by Amy Gutman
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She walked Anna upstairs, then tucked her under her blan-S 35
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the shadowed dimness of her daughter’s room, time seemed so 2
precious. She’d always planned to tell Anna the truth at that dis-3
tant point called someday, but the luxury of this delay was one 4
she no longer had. Tonight — right now — her secret was safe, 5
but tomorrow that might change. Gazing at the face of her sleep-6
ing daughter, she wondered what to say.
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Friday, April 28
Sh a d o w s. Shapes. Voices.
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Her eyelids were so heavy. She had to get to work. A meeting on the 2
Leverett case. But something was holding her down, keeping her from 3
moving. Who was in the room with her? Where was she, anyway?
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Another voice. A man’s: “How’s she doing? Is she waking up?”
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A mumbled response in the background that she couldn’t quite make 6
out.
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Lying there, she realized they must be talking about her. “I’m fine!
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I hear you!” she wanted to say. “Just help me to get up.”
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Then, confused, she knew that she couldn’t be fine, after all. If she 10
was fine, she wouldn’t need their help. If she was fine, she’d just sit up.
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What had happened? What was wrong? She strained for the memo-12
ries.
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She was eating dinner with Paul. He was mad at her.
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Alone in her Harwich & Young office, she stared at her computer.
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The images flickered through her mind, like frames in some home 16
movie. But nothing she saw could explain to her what was going on.
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She sensed a darkening overhead, someone leaning forward. Panic.
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A jolt of fear. Steven Gage had found her. Somewhere, deep inside, 19
she’d known it would happen. It didn’t matter that she’d tried to help 20
him, that she’d tried to save his life. She’d always sensed that when he 21
looked at her, he wanted to see her dead. She’d tried to tell herself it 22
wasn’t so, but, always, she’d known the truth. Steven was a predator.
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That was just his nature.
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Then the fear seemed to break, give way to a certain acceptance.
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She was floating on a bank of clouds, could see things in perspective.
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Maybe she deserved what was happening. Maybe it made sense. She’d R 27
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always been one of the lucky ones, but luck could always change. Why 2
should she be alive to protect him, while so many women were dead?
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Slowly, the shadow receded. Whoever had been there was gone.
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And it couldn’t have been Steven, anyway. Steven Gage was dead.
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Steven Gage was dead. So what was she afraid of?
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At that moment, it all came back to her: Happy Anniversary.
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h
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Mike Jamison gazed at the thin form beneath the starched white 10
hospital sheet. He still wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing here.
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He’d learned of the attack yesterday when he’d called Melanie’s 12
office. She wasn’t there, and when he inquired, her secretary told 13
him why. Even before he hung up the phone, he’d started making 14
plans. He had his assistant reschedule meetings and rushed home 15
to pack. Three hours later he was on a plane, heading for New 16
York.
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Now he studied Melanie, the bruised motionless face. She’d 18
been in a coma since last night, a postsurgery relapse. As he sat 19
by her side, there’d been a constant stream of doctors, nurses, 20
technicians, but their faces faded to a blur as he focused on 21
Melanie. The white gauze wrapped around her head resembled a 22
snowy turban. An intravenous tube ran from her arm through a 23
metal pole. Wires attached to her chest connected to the EKG
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monitor, while some sort of strange metallic device measured her 25
brain pressure. The high-tech equipment should have reassured 26
him, but it just made him more anxious.
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A nurse came into the room and adjusted Melanie’s bed. She 28
had rosy cheeks, curly hair, and a calm, efficient manner. She ex-29
amined Melanie’s eyes with a flashlight, pushing back the lids.
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Then she checked the fluid level in the intravenous feeding bag.
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“Do you see any changes?” Jamison asked. He couldn’t help him-32
self. “Don’t worry,” she said soothingly. “There’s still plenty of 33
time.” But the edge of pity in her voice gave him a hopeless 34
feeling.
