by Lisa Gardner
“The ring—”
“Also issues with chain of custody.”
“The information provided by Delilah Rose—”
“Saddest excuse for a three-oh-two I’ve ever read in my life,” Baima intoned. “Strike three, you’re out.”
Kimberly scowled. “Come on, you heard that call. We can’t walk away. A woman died begging for her life. How can you—”
“We’re not.”
Kimberly eyed her supervisor skeptically. “We’re not?”
“No, we’re kicking it to GBI, where a case like this belongs. You said Special Agent Martignetti started things. Let Martignetti work missing persons and track down hookers. Better yet, maybe he can come up with a crime scene, or, heaven forbid, a body. One way or another, this is more GBI’s jurisdiction than ours.”
“But Delilah won’t talk to Martignetti—”
“Maybe no one has asked her nicely enough. Until we have evidence of crossing state lines, this isn’t an FBI case. Period. You have eighteen open files on your desk right now. Here’s a thought: Pick one and close it.”
Kimberly scowled, chewing her lower lip. “And if GBI wants to set up a tap on my cell phone?”
Baima gave her a look. “Think hard about all the calls you get and from what sources. You’re opening the door on each and every one. I’d find a better way to cooperate.”
“Point taken.”
Kimberly rose briskly, careful not to let the triumph show on her face.
At the last minute, her supervisor stopped her. “How you feelin’?”
“Fine.”
“Your workload is pretty high, Kimberly. While you’re still feeling so well, it might be the time to start planning ahead.”
“Is that an order?”
“Call it a friendly suggestion.”
“Once again, I live to serve.”
Now Baima did roll his eyes. Kimberly took that as her cue to leave. Her supervisor had granted her permission to find a better way to cooperate with the state. Surely that included delivering Tommy Mark Evans.
Kimberly’s father had entered the Bureau after a brief stint with the Chicago PD. He’d been old-school FBI, in the days when G-men wore dark suits, obeyed all things Hoover, and lived by the mandate Never Embarrass the Bureau.
Truthfully, Kimberly had been too young to remember her father’s time in the field, but she liked to picture him in a somber black suit, his dark eyes unreadable as he stood across from some petty gangster, breaking the suspect’s alibi with a mere arch of his eyebrow.
After his workaholic ways imploded his marriage, Quincy had gotten into profiling, transferring to what was then called the Behavorial Science Unit at Quantico. In theory, he’d moved into the field of research in order to spend more time with his daughters. In reality, he had traveled more than ever, working over a hundred cases a year, each one more shockingly violent and twisted than the last.
He never talked about his work. Not when he’d been with a field office and certainly not once he started profiling. Instead, Kimberly had taken it upon herself to become immersed in her father’s world, sneaking into his study late at night, flipping through his homicide textbooks, glancing at manila folders filled with crime scene photographs, diagrams of blood spatter, reports from coroners’ offices filled with phrases like “petechial hemorrhages,” “defensive wounds,” and “postmortem mutilation.”
Kimberly had been an FBI agent for only four years, but in many ways she had been studying violent crime her whole life. First, under the mistaken impression that if she could understand her father’s work, then she could understand the man. Second, as a victim herself, trying to wade through the emotional morass that came with knowing her mother died a long, brutal death, fighting for her life inch by inch, as she crawled across the hardwood floors of her elegant Philadelphia town house.
Had Bethie died in a state of terror, feeling caught, helpless, trapped? Or had she felt outraged to have fought so hard and still lost the war? Or perhaps by then her pain had been so great, she’d been merely grateful. Mandy had died the year before. Maybe in those final moments, Bethie was thinking how nice it would be to see her daughter again.
Kimberly didn’t know. Kimberly would never know.
And in the hours after midnight, her thoughts often took her to dark places where other people, normal people, God willing, never had to go.
In the end, she and her father rarely spoke of their jobs, because it wasn’t their jobs they had in common. Kimberly worked for the post-9/11 Bureau, operating out of a beautiful office compound in the middle of a serenely landscaped industrial park. Average age was thirty-five. Females comprised a quarter of the workforce. Men thought nothing of wearing pastel shirts.
