by D. J. Palmer
Guilt ate away at Zach, but what choice did he have? The earring had changed everything. It was not enough evidence for the DA to bring Becky up on murder charges, but it had been enough for Zach to agree to cooperate with the police. Even so, he had refused to do anything until he got assurances from Singer and Nash that Meghan would be treated for mito. That was the Faustian bargain he’d struck. He suspected he was doing it for Will as much as for Meghan. He’d get proof she had the disease, and then provide treatment to slow the progression until, hopefully, a cure could be found. As for Becky—well, Zach had no idea what was in store for her. If she had something to do with Levine’s death, then she deserved punishment. But in terms of breaking Meghan out of White, while Zach did not exactly condone what she had done, he damn well respected it.
“What’s wrong with her?” Becky had asked him on their brief phone call.
“I won’t tell you,” Zach said. “I can’t tell you. Not until we have her back. That’s the agreement I made with the police.”
“Just tell me if it’s a rare kind of cancer. Tell me you can save her.”
“When we meet,” he had said.
Damn you, Zach Fisher, he had thought, then and now.
Becky had called the office while Zach was reviewing medical charts for Baby Sperling. The child was doing remarkably well despite his breathing abnormality, but only because he was being cared for properly. Meghan deserved the same, he told himself.
Five minutes had passed since Zach last checked the time. He was starting to think Becky might be a no-show. Maybe she’d rethought her plan. Per her instructions, Becky was going to hand Meghan over to him, then go back into hiding. Zach was to send her updates on Meghan’s treatment and prognosis. That was all Becky wanted, that and a promise Meghan would not be locked up again. Once she knew her daughter’s medical regimen would continue, she’d willingly turn herself in to the police.
Yes, he respected her immeasurably.
At twenty past the hour, Zach was sure the rendezvous was off. Becky had had a change of heart. Just then, bright lights flashed in his rearview mirror. He heard a car door open and shut. A moment later, the rear door to Zach’s Camry flew open. Becky and Meghan slipped inside.
“Drive,” Becky said.
Zach had kept the car running while he waited, per Becky’s earlier instructions to him. He pulled the car into traffic, following signs for Storrow Drive—another of her demands. At this hour, the traffic moved briskly.
Glancing in the rearview, Zach assessed Meghan’s health as best he could. She looked pretty much as she had when she’d first come to his office—maybe a bit frailer, a bit thinner, but in general good health, at least on the outside. She did not look malnourished. No visible signs of trauma. Becky seemed healthy as well, but was visibly strained. And the worst was yet to come. Once this was over, Zach knew Becky Gerard would never speak to him again.
“How are you, Meghan?” Zach said. “It’s good to see you, even under these crazy circumstances.”
Meghan laughed sweetly. “Hi, Dr. Fisher,” she said. “I’m fine. And yeah, it’s been a bit crazy.”
“You two pulled off quite the disappearing act. Everyone is looking for you.”
“Mom’s pretty smart,” Meghan said proudly. “She thought of everything.”
As if on cue, Becky produced something from her purse. For a second, Zach worried it might be a gun. But it was something else, an object he did not recognize.
“Plug this into your cigarette lighter,” Becky said, handing Zach the device.
“What is it?” Zach asked, glancing at the road as well as the rearview.
“My friend at an electronics store sold it to me,” Becky said. “It jams GPS trackers.”
“You think I have a tracker on the car?”
“Please, Zach. Plug it in.”
“Very well,” Zach said, pushing the device into the car’s electric lighter port. It was an adapter with a small antenna attached.
Becky peered out the window. “Where are the police?” she asked.
“No police. That was our deal.”
Becky leaned over the backseat, placing her hand on Zach’s shoulder. “Please don’t double-cross us, Zach,” she said, whispering in his ear, her voice soft and pleading. Becky’s hand brushed up against the nape of his neck, raising bumps on his skin. “Just tell me if it’s cancer.” Her hand caressed him, touching him in a way he had not been touched in years.
Zach told himself: She’s playing you, she’s been playing you, and his guilt lessened, but only somewhat.
“Tell, me, Zach. I need to know. Is it cancer?”
“It’s not cancer,” he said.
“But it’s something,” Becky said.
“It’s something,” was all Zach could say.
Becky leaned over and kissed Zach gently on his cheek. The spot her lips touched felt on fire. “Thank you, Zach. Thank you for not lying to me. You’re the only one I trust. The only one I’ve ever trusted.”