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tensive care were normally limited to family, but with the help of 1 7 6
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a pal in the NYPD he’d managed to talk his way in. Which still 1
begged the question: What was he doing here? He had an 2
arrangement with Leeds Associates to consult on outside cases. It 3
was one of the terms he’d negotiated when he’d joined the pri-4
vate firm. Until now, he’d scheduled these consultations around 5
his paying clients. This time, though, he’d dropped everything, 6
without a second thought.
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As an FBI profiler, he’d spent more than a decade studying so-8
ciopaths, delving into the darkest parts of their deeply troubled 9
minds. He’d met Melanie shortly before Gage’s execution, still 10
immersed in the death-row interviews that became his best-11
known work. They’d known each other so briefly, and yet he’d re-12
membered her. They came from totally different worlds, but he’d 13
sensed a kindred spirit.
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If they’d met in other circumstances, would the feelings have 15
been the same? Impossible to answer that. The facts were wh
at 16
they were. He thought about their first meeting back in Ten-17
nessee, both of them running on adrenaline and coffee as the 18
hours ticked down. They’d shared the same obsession, and that 19
had created a bond. Melanie hadn’t said a lot — as Gage’s attor-20
ney, she couldn’t — but he could tell that she was drinking in 21
every word he said. And it certainly hadn’t hurt that she was so 22
damn pretty. Tall and blonde with that deep blue gaze, at once 23
skeptical and earnest.
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Of course, he hadn’t said any of this. He couldn’t at the time.
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He was with the FBI. She was one of Gage’s lawyers. Besides, 26
even more to the point, both of them were married. The night af-27
ter Gage’s execution, he’d sat up with her all night. Later, he 28
wondered what might have happened if both of them had been 29
free. After his divorce, he’d briefly thought about getting in 30
touch with her. But he’d assumed she was still married. And what 31
would have been the point?
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He glanced at his watch. Fifteen more minutes. He wondered 33
where the hell her family was, hoped someone would be here 34
soon.
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He leaned forward a little more, bracing his hands on his knees.
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“Melanie. Can you hear me?”
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No response. Nothing.
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That brief window of consciousness seemed like a mirage. Just 4
yesterday she’d talked to him, begged him to call Callie Thayer.
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She’d been groggy, her voice weak, but she’d gotten her point 6
across.
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The NYPD had released Melanie’s apartment late yesterday af-8
ternoon. Under cover of getting her some personal items, Jami-9
son had slipped in. Even though he’d known what to expect, the 10
sight had been a shock. All that white upholstery. All that dried 11
red blood. On an arm of the couch was a trail of handprints, as if 12
she’d tried to stand up. The image had seared itself into his mind.
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He wished he hadn’t seen it.
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The slope-bellied super watched him closely as he opened 15
closets and drawers. Picked out a nightgown, some bedroom slip-16
pers, a pink quilted robe. He’d had no idea where to look, but 17
he’d acted like he did. Relieved, he’d found the watch and note 18
still safe in a dresser drawer.
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A slight ripple, a movement, beneath the crisp sheet. At first 20
he thought he’d imagined it, and then he heard a sound.
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“Noooooo . . .” The word was uttered softly, a barely audible 22
moan.
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In an instant, Jamison was on his feet, rushing to the hall.
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“She said something,” he called to a nurse. “I think she’s wak-25
ing up.”
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Back at Melanie’s bedside, Jamison held her hand. The nurse 27
walked briskly into the room with the neurosurgery resident. The 28
young doctor, dark-eyed and intense, stood across from Jamison.
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“Ms. White, can you hear me?” he asked. “Can you open your 30
eyes?”
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Jamison’s eyes were on Melanie’s lips, waiting for her to speak.
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For several minutes, nothing happened, then it came again.
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“No-no-no!” she mumbled. Her voice was louder now. She 34
seemed almost agitated, as if she were afraid.
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“It’s okay,” Jamison told her. “You’re safe here. No one will hurt 36 R
you. The person who hurt you is gone now. Everything’s okay.”
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“Nooooooooo,” Melanie said. Her eyes fluttered open. For an 1
instant, she seemed to look straight at him, then her eyelids shut-2
tered down. But after a moment, her lips trembled.
