The Ice Maiden
Page 24
“He was here, Britt. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Now I saw my hand-painted antique nesting tables, legs broken. The shattered shards of my grandmother’s crystal vase had been collected and deposited on a shelf. A painting of a street scene in Santiago de Cuba, where my father was born, hung askew on the wall.
“It’s not your fault.” I touched her hair. “What matters is that you’re okay and Darryl is safe. Edgar will go to jail for this, won’t he?” I asked McDonald.
He nodded. “Don’t worry,” he told Onnie. “We’ll get your boy back. But I’m going to have to call in the department’s domestic violence unit.”
“No! No! He’s worse than I’ve ever seen him!” She clutched frantically at his arm. “He’ll do it. He’ll kill Darryl!”
McDonald sighed and looked up at me.
“How did he know you were here?” I asked her.
“I was so stupid! No one knew where we were staying. But I took Darryl back over to church this morning so he wouldn’t miss Sunday school.” She gasped for breath as Mrs. Goldstein handed her a tissue.
“I never saw him; he must have followed us.” She wiped her eyes. “I was fixing lunch, a few minutes after we got back. Bitsy started to bark, then somebody knocked. I thought it was Mrs. Goldstein or that you’d arrived early. I felt so safe here. I opened it.
“He said he was taking Darryl. I tried to stop him and we struggled. He knocked me down, punched me. Darryl was screaming. I was so stupid.”
Mrs. Goldstein saw Darryl kicking and screaming as his father carried him to his car. She found Onnie, half conscious on the floor.
“If only I’d been faster, if only I’d been quicker.” My landlady wrung her hands. “I could have stopped him.”
“I’m glad you didn’t try. Where is Bitsy?” I asked, alarmed.
“Edgar kicked her,” Onnie said. “She attacked him.”
“Hy took her to the vet,” Mrs. Goldstein said. “She has some broken ribs. They’re keeping her overnight.”
I retreated to the kitchen for a glass of water. Darryl’s drawings of Bitsy and Billy Boots decorated the refrigerator. I burst into tears. Little boy lost. Brave little dog.
“Why didn’t anybody call the police?” McDonald was demanding.
“The other tenants were all out at the beach, I guess. When I found Onnie, she begged me not to.”
“The last thing he told me,” Onnie said, eyes flooding, “was that if I called the police, I’d never see Darryl alive again.”
“You think he’d take the boy out of the city?” McDonald asked.
“No. He’s at his mother’s.” Onnie gulped. “I called about an hour ago. Edgar grabbed the phone, talking crazy. He made no sense. Darryl was crying.”
“What does he want?” McDonald asked.
“I don’t think he knows,” Onnie said. “Wants me to undo the divorce, apologize, go back to him. In the next breath he says he’s gonna make me wish I was dead, that I was never born, that he’s going to make me pay.”
“Let’s go over there,” McDonald said, “and try to size up the situation. How much influence does his mother have? Will he listen to her?”
“Used to,” she said eagerly, wincing as she got to her feet.
“Would anybody like to see my engagement ring?” I said forlornly as we left.
“Oh, Britt,” Onnie said, hugging me. “This is such a happy time for you and I’m ruining it.”
“What else are friends for?” I shrugged, my arm around her.
Even McDonald smiled.
We promised to call Mrs. Goldstein as soon as Darryl was safe.
McDonald parked across the street from the duplex where Edgar’s mother lived, then called the domestic violence unit with the address, asking them to stand by in case they were needed.
He asked me to wait in the car while he and Onnie went to the door. As they crossed the street, a woman came running around the side of the house. She looked disheveled and distraught. Something about her body language as she stumbled toward them propelled me from the car.
“He’s crazy! He’s crazy! He won’t listen.” She held one hand to her bloodied nose. “He’s got gasoline! He’s got his baby in there! Says he’s gonna burn hisself up with my grandchild!”
She had told Edgar he couldn’t stay. Ordered to leave, he did, enraged, and returned with a gasoline can.
Splashing gasoline around the living room, he was threatening to ignite it as she fled the house.
Onnie’s knees gave way and I held on to her.
“Is he high?” McDonald said.
“Don’t know.” She whimpered, shaking her head. “I know he’s been on drugs. I don’t want him here. I’m scared of him.”
“He’s only six years old! Darryl, Darryl,” Onnie said. “Please, please. Save my baby.”
