream of the colonel and he is always standing amid the flames of hell while little demons flay his skin. I watch from outside the intense heat and I always think, it’s not enough. There is nothing that would ever be enough. You were right to remember, but I need to forget. Remember me young, for both of us.
Merry Berry
She left the pad sitting next to the phone. She added two extra
clips to her coat pocket.
Head high, shoulders square, she left the room and didn’t look back.
Edith sat on her front porch, hugging her old hunting coat closer to her. It was cold, colder than it should be.
She’d thought that after telling Martha about her visions, everything would get better. They’d spoken of it frankly. Martha was afraid of her son. She thought he may have done some bad things and that’s what the dead girls were trying to tell Edith. Tonight Martha would bring little Stephanie over to Edith’s while she went to the police.
Edith had agreed. They were taking action. They had a plan. The visions should go away.
But as she stood on the front porch, her chest had that too-tight feeling and goose bumps were already prickling up her arms. As she stood on her front porch, she knew that she was scared. Very scared.
Martha appeared in her driveway again. She was loading up the trunk of her car. She’d been loading it for a while with luggage and bags of supplies. Edith had no idea how Martha had ended up with so much stuff.
Martha disappeared back inside her home. She no longer moved stiffly. Now her strides were long and purposeful, almost jaunty. Their plan had had a euphoric effect on Martha. Edith suspected it would only be temporary. Thick shadows circled Martha’s eyes and her gaze had that too-bright look of someone who wasn’t sleeping at night.
Edith felt another chill and rubbed her arms again. The girl drifted back in front of her—the one with a butterfly tattoo. Edith shook her head. “I’m doing what I can. Now go away. Find the light, do whatever it is you people do.”
Martha reappeared, Stephanie’s hand tucked in hers. They crossed the yard, then Stephanie’s small hand was ceremoniously transferred to Edith’s age-spotted grip. The little girl didn’t appear happy, but she didn’t complain. Beneath the brim of her everpresent baseball cap, she wore the resigned expression of someone who’d gone through all this before.
Edith thought she was very strong for a four-year-old.
“If all goes well, I’ll have a restraining order by morning,” Martha said.
“How will a restraining order protect you from Jim Beckett?” Edith grumbled.
Martha instantly stilled. She looked at Edith very carefully. “How do you know about Jim Beckett?”
“I—” Edith’s mouth worked soundlessly. It was one of those things she hadn’t known she’d known until she’d said the words out loud. “I just … I just do.”
Martha nodded, but there was something new in her expression. Something that made Edith stand very still. Beside her, Samantha had stopped breathing, also sensing the danger.
The old woman and child stood together very quietly.
Slowly Martha nodded. Slowly she stepped back.
She finally climbed into the car and shut the door with a bang. The shakes hit Edith in a rush; suddenly her whole body was trembling.
She looked down at Stephanie, subdued Stephanie, whose hair was as golden as any of the faded girls haunting her porch. She looked at the old brown Nissan now pulling out of the driveway.
And suddenly the visions cleared her porch. They leapt into the car, crowded into the car with their long blond hair and silent, somber faces. They were crying and keening, tearing at their hair, spilling out of the car. Begging for help.
Edith dragged her eyes away, feeling the pain once more in her chest. Needle-sharp pain. Horrible pain.
Her gaze went to the back of the car, pulling down the street. Her gaze landed on Martha’s too-white hair, and she knew. She knew why the visions had started appearing. She knew why they grew worse when Martha was in the room. She knew why Martha’s face was too smooth and her hands too strong and her shoulders too broad.
Martha wasn’t Jim Beckett’s mother. Martha was Jim Beckett.
The brake lights suddenly glowed bright red. The beat-up car halted in the middle of the street.
And she knew that Jim Beckett knew that she knew.
She grabbed Samantha’s hand tightly.
“Run, child, run,” she commanded, and yanked her off the patio. “Run with me!”
Tess pulled away from the window. She turned toward J.T., who sat in the reclining chair, twirling his hunting knife around his fingers.
“You all right?” he asked.
She said simply, “Nightfall.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Marion walked down the streets of Williamstown without fear. She’d scouted them out earlier, matching buildings to the street map she’d burned into her mind. Houlihan hadn’t lied—Williamstown was small. Settled in 1753 as West Hoosuck, the town was nestled in the Berkshires with a 450-acre campus. Land sprawled around the town, undulating green fields broken up by impressive gothic churches built from stone. White-trimmed brick buildings added prestigious touches. The mountains towered in the horizon.