Instead, Kimberly and her father shared something deeper, more poignant. They understood what it was like to strive so hard to save a stranger’s life while living each day knowing they had failed the ones they loved.
Mostly, they understood the importance of always moving forward, because if you stood in one place too long, you risked getting crushed by the boulder weight of regret.
A little after eleven a.m., Kimberly headed to her car. She’d already checked the Georgia Navigator for latest traffic news, and according to the website, GA 400 was clear. Alpharetta lay just twenty-five miles north of the Atlanta Field Office, and Kimberly made good time.
This late in the season, football was done. Instead, Coach Urey was teaching gym class to a bunch of gawky ninth graders who were a mess of arms, legs, and interesting body piercings. When Kimberly finally found the gym, Urey didn’t need to see her creds to talk. Her mere presence was enough for him to take a much-needed break.
She warmed him up with the usual prattle—how was football season, what did he think of the new high school, seemed to be a great group of kids.
Urey, who was about as wide as he was tall, with the requisite buzz cut and beer gut, took it all in stride. Should’ve made it to state this year. Kids really had the heart. But it was a young team, made some mistakes. By gawd they’d get ’em next year.
They walked down a hallway as they spoke. Urey offered her water. She declined. His gaze fell to her stomach, and she could see him mentally wrestling—was the woman pregnant, not pregnant, were FBI agents even allowed to be pregnant. Finally, he did the sensible thing and said nothing at all.
“So I’m trying to track down one of your former players,” she started out casually as they turned a corner in the vast hallway of lockers. “Nothing alarming. I’m just cleaning up odds and ends from another case and have some property to return to him.”
“Property?”
“Class ring. It has the football emblem on it with his jersey number. That’s how I knew to come here.”
“Oh sure, the kids load up their rings with everything. Hell, if I’d had all those choices in my day …”
Kimberly nodded her head in sympathy, as Urey re-trod the same ground Mac had already walked down. Apparently, men did take their class rings seriously. War medals, and all that.
“Do you know his name?” Urey asked now. “Or tell me his jersey number. I can probably fill in the rest. Not that I spend too much time with these kids.”
“Ring owner graduated in oh-six,” Kimberly supplied. “If I understand the symbols correctly, he played quarterback. Jersey number eighty-six.”
Urey stopped walking. For one moment, under the fluorescent lights, his face appeared gray. Then he collected himself, squaring his shoulders resiliently.
“I’m sorry, Special Agent Quincy. If you’d phoned ahead, I coulda saved you a trip. Ring belonged to Tommy Mark Evans. Fine kid. One of the best QBs I ever had. Great arm, but also solid. Held up under pressure. He graduated magna cum laude and got himself a football scholarship to Penn State.”
“He’s out of town?” Kimberly asked in confusion. “Going to college in Pennsylvania?”
But Urey shook his head. “Not anymore. Tommy came home for Christmas last year
. Guess he went for a drive. Nobody really knows. But apparently he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Took two bullets to the brain, tap, tap on the forehead. Parents still haven’t recovered. You just don’t expect a strong, handsome kid like that to suddenly wind up dead.”
TWELVE
Burgerman took me to the park.
Younger kids were on the swings, teeter-totter, merry-go-round. Some older kids, closer to my age, were flying around the beat-up court in a pickup game of hoops.
Burgerman nudged me. “Go ahead. Join ’em. It’s all right. Get some color on your face. Christ, you look like shit, you know?”
For a moment, I didn’t believe he really meant that I could go. He nudged me harder, nearly knocking me to the ground, so I took the hint and went. I joined the team with shirts. Going skins would’ve invited too many questions.
In the beginning, I held back. It felt strange to be on a playground, too be around other kids, to hear them laughing and dribbling and swearing a little when a boy missed a shot or took an elbow to the gut. I kept waiting for everyone to stop and stare. I wanted them to ask, What the hell happened to you? I wanted someone to say, Hey, buddy, wake up, it’s all been a bad dream, but it’s over now and life is good.
