by Lisa Gardner
Neil carried the envelope to the bed. The top flap wasn’t glued down but fastened shut with metal tabs. He flipped them up, then did the honors of opening the envelope and pouring its contents onto the bed.
D.D. counted two credit-card-size objects. Except they weren’t credit cards.
“Driver’s licenses,” Neil said. “Two females. Kristy Kilker. Natalie Draga.”
“But not Stacey Summers?”
“No Stacey Summers. Then again”—Neil held up one of the licenses to show a single bloody fingerprint—“I think our world’s most dangerous Girl Scout may have been on to something after all.”
* * *
THEY TORE THE REST OF THE ROOM APART, D.D. starting with the bed, Neil continuing on to the dresser. They moved methodically and efficiently, teammates who’d done this kind of thing before. Later, the crime scene techs would return with fingerprint powder, luminol, and alternative light sources. They’d retrieve fingerprints, bodily fluids, and hopefully miniscule strands of hair and fiber.
For now, D.D. and Neil went for the obvious. Women’s clothing, jewelry, anything that could tie back to other victims. Pay stubs and bar bills that might indicate other hunting grounds. And, what the hell, a killer’s diary. You never knew when you might get lucky.
D.D. had to have Neil’s help to lift the top mattress. Her shoulder already throbbed, her left arm too weak for the job. Neil didn’t say anything. He came over. Together, they lifted; then he returned to his corner and she resumed her search of the bed.
She was grateful for her partner’s . . . former partner’s . . . silence. The fact that he didn’t comment on the sheen of sweat already collecting on her brow, her clear shortness of breath. Supervisors were hardly expected to work crime scenes, D.D. reminded herself. Request paperwork on the subject, review all notes, sure. But this actual work thing . . . No, she was supposed to be safely ensconced back at HQ, where her lack of ability to carry a sidearm wouldn’t be a liability to herself and others.
D.D. searched every square inch under the top mattress, then went to work on the box spring. Later she would have to ice down, while enduring Alex’s knowing stare. But she was who she was. He knew it. Neil knew it. It was simply the Boston Police Department she was determined to fool.
“Got something.” She could feel it now. A hard lump near the top right corner of the box spring. Up close, she could see that the seam where the heavy-duty material from the sides of the box spring met with the flimsy top cover was frayed. She poked around with her gloved fingertips, and sure enough, wedged between a nest of coils . . . “A box. Hang on. Slippery damn thing. And . . . got it!”
Gingerly, D.D. withdrew the metal box. Her entire left arm was trembling with fatigue. More weights, she thought vaguely. More weights, more PT, more anything in order not to feel this weak, in order not to be this weak in public.
But once again, Neil didn’t comment. He simply took the small lockbox from her shaking hands and moved it to the corner desk, where they had more light.
The box appeared fairly standard issue. Gunmetal gray. Maybe six inches wide by two inches tall. Meant for a few precious or personal mementos, little else.
“Photos,” Neil said.
“What?” D.D. leaned closer, trying to make out the stack of pictures beneath the desk light.
“A black-haired woman. Again and again.” Neil flipped through the stack. Each photo revealed the same subject. Walking in a park, sitting with a cup of coffee, reading a book, laughing at someone off camera. The woman appeared to be in her early thirties, and beautiful, in a dark, sultry sort of way. “Former girlfriend, maybe?”
“Stashed in a container inside his box spring?” D.D. was already shaking her head. “I don’t think so. Look like anyone you know? Stacey Summers? Wait, she’s a petite blonde, whereas this girl . . .”
“Not Stacey Summers,” Neil agreed. “What about our vic downstairs? Last I saw, she was covered in garbage. I don’t remember hair color.”
“Also blond, with light gray eyes. Not this woman either.”
“D.D.” Neil spoke up quietly. He’d reached the last few photos. Both of them stilled. Same woman. Except she wasn’t smiling or laughing anymore. Her dark eyes were huge, her pale face stricken. She stared straight into the camera and her expression . . .
