by Ben Miller
He remembered Faye Dellahunt’s music room behind him, though, and this provided him with some solace. At some point she and Richard must have worried that her practicing her instruments might bother the neighbors, so they had felt compelled to wall off a soundproof room. Or maybe a persnickety neighbor badgered them enough until they had no other choice. (It didn’t cross his mind that perhaps Richard had built the room simply to insulate himself from her music.) Whatever the motivation, it indicated to Reilly that loud noises could travel well outside the confines of this basement. This epiphany gave him enough motivation to keep trying, so he commenced another round of screaming.
81
Corinne rushed through the automatic sliding doors into the hospital lobby. She bolted to the information desk just to the right of the center of the atrium. Both attendants were occupied with visitors who seemed to have no urgency whatsoever. Corinne looked down at her phone, hoping she had received a reply text from Reilly. She hadn’t. Finally the elderly man to the left must have felt satisfied about the parking situation, or whatever mundane nonsense he had complained about, for he moved on from the information desk. The smiling woman behind the desk invited Corinne to step up.
“May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Randall Franklin,” Corinne announced, before remembering to use his full name. “James Randall Franklin. He was involved in a trauma.”
“Oh, my,” the attendant replied, seeming genuinely concerned. “And what’s your name and relationship to Mr. Franklin?”
“Dr. Franklin,” Corinne corrected her, then immediately felt ashamed. Why did this woman care if Randall had been a doctor? Why did Corinne care if she knew it? “Sorry. I’m Corinne O’Loughlin. I’m a friend.”
The woman wrote her name down—misspelling her last name, but Corinne didn’t want to correct her again—and then began pecking away at the keyboard in front of her. Within a few seconds she pulled her bottom lip back in a frown. “Ooo. I’m sorry. There’s a block on that record.”
Corinne turned her palms up. “What does that mean?”
“It means the record is blocked. I can’t give you any information on it.” She looked up at Corinne with apologetic eyes. “I’m very sorry.”
“Well, when can you give me information on it?”
“It doesn’t say. It never says, really,” the woman explained. “It’s just there, and then, at some point, the block might be lifted. And then it’s not there. But right now it’s there.”
“OK,” Corinne said abruptly. At first Corinne found her sincerely empathetic, but now she was beginning to find her condescending. Corinne had little patience for that. “Is he alive? Can you tell me that?”
The woman began shaking her head and pointed to the computer screen, which Corinne could not even see. “It’s…”
“Blocked. Right. Got it.” Frustrated, Corinne tapped her fingers on the counter in front of her. Perhaps her little drum solo ignited a spark, because she suddenly thought of a new tact. “I need to talk to your PR director.”
“PR?”
Corinne didn’t know if the woman played dumb about what “PR” meant, or if she couldn’t understand why Corinne would ask. Corinne decided she didn’t care—now it was her turn to be condescending. “PR. Public Relations.” She pulled her credentials out of the satchel over her shoulder. “I’m with The Washington Post.”
The woman nodded a dozen beats before responding. “OK. Please have a seat over there.” She pointed to a group of chairs in the opposite corner of the lobby. “I’ll page our PR Director Mrs. Portnoy for you.”
“Thank you,” Corinne said before departing the desk. She pulled her phone out again on her way over to take a seat. Still nothing from Reilly. She sent him another text.
I’m at VCU Hospital, trying to get info on Randall. Things seem crazy here. I want to talk to you. Please call or text when you can.
Not long after she hit send, a tall, thin, middle-aged woman in an impeccably tailored navy-blue suit walked up to her in long strides, stopping less than a yard in front of her with her right arm extended. “Ms. O’Loughlin, I’m Margaret Portnoy, Director of Public Relations.”
Corinne stood up and shook her hand. Before she could say anything, Mrs. Portnoy continued.
“May I see your credentials again?”
Corinne handed over her ID badge from The Post. Mrs. Portnoy pulled a slim pair of reading glasses from her breast pocket to inspect the badge, holding it only a few inches from her nose. Corinne could not remember being scrutinized more heavily in the past. She took this as a good sign, though; perhaps Mrs. Portnoy might share some useful information after spending so much effort to certify her credentials. Eventually Mrs. Portnoy transferred the badge to between her index and middle fingers and extended it back toward Corinne.
“Now how can I help you?”
Corinne put her badge back in her satchel. “I would like some information on Dr. James Randall Franklin. He’s a trauma—”
“I know who Dr. Franklin is,” Mrs. Portnoy interrupted. “And I’m afraid that I cannot release any information at this time.”
“F—.” Corinne started to say “fuck,” but caught herself. “All that?” she asked, gesturing with her fingers to incite a recollection of Mrs. Portnoy’s intense examination seconds before, knowing that she wouldn’t divulge any information anyway. Corinne took a deep breath to calm herself. She didn’t want to burn this bridge yet. “Please, Mrs. Portnoy. I’m a friend, and a reporter. I’ve been working on a book about his crimes, and I’ve developed an appreciation for him. He’s a monster, but there’s a lot more there too.”
Mrs. Portnoy blinked several times, her countenance softening. “I’m sorry. Really. But I cannot give you anything. This is an active police investigation. We will have information for you, but not right now.”