“Does he have a weapon?” McDonald asked Edgar’s mother.
“Only kitchen knives, no guns that I saw.”
Curious neighbors had begun to assemble.
“We need SWAT, a hostage negotiator, and a fire truck,” McDonald said.
“No time for that!” the older woman cried. “Edgar was splashing gasoline all over the furniture.”
Darryl’s screams came from the house.
Onnie’s eyes looked huge and terrified.
McDonald took off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I want him to see I’m not armed. I’ll try to talk to him and get Darryl out. Then we can leave it to SWAT to get Edgar.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t even have a bulletproof vest. You’re not armed.”
“I know,” he said, eyes on mine. “But the vapor could ignite at any time. A pilot light, the water heater, anything could touch it off. I’ll just try to get the boy out.” He turned to the woman.
“Where is Edgar?” he asked. “What room? Tell me exactly where the boy was when you last saw him.”
Edgar was crouched in a corner of the gasoline-soaked living room when she fled, she said. He held Darryl’s wrist in one hand, a cigarette lighter in the other.
“Stay back behind that fence,” McDonald warned us, “no matter what you hear. If I don’t come out, wait for the police.
“Call them now.” He handed me his cell phone. “Start them rolling on a three signal, but tell them no lights, no sirens. I love you, Britt.”
“Be careful,” I pleaded, punching in the numbers.
I relayed the message as he walked up to the front door. He tried it, and it opened. He stepped cautiously inside as Onnie and I clutched each other.
“Edgar,” I heard him say. “You all right in here? My name is…”
He disappeared into the house, leaving the door open behind him. For long heart-stopping moments, nothing at all happened. Then Darryl emerged, flying out the front door, stumbling, running, straight down the walk, away from the house. “Mommy! Mommy!” he screamed.
“Here I am, baby!” she cried, arms outstretched. He leaped into her embrace as the house erupted in a great roar. The roof lifted, windows shattered, and tongues of fire shot out each opening. A great ball of flame hurtled out the front door with a loud whoosh, then retreated as its intense heat forced us back into the street, away from the inferno.
Darryl was safe. No one else escaped.
24
They say you have begun to heal when it’s not the first thing you think about when you wake up in the morning. Will I ever reach that place?
Other lives go on. Ryan is in remission and back at work. He won a national prize for the story on the rescue of the baby in the well. He was embarrassed, reluctant to attend the awards presentation.
Lottie and I insisted that he go. He returned lugging a huge and ornate plaque depicting heroic firefighters and a little child in bronze relief, then hid it under his desk.
Bitsy, my brave little dog, survived her injuries and is back at home.
The second-degree murder charges against Hector Gom
ez were reduced to manslaughter. He went to trial and a jury acquitted him in the death of Andre Coney.
The widow Pinder pleaded guilty to two counts of attempted murder and was sentenced to fifteen to twenty years.
Sam Stone pursued the Meadows case and found not the killer but nine identical cases in cities across the country. In Detroit, Chicago, St. Louis, and Portland, lonely elderly women who lived alone were murdered in their homes, then lovingly tucked into sleeping positions in their own beds. There are probably others. The most recent he has uncovered so far occurred three years ago. He is now temporarily assigned to an FBI task force in pursuit of the serial killer.
There was nothing Dr. Hartley could be charged with, due to the statute of limitations. There was talk that he might lose his license to practice, but no sanctions were taken against him. His wife Maureen left him but has not filed for divorce. However, with Craig and Connie Burch separated, anything may happen.
Though I still love them, it’s difficult for me to see Onnie and Darryl. I still break down. Darryl said that Kendall McDonald threw him out the door, telling him to run as his father repeatedly flicked his lighter trying to make it work.
I still wear my engagement ring, and hang out with Lottie and Sunny. Their strength and optimism comforts me. Sunny broke Nazario’s heart as I suspected she would. Sometimes the only way for a victim to heal is to never again see the people who remind you of the trauma.
Conversely, after hysterically railing at me for allowing Kendall McDonald to walk into that house alone on that terrible day, K.C. Riley and I clung together in shared grief. We talk often. It helps us both.
The detectives are convinced, though I remain doubtful, that Shelby Fountain was the innocent victim of a drive-by shooting unrelated to the crime that tormented her for more than half her life. Cubby and Abby Wells named their new baby girl Shelby.