The heart of Williamstown, however, contained no more than a few square miles. From Marion’s location off central Hoxsey Street, she could walk to Tess’s house on Elm in twelve minutes. She could run there in six. The centralized collection of shops, dormitories, and houses made it the ideal setting for a hit and run. And the steady traffic of bundled-up college students and tourists made it easy to blend in.
She could understand why Jim Beckett would allow himself to be lured back to this town.
She lingered on Hoxsey Street. The science compound loomed to one side, a dark mass of shadowed buildings where old pine trees sheltered a zigzagging maze of walking paths. The other side of the street began with the beautiful redbricked Spencer House, one of the many fraternities lining Main Street. The rest of the street was occupied by old, traditional homes that had been subdivided into apartments for the Williams students. The student infirmary marked the end.
It was only nine-thirty, and the street witnessed steady traffic flow. Students traced the walking paths that began one block over on pulsing Spring Street and carried them through the science compound, across Hoxsey Street, and down the row of fraternities. Tonight students walked briskly and in groups. Obviously they’d paid attention to warnings of a possible escaped murderer in the area.
Marion urged them on mentally. Run and run fast. You don’t want to meet Jim Beckett tonight.
Jim Beckett was here.
She turned the phrase over in her mind again and again, and that was the only one that made sense. “Jim Beckett was the best” was pejorative; he’d say “Jim Beckett is the best.” Same with “Jim Beckett was number one.”
Jim Beckett was here. The statement was as arrogant and childish as the man. It fit him.
Tonight—or maybe tomorrow night, or the one after it—he would come after Tess. But he would also finish his pattern. He always finished what he started. He didn’t have time to do it anymore with city names. But he could use street names.
Tess lived on Elm Street. That supplied one of the Es in here.
But to start he would need the letter H.
Marion pivoted and walked down the other side of Hoxsey. It would end here.
She veered away from the main street, following one of the footpaths through the science compound. Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she walked.
A group of four students passed by her and faded away.
A blue-suited security guard approached, gray hair protruding from beneath his cap. His generous middle jiggled like Jell-O.
She shook her head, tucking her chin against her chest for warmth as she trudged on. Another retired policeman who’d become a rent-a-cop. Slow, out of shape, and absolutely no match for a man like Jim Beckett.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the guard’s head come up. His face was lined heavily. He had jowls.
Less than twelve inches away from him, she finally noticed his eyes.
Bright blue eyes.
Ice.
She reached for her gun. And he lunged forward.
“Where’s Marion?” J.T. grumbled. He paced back and forth in the kitchen, where Tess was trying to keep busy by makin
g chili. She was stirring the beans obsessively and adding chili powder with a heavy hand.
He glanced at the clock for the fourth time in five minutes.
Only 9:35. And they were already going nuts.
“Maybe she’s still at the office.”
“Maybe.” He could feel the tension rising inside him. Jungle drums with a jungle beat. He couldn’t stop pacing.
He picked up the phone and called in. Lieutenant Houlihan picked up the secure line on the first ring. “What?” the lieutenant demanded sourly.
“I thought Marion was coming back to the house one more time.”
“She seems to have changed her mind.”
The statement irritated J.T. beyond reason. “Put her on the phone.” His tone was curt.
“Can’t.”
“Can’t?”
“She’s not here. I don’t know what the deal is. Last we heard, police team Alpha saw her walking down Hoxsey Street. She must have had some last-minute things to do. It’s going to be fun watching her try to explain it to Quincy. He really doesn’t look happy.”
J.T. frowned harder. “Why would she be walking around? That’s not like her.”
“Don’t know. It’s been a tough week.”
“Yeah, well, Marion isn’t exactly weak in the knees.”
“J.T., she’s not under my jurisdiction. She was supposed to be here by seven. It’s now 9:38, and last we knew she was walking through Williamstown in an overcoat and casual clothes. The officers said they almost didn’t recognize her with her hair down.”
“What?”
Warning bells were already going off in his mind. He didn’t want to believe them. “She was wearing jeans and her blond hair was down. Would you say she looked like a college student? Like a young blond coed?”
There was a stunned pause. Then, “Oh, shit.”