“Do you know when?”
Mrs. Portnoy looked at her watch and did some mental math. “It might be another 4-6 hours.”
“He’s alive, isn’t he? He’s in surgery?” The second sentence came out more as a statement than a question. Mrs. Portnoy had let down her guard and unwittingly sent Corinne a clue, and Corinne had figured it out.
Mrs. Portnoy looked Corinne straight in the eye with a gentle, knowing stare. She began nodding intently. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any information at this time,” she said in a very deliberate tone. She continued nodding for a few more seconds until Corinne understood her message, and acknowledged her kindness with a grateful smile.
82
Their SUV pulled up to the curb. Rita Ferroni spiked the brakes, making all of them lunge forward. Jeff Pine looked at her askew and let out a barely audible sigh. Jack predicted that Jeff would be relieved when this case was over to have a break from Rita’s company.
Jeff pivoted in the passenger’s seat to face all four of them. “OK, Jack and I are going to go to the front door. Rita, you and Camilla each take a side of the home and meet in the back.”
Camilla, her phone to her ear, shrugged. “I’m on with IT, still trying to get a mark on Reilly. This just isn’t right.”
“OK, I’ll run the perimeter myself,” Rita offered. “Camilla can catch up to us.”
It hadn’t taken long—once he composed himself—for Stanton Newkirk to reveal his whole story. He had been approached by their adoption agent here in Massachusetts—Newkirk explained it was common for families to have listings with agents in multiple states—about the possibility of paying to obtain a healthy young infant. Stanton quickly had assumed that this proposal represented the other end of the deal that he and Kim had experienced with Maddie Novak last year. The winning end, this time. After a handful of telephone discussions and negotiations, he had met Dana Dellahunt on Monday at a rest stop off I-84 and paid her $400,000, over half of their retirement fund, in exchange for Baby Renny. She had assured him that they did nothing illegal, though she admitted the ethics got “hazy.” After leaving the Newkirks in the custody
of local FBI agents and Baby Renny (nee Ella Hadden) with local Child Protective Services for an emergency health evaluation, Jeff, Jack, Rita, and Camilla flew back to Boston to hunt down Dana.
After they landed at Logan Airport, Camilla had spent the entire drive to Dana Dellahunt’s house trying to find out information on Reilly’s whereabouts. His going off the grid was highly unusual, and it left her with a grave concern. Reilly still hadn’t checked in with FBI dispatch. IT had confirmed that his cell was completely off. They currently searched to find its last location before power was removed.
“Yes. I’ll be right behind you,” Camilla agreed with Rita.
All four of them got out of the SUV, including Camilla, who decided she couldn’t sit in the car any longer. She paced the sidewalk across the street from Dana Dellahunt’s home. Jack and Jeff walked up the front sidewalk and up the steps to the front door. Rita nimbly sidled to the right and along the side of the home.
“You ready?” Jeff asked Jack.
Jack nodded in return. He didn’t feel certain they had reached the end of their search for the Piper, but he knew this was a step in the right direction.
Jeff Pine extended his index finger and depressed the button to ring the doorbell.
83
Reilly embraced the darkness. With his eyes closed, he counted his breaths, trying to savor each morsel of air. He wanted to believe that someone would come rescue him—maybe Corinne, somehow?—but he also knew he could exsanguinate in the meantime.
The doorbell rang.
Reilly’s eyes popped open. Did I really hear that? He held his breath, listening more carefully. He didn’t hear anything for ten, twenty, a million seconds. Should I try to scream? Did I already miss my chance? What if it’s a partner, someone working alongside Dana? Dare I give myself away?
The doorbell rang again.
Reilly decided he didn’t care even if some evil accomplice pushed the button upstairs. He would rather be abducted again than waste away in this dank hell. He started to cry out again, rattling his vocal cords around in his throat to make as much noise as he possibly could. He took breaks to inhale deeply before commencing his screaming again.
He noticed something out of the corner of his eye. A shadow across the far wall. He looked up to the block window to his left to see the form of a person walking slowly up to the window. He tried to cry out louder. Snot started flying from his nostrils, and tears streamed down his temples. The person outside crouched down as if trying to look through the window. He screamed again. And again. The person stood up slowly and moved away. Reilly’s cry turned into a sob.
His potential savior just left him here to die.
84
Jeff Pine depressed the doorbell again. Jack heard nothing behind the door—no voices, no footsteps, no movements. Perhaps Dana Dellahunt wasn’t home. Perhaps she was out kidnapping another infant. Perhaps she was already on the lam.
Dispatch had texted Jack a cell phone number listed for Dana Dellahunt. “I’ll try her cell,” Jack announced as he pulled out his phone. “Let me know if you hear any ringing.”
Jeff nodded and put his right ear close to the large wooden front door. On Jack’s cell, the line rang several times before going to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message.
Rita approached from the left side of the house. She mounted the steps to the front porch to join the two men. “I didn’t see shit, but I think the light is on in the basement.”
Jeff and Jack looked at each other, sharing the same sense of urgency. They seemed to attribute more to this information than Rita had.