In an unfair and troubled world, signs of hope begin to intrude on my despair. Driving home alone across the causeway, I see green spires, signs of growth, and new life reaching for the sky.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful for the friendship and expertise of Dr. Joseph H. Davis, Dr. Steve Nelson, and Dr. Howard Gordon, the genius of super-sculptor Amy Bryer, the brilliant and generous Coralee Leon, and artists Brooke Engle, Rosemarie Chiarlone, and Paula Harper. Special thanks to Bill Dobson; the Reverend Garth Thompson; Ann Hughes; Debbie Buchanan; Gay Nemeti Robson of the Miami Herald; Metro-Dade Police Intelligence Specialist Karen Austin; Angela and Frank Natoli; my agent, Michael Congdon; and the ice man Costas Metaxatos. My stalwart buddies Leonard Wolfson, Renee Turolla, Patricia Keen, Luisita Pacheco, and Molly Lonstein do their best to keep me on the straight and narrow and out of serious trouble. And when all else fails, the glamorous redhead Marilyn Lane swoops to the rescue like a superhero. What a sterling cast of characters! I am so blessed.
About the Author
EDNA BUCHANAN is a Pulitzer Prize-winning former Florida crime reporter with more than two decades of experience. She is the author of two highly acclaimed nonfiction books—The Corpse Had a Familiar Face and Never Let Them See You Cry—the novels Pulse and Nobody Lives Forever, and the novels in her highly acclaimed series featuring reporter Britt Montero: Contents Under Pressure; Miami, It’s Murder; Suitable for Framing; Act of Betrayal; Margin of Error; Garden of Evil; and You Only Die Twice. Ms. Buchanan lives in Miami, Florida.
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Resounding praise for Pulitzer Prize winner
EDNA BUCHANAN
and
THE ICE MAIDEN
“A supremely expert yarnspinner.”
Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Buchanan has improved, novel to novel… The Ice Maiden demonstrates her mastery of mystery fiction.”
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Edna Buchanan does it again… She has given us a gripping adventure starring her alter ego, Britt Montero. The book careens from subplot to subplot without ever seeming disorganized or implausible…Highly recommended.”
Raleigh News and Observer
“One of crime fiction’s national treasures.”
Newsday
“Edna Buchanan is outrageous and unrivaled.”
Patricia Cornwell
“The Queen of Crime.”
Los Angeles Daily News
“Powerful… a real knockout, with unexpected revelations leading to a deadly conclusion and a tragically ironic aftermath…A highly entertaining tale that’s really tough to put down…A terrific, compelling, page-turning mystery that’s definitely one of the best in her series.”
Lansing State Journal
“There’s a grabber of a lead… The ending has so many twists and turns, executed so well, that my reaction when I turned the last page was a simple, breathless, ‘Wow.’ And there is a bunch of good stuff in between.”
New Orleans Times-Picayune
“Buchanan writes killer prose.”
Austin American-Statesman
“She is familiar with the worlds of crime and newspapers. And for the last several years she has been writing novels that effortlessly—or so it seems—capture the essence of both.”
Chicago Sun-Times
“Buchanan’s books are the best in the business.”
Kirkus Reviews
“A compelling tale… Every detail ultimately matters in the resolution of the mystery…Character and nuance are the author’s strongest points…Her unveiling of her characters—layer by layer—raises this mystery novel above the conventional.”
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“Vivid and real… Deep in the heart of The Ice Maiden lies a gripping story about crime tearing apart families, victims, and criminals alike rebuilding their lives…[It] is strongest when Buchanan focuses on the police culture. The cops’ camaraderie, determination, and personalities—and how this helps or hinders their work—fuel some of the best scenes.”
South Florida Sun-Sentinel
“A first-rate storyteller.”
Michael Connelly
“Get Britt and Buchanan on the trail of a story, and the writing, as well as the action, simply sizzles with power, passion, and pizzazz.”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
Also by Edna Buchanan
THE CORPSE HAD A FAMILIAR FACE
NOBODY LIVES FOREVER
NEVER LET THEM SEE YOU CRY
PULSE
CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE
MIAMI, IT’S MURDER
SUITABLE FOR FRAMING
ACT OF BETRAYAL
MARGIN OF ERROR
GARDEN OF EVIL
YOU ONLY DIE TWICE
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE ICE MAIDEN. Copyright © 2002 by Edna Buchanan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition April 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-194270-9
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