But no one said anything. They played basketball.
And, eventually, so did I.
I could smell fresh-mowed grass. Hear happy sounds, kids goofing off in these last few days before summer became mercilessly hot and everyone headed straight to the swimming pools. There were birds. And flowers. And a vast blue sky and so much … everything.
The world, going on spinning. Round and round and round.
I went up for a shot. Made it. A kid slapped me on the shoulder.
“Nice hook.”
I beamed, went back for more.
I don’t know time anymore. Time belongs to other kids, boys not caught in the Burgerman’s grinding embrace. I just am, until I’m told otherwise, then I am not.
So I played until the Burgerman told me to stop. And then I didn’t play anymore.
Burgerman led me to the side. Sun was starting to go down. Some of the other boys wandered off. Moms and older girls collected the little ones like ducks in a row, waddling them down the street.
I noticed one little boy off on his own, digging in the sandbox.
Burgerman noticed him, too.
He looked at me. “Boy, fetch me that kid.”
Screaming. It went on and on and on. High-pitched and thin, a babble. I tried to cover my ears. Burgerman stopped long enough to slap me upside the head, knocking me into the wall. He socked me in the gut and when I doubled over, caught me again beneath the chin.
“ARE YOU LOOKING, BOY! BETTER PAY ATTENTION.”
And then the screaming again, on and on and on. Until finally, the Burgerman collapsed, rolled off, started digging around for his customary cigarette.
I could taste blood. I’d bitten my tongue, had a gash along my cheek from the Burgerman’s ring. I didn’t feel too steady. Thought I’d be sick.
The little boy had stopped struggling. He just lay on the bed, eyes glassed over, face stupefied.
I wondered if that’s how I must have once looked.
Then he noticed me looking. His eyes found mine. He stared at me. Stared so long, so hard. Pleeeease.
I careened out of the room, made it down the hall, got to the bathroom just in time. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I vomited and vomited and still it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t get the horror out of my belly. It had seeped into my blood. I couldn’t get it out. I couldn’t get it off. So I threw up water and bile until I dry-heaved and collapsed onto the floor.
I blacked out then. It’s as close to mercy as I ever got.
When I came back around, I could hear sounds again. Snoring, this time. Wouldn’t last, though. An hour, maybe two.
The Burgerman always woke up hungry.
I crawled back down the hall. Peered inside the room. I couldn’t help myself. I had to see, even if I knew I would be sorry.
The boy had curled up into a ball. He wasn’t moving, but he wasn’t asleep. He was staring at the far wall. I knew what he was doing. He was practicing being small. Because if he could be small enough, maybe the Burgerman wouldn’t notice him anymore.
I knew what I must do.
Burgerman left his pants on the floor. I wriggled over to them, gingerly putting my hand into the pocket, until I found the key. It felt heavy and sharp in my hand. I didn’t think about it. Just kept moving.
Over to the side of the bed, in front of the boy. Finger to my lips, shhhh.
I held up his clothes. The boy, maybe five or six, just lay there.
I thought I should tell him something. I didn’t know what. He wasn’t ready for the great truths of life. None of us were.
Finally, I patted his shoulder and dressed him as if he were a baby.
I left him one moment. Had to unlock the door. It squeaked a little upon opening and I stilled. Snuffling snore from the bedroom. So far so good. I peered out into the long gray length of the hall. No one was about. Seemed to me in this apartment complex no one was ever about.
Now or never, I decided.
And for some reason, I don’t know why, I remembered that first night, the night I woke up to find the Burgerman standing at the foot of my bed. I remembered the sound of my father snoring down the hall. And, remembering, I started to cry, though at this stage of the game, tears were too little too late.
I crept back to the bedroom, blubbering. Grabbed the boy’s shoulder, shook him hard.
His dark eyes slowly came up to mine. A faint hint of consciousness swam beneath the surface. Then he zoned out again. I slapped him hard, grabbed his shoulder, and yanked him to the floor.