Now, it was Neil’s hand that shook slightly, and D.D. who didn’t say a word.
Neil set down the photos, then returned with the two licenses they’d found beneath the bureau.
“Natalie Draga,” he said. He placed the ID next to the photo as both of them looked from photos to official ID, then slowly nodded. “Thirty-one, address in Chelsea.”
“But no pictures of the second victim?”
“No. Just Natalie.”
“Personal connection,” D.D. murmured. “She meant something to him. Hence all the images.”
“Worshipped her from afar,” Neil supposed.
“Or even a girlfriend. Except it ended badly. Maybe she rejected him. And then he turned on her.”
“And the second victim, Kristy? Plus, the woman downstairs?” Neil asked. They’d gone through the box; there were no more photos.
“Maybe he liked it,” D.D. theorized out loud. “The first time was personal. The second and third were for fun.”
“There’s no way of telling where these pictures were taken,” Neil said. “The framing is too close-up, there’s not enough backdrop.”
“Our survivor claims there’s blood in the garage.”
“I could smell something,” Neil concurred.
“Have the crime scene techs gather samples. And send more uniforms to the bar where Devon Goulding worked, with photos of all three known victims. Let’s see just how close to home he was hunting. Grab a photo of Stacey Summers as well. See if she frequented that bar.”
“She was last seen at a different establishment, Birches over on Lex.”
“I know. But if she’d spent time in Goulding’s bar as well . . . how many psychopaths can one poor girl run into?”
D.D. straightened, wincing as the motion jarred her shoulder, the growing ache in her back.
“You should go home,” Neil said. “It’s our job to handle all this, your job to tell us how we could’ve done it better.”
But D.D. wasn’t listening to him. She was thinking. Of the garage, of Devon Goulding, of his latest victim, who’d beaten him at his own game and was now sitting in the back of a squad car. A blonde with FBI connections and knowledge of how to start a chemical fire. A woman Neil had thought he’d recognized.
She should know this, she thought. Could feel something stirring in the back of her mind.
A knock came from behind her; newbie detective Carol Manley stuck her head in the room.
“D.D., the agent our vic called at the FBI. He’s here.”
Chapter 6
ONCE UPON A TIME, I could’ve told you all about myself.
I would’ve said with certainty that my name is Florence Dane. My mom, who dreamed big for her children, named me after Florence Nightingale and my older brother in honor of Charles Darwin.
I would’ve said that the happiest place on earth was my mother’s farm in central Maine. Mounds of blueberries in the summer, acres and acres of potatoes in the fall. I grew up loving the smell of freshly turned earth. The feel of soil beneath my fingertips. My mother’s contented sigh at the end of the day, when she gazed over all that she had accomplished and felt satisfied.
Our neighbors included several foxes, as well as bears and moose. My mother didn’t mind our local wanderers, but was a firm believer in not feeding the wildlife. We were to coexist with nature, not corrupt it. My mother had grown up on a commune. She had many theories about life, not all of which made any sense to my brother and me.
Personally, I loved the foxes best. I would sit for hours outside their
den, hoping for a view of the kits. Foxes are playful, like a kitten crossed with a puppy. They enjoy batting around golf balls or tossing small toys in the air. I learned this the way kids used to learn things, by hanging outside with the sun on my face, by trying a little bit of this or a little bit of that. I brought them an old rubber ball, a catnip-stuffed mouse, even a small rubber duckie. The adult foxes would sniff at the offerings hesitantly, while the kits would come bounding out of the den and pounce on the new toys without a moment’s hesitation. Sometimes, I left a carrot or two behind. Or, if my mother was particularly busy and not paying attention, scraps of hot dog.
Just being neighborly, I tried to explain to my mother the first afternoon she caught me shredding cheese outside the den’s opening. She didn’t buy it: “Every creature must learn to make it on its own. Encouraging dependence doesn’t do anyone any favors, Flora.”
But later, after a particularly bad snowstorm in early November, I caught her carrying scraps from dinner to the same den.