Zach did not know what to say.
“Get off here,” Becky told him.
Zach exited at Storrow Drive and headed for Beacon Street in Downtown Boston.
“I’ll call you later tonight,” Becky said. “I need to know when Meghan gets settled. I have a bunch of phones, so you won’t recognize the number.”
“Okay,” Zach said.
Becky kept her hand on Zach’s neck. Her touch burned him with shame. “Pull over here,” Becky said, pointing to an empty parking space in front of a fire hydrant.
Zach did as he was told.
“Meghan, give a look,” Becky said. “Do you see anything? Any police?”
“No, all clear here,” Meghan said, peering out her window.
Becky did the same, then turned to Meghan. “You’ll be okay, sweetheart,” she said, hugging her daughter tight. “Zach will take care of you. Don’t worry about me. It’ll all be fine.”
Meghan sniffled but stayed composed. “Please stay safe, Mom.”
“I will,” Becky said assuredly. “You have nothing to worry about. I love you very much.”
“Mom.” Zach picked up on Meghan’s hesitation. “There’s something I should tell you.”
“What is it, sweetheart?” she asked.
“Be … be careful.”
Zach heard the stutter and was sure Meghan had intended to say something else.
“You have my word. I have to go now. Trust Dr. Fisher. Okay? Do as he says, and everything will be all right.” Becky kissed the top of Meghan’s head. “I love you so much,” she said.
“I love you, too, Mom,” Meghan said with a quake in her voice and tears in her eyes.
Becky leaned over and kissed Zach on the cheek for a second time. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”
“Becky—” Zach stopped himself because there was no changing what was about to happen.
Becky exited the car, closing the door behind her. She bent down to blow a kiss to Meghan, who blew her a kiss back. She straightened, took two, maybe three steps, and then the Camry’s trunk popped open. Zach did not have to engage the latch. A safety mechanism allowed it to be released from the inside.
As the lid went up, Detective Richard Spence uncoiled his thin frame from where he’d been hiding all along. The movement drew Becky’s attention. She glanced back at the car, focusing on Zach, noting his confusion.
Spence climbed out with his gun drawn. He shouted, “Becky Gerard, freeze, right where you are! Hands up! Hands up now!” The plan had been for Spence to use his cell phone’s GPS to keep the police informed of their whereabouts, but Becky’s jammer had required the detective to take action on his own.
Becky glanced back over her shoulder at Spence, who came at her with his gun in one hand and his police radio in the other. Zach could almost see Becky’s thoughts in motion. Should she run? Could she run? Becky stood frozen, body tense, like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun, but there’d be
no running today.
Blue lights exploded from the cross street ahead of them, and more strobes arrived on the scene.
“Get down on the ground, Becky,” Spence said, aiming the gun at her chest. “Let’s not do anything stupid.”
Meghan fled from the car, screaming. “Mom! Mom!”
Zach got out as well. The blue lights were closing in fast.
Becky shot Zach a look so hard, it could have broken a bone. “You lied,” she said, her voice raw with emotion. “You son of a bitch, you lied.”
“I’m so sorry,” Zach said. “I had to do it, for Meghan.”
Meghan ran to her mother as the blue lights closed in.
Spence kept his gun on them both. “Meghan, move away from your mom,” he commanded. “We will take care of her and you. Okay? She’s going to be safe. But you have to move away.”
Meghan would not let go. She held on to Becky as if she were a life raft in the ocean. “Leave us alone!” she screamed. “Just leave us alone.”
Zach came forward. “Becky, don’t make this worse,” he said.
She looked at Zach again as half a dozen police cars screeched to a stop. A moment later, the street was full of police. The night burst with color.
Becky’s shoulders slumped. She pushed Meghan gently away. “It’s okay, baby,” she said. “It’s all okay.”
She raised her hands above her head in a show of surrender. The police closed in.
Meghan sank to her knees on the hard pavement, her body racked with anguish. Her hands covered her sobs.
Zach stayed close to the Camry as Spence approached.
“I have to handcuff you now,” he said to Becky, his voice gentle, compassionate even.
Zach watched Becky get crammed into a police car as two other officers escorted Meghan to an ambulance that had arrived on the scene.
Zach crossed the street to the car where Becky sat with her head slumped forward. A police officer near the cruiser kept him back several feet. “I’m going to look after her,” Zach said in a loud voice so Becky could hear. “I promise we’ll resume the mito treatment. That was the deal I made with Spence and Singer.”