Snoring stopped. Bed squeaked as the Burgerman finally moved.
Now I clasped my hand over the boy’s mouth, pressed him against me, willed him to not make a sound.
Did I pray? Did I have any prayers left? None came to mind.
Bed creaked again, Burgerman tossing back and forth. Then … silence.
Not much time anymore. The beast was starting to stir.
I grabbed the little boy beneath the armpits and dragged him toward the door. Ten steps. Eight. Seven. Six. Five.
The boy wouldn’t walk. Why the hell wouldn’t he walk? I needed him to get his feet beneath him. Wake up. Stop shaking. Run, dammit, run. What was wrong with him anyway?
What kind of stupid shit didn’t fight back? What kind of miserable, stupid, pathetic boy let a man do this to him time after time, and couldn’t even run for the goddamn door!
And suddenly I was yelling at the boy. I don’t know how it happened. I was standing over him, looming over him, screaming so hard that spittle sprayed from my mouth: “MOVE YOUR FUCKING ASS! DO YOU THINK HE’S GONNA SLEEP FOREVER? YOU STUPID, NAUGHTY BOY. GET UP. RUN, DAMN YOU, RUN. I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING DADDY!”
The five-year-old boy curled up in a ball, put his hands over his head, and whimpered.
And then, I realized what I didn’t hear anymore.
Snoring.
I turned. I was helpless not to. Standing in front of the open door, so close, but so far away. The man’s latest plaything curled at my feet.
The Burgerman stood behind me.
He smiled in the dark.
And in that smile, I knew what was about to happen next.
Time belongs to other boys. Boys that have not been beaten and starved and raped. Boys that have not stood there and watched a grown man kill a kid with his bare hands.
Boys that were not then handed a shovel and made to go out and help dig the grave.
“You want to die, son?” the Burgerman asked casually, standing back from the hole, leaning on his spade.
The body was wrapped in an old towel, lying beneath an azalea bush. I didn’t look at it.
“It’s not hard,” the Burgerman continued on. “Hell, climb into the hole. Lie down next to your little friend. I won’t s
top you.”
I didn’t move. After a moment, the Burgerman laughed.
“See, you still want to live, boy. No shame in that.”
He gave me an almost affectionate pat on the head. “Pick up the shovel, son. I’ll show you a trick to save your back. That’s it, put your legs into it. See? Now repeat.”
Burgerman taught me how to dig a perfect grave. Then we returned to the apartment, packed up our clothes, and vanished.
THIRTEEN
“The spider’s appetite may often appear insatiable, the abdomen swelling to accommodate added food.”
FROM How to Know the Spiders,
THIRD EDITION, BY B. J. KASTON, 1978
Kimberly found Sal at the Atlanta Bread Company. He was munching on a sandwich, a smear of mayo dotting his right cheek. Though he’d agreed to the rendezvous, he still appeared wary as she approached.
“Sprouts?” she asked, inspecting his lunch. “Funny, you didn’t strike me as a sprouts man.”
“Hey, I like veggies. Besides, after Sausage McMuffins for breakfast …”
“You ever cook, Sal?”
“As little as possible.”
“Me, too.”
She took a seat, sliding her brown leather saddlebag from her shoulder and digging around for her lunch.
“Are you eatin’ pudding again?” Sal wanted to know.
“Cottage cheese with blueberries. Gotta get protein somehow.”
“How far along?”
“Nearly twenty-two weeks.”
“Don’t look it.”
“It’s the pudding,” she assured him. “Have kids?”
He shook his head. “Don’t even have a wife.”
“Hasn’t stopped other guys from procreating.”
“True, but I’m a traditionalist. Or a procrastinator. Haven’t decided which. Does it move?”
“What, the baby?”
“Yes, the baby. It’s not like I care about cottage cheese.”
“Yeah, she’s starting to. Lots of little movements that get progressively worse if I’m trying to eat or sleep. If I’m doing nothing, of course, she’s perfectly quiet.”