She didn’t say anything, and neither did I. It became our shared secret, because back then, we couldn’t think of anything more scandalous than domesticating wild foxes.
So once upon a time, here is something I could’ve told you about myself: I love foxes. Or at least I used to. That’s not the kind of thing that’s easy to take from someone. But I don’t sit around and watch them anymore, or bring them toys, or smuggle them treats. Four hundred and seventy-two days later . . . I try to find peace in the woods. I definitely prefer the wide-open outdoors to small indoor spaces.
But some pieces of myself, some feelings . . . it’s just not like that anymore. I can do the things I used to do, visit the same places, see the same people. But I don’t feel the same anymore. Some days, I’m not sure I feel anything at all.
* * *
APRIL IS MY FAVORITE MONTH. I’m fairly sure that’s still true. The farm came with a rickety old greenhouse. How it survived each long, blustery winter we never knew. But by late April, as the snow finally thawed, we’d trudge through the mud and force open the warped door, the whole structure groaning in protest. Darwin would lead the charge inside, the lone male and self-appointed family protector.
My mother would come next with a wheelbarrow full of bags of loam and topsoil. I’d bring up the rear, carting plastic trays and, of course, packets of seed.
My brother, Darwin, went for speed. Tossing in handfuls of soil, jabbing in seeds. Even back then, he was impatient, wanting to be anywhere but there. My mother had named him well. He loved us, but from an early age we could both tell staying home wasn’t his cup of tea. If the deep woods sang to us, then the entire world sang to him. So he worked beside us, fast, efficient, but his mind always elsewhere. My mother would watch him and sigh. He’s a young soul, she would say, with a tender heart.
She worried for him. But never for me. I was the happy one. At least, that’s how the story goes.
My brother returned from college the minute he heard about my disappearance. He stayed by my mother’s side, first as her anchor. Then, when the first postcard arrived and it became clear I’d been kidnapped, my brother the adventurer became a warrior. Facebook, Twitter, these were the battlegrounds of choice. He created entire campaigns designed to rally complete strangers to help find me. And he brought me to life, personalized his little sister for the masses, photos of my first birthday, me on the farm, and, yes, me sitting on a knoll with fox kits. Except these photos weren’t really for the masses. They were for my abductor, to make him see me as a little girl, a sister, a daughter. My brother made it his mission to humanize me in order to help save my life.
I think that’s why he took it the hardest when I returned home and I was no longer the young woman from all those photos. I didn’t smile. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t play in the dirt or go looking for foxes. See, my kidnapper had a mission of his own, to remove all shred of humanity from me. To hollow me out, break me down, to turn me into nothing at all.
You think you’ll fight, or at least endure. You promise yourself you’ll be strong enough. But four hundred and seventy-two days later . . .
My brother had to leave the farm after my return. He had to get away from the sister I no longer was. I watched him go and was mostly grateful for his departure. One fewer set of eyes to follow me everywhere I went. One less person to be startled by the new, and definitely not improved, Flora Dane.
Once upon a time, I would’ve been saddened by my brother’s departure. I would’ve told you I love him, miss him, look forward to seeing him soon.
Once upon a time, I would’ve told you that I love my mom. She’s my best friend in the entire world, and while it was exciting to go off to college, I still look forward to weekends home.
Once upon a time, I was that kind of girl. Outdoorsy, fun-loving, happy.
Now, there are things I still can’t tell you about myself.
There are things I’m still having to learn as I go along.
* * *
THE SUN IS UP NOW. Sitting in the back of the patrol car, blanket tight around my shoulders, garbage drying on my face, I feel the sky lightening around me. I don’t look up. I don’t look around. I don’t have to see to know what’s going on.
To my left, inside the house of my would-be attacker, the crime scene techs are now scouring every inch. A handful of detectives are also going through the structure room by room, cataloging each electronic device, glancing at piles of mail, combing carefully through the bartender’s bedroom.