“There’s only one window into it, on this side—,” she pointed to the left side of the house. “And it’s a block window, so it’s a little tough to tell.”
“Show us,” Jack commanded, and the three began to head off of the porch.
As Rita reached the sidewalk and Jeff hit the top step, Camilla ran at them from across the street. “Reilly was here!” she cried breathlessly.
“What?!” the three uttered, more in canon than in unison.
“His last cell signal pinged off a tower a block away.” Camilla pointed back across the street. “That’s his rental car right there. I noticed it just as IT got back to me with his cell info.”
Jack turned quickly to Jeff. “This is probable cause, right?”
Jeff paused a brief beat, and the group heard a thud. They all held their breath as their eyes widened. Only a few seconds passed before they all heard an identical thud again. “That is! Rita, call it in. Get us as much local support as you can.” Jeff met eyes with Jack and Camilla. “We’re going in.”
“I’ll take the back!” Jack said, jumping down the last two steps and sprinting toward the rear of the house.
“On my count!” Jeff called after him.
Jeff and Camilla approached the front door, their firearms drawn. Jeff pounded on the door ferociously. “Ms. Dellahunt. It’s the FBI. Open up!”
Thud! Thud!
Jack kept in a crouch as he ascended the concrete steps to the back door. If Dana looked out the window of the door, he didn’t want her to see him easily. Jack reached up to the doorknob, but it didn’t turn. He would have to try to break it down when he got the order from Jeff. This door looked thinner than the front one, and Jack noticed some flaking at the bottom of the door near one of the hinges. He hoped that represented some rotting, which would make it easier to barge through with his shoulder.
Thud!
“We’re coming in!” Jack heard Jeff shout from the front porch. Jack crouched further, pivoted his hips, and plunged his shoulder into the door just inside the knob. The frame on that side shredded into hundreds of splinters, one nearly lodging in Jack’s left eye before he squinted it shut. He drew his gun and remained in a crouch, having entered into a small mudroom at the back of the house. He arose to look into the kitchen and proceeded quickly into the empty room. He heard the front door burst open, following by the scuffling of Jeff and Camilla entering the home.
Thud!
Jack stopped, letting the aural memory of the sound settle into his consciousness. “It’s coming from the basement!” Jack entered a hallway off the kitchen and saw the open door leading down into the basement. For the first time, he could hear human sounds, like a squealing. His chest wanted to pull him forward, dashing into the basement. His head held him back, forcing him to follow protocol from his training. He slid his back along the hallway wall, keeping his gun pointed at the open basement door. “Heath?!” he called out. The squealing intensified.
Jack saw Camilla enter the hallway from the opposite side. She had cleared her portion of the first floor, and Jeff must still be working on his. Jack signaled to Camilla to join him on the wall across from the basement door; his hand gesture indicated he would stay high and she should crouch low. After a few more side steps, they reached the doorway simultaneously. Jack could clearly see a body on the basement floor. It didn’t move.
Another thud came, followed by more muffled howling.
Jack whispered instructions to Camilla. “I’ll go first, then left. You follow, go right. On three.”
Without taking his eyes from the body on the basement floor, he held up one finger. Then two. Then a third. He darted down the steps and felt Camilla close behind. He swiveled to his left even before making it to the concrete floor. He saw Reilly, lying on the floor, stomp his right foot forcefully on a large metal safe, creating another thud. He met Reilly’s terrified eyes, which instantly filled with relief. Jack could see both fresh and crusted mucous emanating from his nostrils and coating much of the piece of duct tape over his mouth. Jack held a finger up to Reilly to impart patience as he continued to scan the basement. He didn’t find much to investigate on this half of the basement except for a handful of musical instruments on the floor in the corner and the walled-off room straight ahead. He rapidly approached the door and flung it open to reveal an empty room, the walls lined with specialized foam tiles.
&nbs
p; “All clear here,” Camilla said. She knelt over the body and felt for a carotid pulse.
Jack ran the few paces to back to Reilly and got down beside him. He instantaneously assessed his condition, noting the trapped and ruined left leg under the large metal safe. Jack grabbed one end of the duct tape and ripped it from Reilly’s face. Reilly let out a pained cry and took several deep breaths through his mouth. Jack could only imagine the pain he must be experiencing, surely exacerbated by the steady pounding on the safe by his free foot to try to alert them of his whereabouts.
“No pulse,” Camilla announced.
“The rest of the house is clear,” Jeff shouted from the top of the steps and he began to descend into the basement.
“That’s Dana Dellahunt,” Reilly panted. “She’s the mastermind. She did it all.” He drew in a few more huge inhalations, providing a modest calming effect. “She’s the Piper.”
85
The path through the woods didn’t appear much different on the surface than the last time Carl Coulter had traversed it nearly a year ago. The leaves were perhaps a deeper orange then, with more of them having fallen to the ground. The underbrush on either side of the trail hadn’t thinned a bit, nor been beaten back any farther, despite the heavy traffic last spring during the crime scene investigation. The biggest differences—just like everything else in his life over the past four months—had to do with Danielle: she didn’t walk alongside him this time, and he only associated this path with the place where she drew her last desperate breath.