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“Not,” she said.
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Not what? Jamison wondered. And then his body tensed. She 5
hadn’t been saying no at all; she’d been saying something else.
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Something that confirmed what at some level he’d suspected all 7
along.
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He leaned so close to Melanie’s face that his cheek brushed her 9
hair.
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“Note. Is that what you’re saying? Did you get a note like Cal-11
lie’s?”
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For a moment, nothing happened.
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Then she squeezed his hand.
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Monday, May 1
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a l l i e sheered off I-91 onto Route 2A, heading east toward 2
Boston. In something under three hours she was crossing into 3
Maine. She passed through the shipbuilding town of Bath, through 4
picturesque Wiscasset. Shortly after noon, she stopped for lunch, 5
at a place called Moody’s Diner.
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Inside, she sat in a green vinyl booth and waited for a menu.
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Even months before tourist season, the room was bustling. Single 8
diners, mainly men, ate at the yellow counter. At a neighboring 9
booth two gray-haired women worked on pieces of pie. “Chow-10
dah?” Callie heard a waitress ask a couple seated nearby. She’d 11
forgotten how Mainers dropped their r’s, how distinctive the ac-12
cent was.
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Her lobster roll came toasted, with sides of coleslaw and shoe-14
string fries. She ate quickly, eager to get back on the road. When 15
she’d placed the call to the Maine state police, she’d been afraid 16
they’d want to come to Merritt. She’d been relieved to find that 17
they were more than willing to let her come to them. Merritt was 18
such a small town. People noticed things. As it was, she’d still 19
had to explain this unexpected trip. She’d told Rick she needed 20
a night alone, time to rest and think. She and Martha had just 21
finished up the Fifth Reunion report, so under the circumstances 22
the story almost made sense. With profuse thanks to Mimi, she’d 23
packed Anna off to the Creightons’.
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She almost missed the state police barracks. It looked like a 25
small white house. She pulled into a circular driveway and parked 26 S
right in front. After giving her name to a receptionist, she took a 27 R
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seat on a turquoise couch. But before she had time to settle in, a 1
man was coming toward her.
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“Jack Pulaski.” He held out a hand. His grip was firm and 3
warm. He was of middling height, with a low-key demeanor, 4
dressed in a light gray suit. Brown hair, brown eyes, a pleasant 5
face, nothing the least bit striking. But for some reason, as she 6
looked at him, Callie felt somehow safer.
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Pulaski’s office was small and neat, looking out on a patch of 8
grass. He had the requisite office fittings — file cabinet, guest 9
chairs, desk. There were two picture frames on his desk, though 10
Callie couldn’t see the pictures. A wife, she assumed. A couple of 11
kids. That’s what she’d expect. On the edge of the desk sat a brass 12
nameplate: Jackson D. Pulaski, Detective.
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He asked if she wanted something to drink.
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“Water would be great.”
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When he came back, glass in hand, another man was with him.
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“This is Stu Farkess,” Pulaski said. “He’ll be here with us to-17
day.” Farkess was taller than Pulaski, thin, with red hair and a 18
spray of freckles.
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For a time, the three of them made small talk. The weather —
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warm for this time of year; her drive — the directions were per-21
fect. Callie knew that they were trying to put her at ease, and, to 22
an extent, it worked. She felt the muscles in her back unclench, 23
her grip loosen on her chair. By the time they touched on the rea-24
son for her visit, Callie’s hands lay in her lap.
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“Now, Callie,” Pulaski said — they’d quickly moved on to first 26
names — “when we talked on the phone, you expressed concern 27
about keeping this confidential. We want to respect your wishes 28
on that. Like I said before, we’ll do everything we can. Now, if 29
this comes to trial, well at that point, you might have to testify.
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We can’t do anything about that. But as for the investigation it-31
self, there’s no reason that what you tell us today can’t stay be-32
tween us and other investigators working on the case.”
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“And the media?” Callie asked. “What about reporters?”
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“You don’t need to worry about that. We tell them very lit-S 35
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