I hadn’t been lying earlier. I’m not a cop or an FBI agent. I’ve never met the girl who disappeared three months ago, Stacey Summers. Like the rest of Boston, or the country, for that matter, I’ve simply followed her case on the news.
But then again . . . I know her. I recognize her beaming smile from her senior pictures, all big blond hair and round blue eyes. I recognize her exuberance in all the high school cheerleader photos, red pom-poms thrust into the air. Then there’s the ominous videotape: security footage of a petite blonde being forcefully abducted by a hulking brute. Morning, noon, and night. There was never a bad time for news producers to roll the sensational image of a tipsy nineteen-year-old former cheerleader being dragged down a dark alley.
I read every account in the newspaper of her abduction. Sat mesmerized by her parents’ appearance on a nationally televised morning show, though in theory, I’ve sworn off that kind of thing. I watched her father, the strong corporate type, struggle with his composure, while her mom, an older, still beautiful woman, hand tucked firmly in her husband’s, begged for her daughter’s safe return.
Beautiful, happy, bubbly Stacey Summers. Who, according to her parents, would never hurt a fly.
I wonder what things she didn’t used to know. I wonder what lessons she’s already been forced to learn.
The truth is, I know Stacey Summers. I don’t want to. I don’t mean to. But I know Stacey Summers. It doesn’t take a PhD in psychology to understand that every time I look at her photo, or read another article, I’m really looking at me.
No one called my mother the first twenty-four hours after I went missing. No one knew I was gone. Instead, she received a confused message four days into spring break from my college roommate: Is Flora with you? Why didn’t she tell us she was heading home early?
Of course, my mother had no idea what Stella was talking about. Apparently it took a good twenty minutes to sort out that I wasn’t in Florida with Stella, nor was I magically back in Maine at my mother’s farm, nor had I miraculously returned to my college dorm room. In fact, no one had seen me in days.
My mother is not the type to panic. She set down the phone and proceeded to cover the basics. Contacted my older brother. Checked her e-mail. Skimmed my Facebook page. Her heartbeat accelerated slightly. Her hands began to shake.
She drove to the police station. Later, she told me she felt it was important to talk to someone i
n person. But even reporting her concerns became confusing. My mother lives in Maine, but I went to school in Boston and in theory had disappeared while on spring break in Florida. The Maine officer was nice enough. He heard my mother out, seemed to agree that I wasn’t the kind of girl to run away, though given the circumstances, they couldn’t dismiss a drunken misadventure. He encouraged her to get the ball rolling by filing an official missing persons report, which was faxed down to the local PD in Florida.
And then . . . nothing.
The sun rose; the sun set. My college friends met with the police in Florida. They returned to campus in Boston. They resumed taking classes. While my mother sat next to a phone that still didn’t ring.
And then:
A single postcard delivered by mail. My handwriting, but another person’s words. And suddenly, I wasn’t a missing college student anymore. I was a suspected kidnapping victim who’d been dragged across state lines. Overnight, my case became red-hot news and my family’s world exploded with it.
As a parent, my mother told me later, you’d like to think you’d have some control over your missing child’s abduction case. But it doesn’t work like that. The first thing law enforcement established was that she wasn’t to call them; they would call her. In fact, my mother never even met many of the FBI agents working my case until the first press conference.
Instead, she got to meet her new best friends: the victim advocates. Which, given their title, you might make the mistake of thinking meant they worked on behalf of her, the victim. No. Victim advocates work for law enforcement or the attorney general’s office. It depends on the jurisdiction. My mother dealt with six of them over the course of my abduction. Local, state, federal. They took turns. Because those first few weeks especially, family members are never left alone.
The advocates told her it was for her own sake. And when they first started answering her endlessly chiming cell phone, she thanked them. When they put up a sign in our front yard warning the media it was private property and they were not to trespass, she was grateful. And as they miraculously supplied yet another meal, while deftly shepherding her to a prepaid hotel room so she could snag at least one night’s sleep, she wondered how she could survive this ordeal without them.