Becky lifted her head, turning to face Zach, and strangely enough, she looked relieved.
CHAPTER 48
BECKY
In the same Boston courthouse where Judge Trainer had sided with Kelly London, a court officer, as big and intimidating as a professional wrestler, directed Becky to a microphone at the front of the courtroom. Standing before a silver-haired judge who sat high up on his bench, Becky felt her legs shake slightly.
She was dressed in street clothes, not the prisoner’s attire she had had to wear for the past two days. Friday, she’d found out, was an inopportune time to get arrested, as courts did not conduct arraignments over the weekends. The delay did give her time to make arrangements, including hiring Andrea Leers as her defense attorney, who had dropped the custody case so that she could represent Becky for the criminal charges. It also gave Becky a chance to relive the trauma of her arrest, to hear Meghan’s cries echo in her ears, and let her anger over Zach’s betrayal simmer like a toxic stew.
As for jail, it was as horrible, dehumanizing, and terrifying an experience as she had imagined it would be. It was Meghan’s psych ward all over again, only with gray cement walls, worse smells, more screaming, and a host of hardened female prisoners who took to calling her Blondie. She was propositioned, offered drugs, and threatened with violence. Becky kept to herself as much as she could, leaving her cell only to eat. The rest of the time she spent waiting until Monday.
Attorney Leers stood beside Becky as she faced the judge, and even helped her raise the microphone up to her level. Carl was one of the few people watching the proceedings. They had exchanged glances, but no words. A prim court clerk, seated at a desk below the judge’s bench, read the charges aloud: parental kidnapping, obstruction of justice, and conspiracy.
“How do you plead?” the clerk asked Becky.
“Not guilty,” Becky said after a whispered conference with Ms. Leers. That’s all there was to it.
“Is there a question of bail?” the judge asked.
“There is, Your Honor.”
Andrea Leers had warned Becky that the assistant district attorney would be tough on her.
“Proceed,” the judge said.
“Your Honor, these are very serious charges against Mrs. Gerard. In addition to the kidnapping and obstruction charges, Mrs. Gerard has lost custody of her daughter, Meghan Gerard, to DCF for reasons of medical child abuse.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Leers said into the microphone. “That case is under investigation and there’s been no formal ruling, so the conduct the ADA is referring to is alleged only.”
“Counselor, I’m listening to everything, and I’m going to make my evaluation based on the entirety of the matter.”
The ADA continued her argument. “Thank you, Your Honor. In addition to the DCF investigation, Becky Gerard is a person of interest in the death inquiry of Dr. Peter Levine, who was Meghan Gerard’s staff psychiatrist at White Memorial Hospital. Detectives Richard Spence and Howard Capshaw of the Boston Police Bureau of Investigative Services Homicide Unit, who were both instrumental in apprehending Mrs. Gerard, are heading up that investigation. For these reasons, the state is recommending that bail be set at two hundred thousand dollars.”
Becky had to stifle a gasp. Where was she going to get that kind of money?
Ms. Leers quickly countered. “Your Honor, my client has no criminal record and, as I’ve said, there’s been no court verdict in regards to the accusations of medical child abuse or any death investigation. Becky Gerard is an upstanding citizen who until recently has had no troubles with the law. And, if anything, she’s shown a very strong desire to be close to her daughter, which makes her not at risk for flight. Bail should be set solely on flight risk, risk of committing other offenses, or interfering with a witness—none of which apply to my client.”
“Bail will be set at fifty thousand dollars,” the judge said. “With the conditions that Mrs. Gerard not set foot inside White Memorial or have any contact with her daughter.”
Becky’s heart sank at the thought. The judge set the trial date for January—after the custody hearing, which Becky suspected she was now destined to lose because of the charges against her. All Becky wanted was to see Meghan, but first she had to figure out how to make bail. At least that worry proved short-lived: Carl paid the full amount.
When Carl and Becky emerged from the courthouse together, there was a crush of reporters waiting to pounce. Carl was acting as her protector again, reminding Becky of that day at White when they’d first learned Meghan had been taken into DCF custody.
He shielded her from the onslaught of news people, microphones, and cameras, which were snapping so many pictures, it sounded like cicadas in mating season. Carl held the car door open, and Becky slid by her husband to climb into the passenger seat of his Mercedes parked curbside. He went around the front of the vehicle to get into the driver’s seat, pushed a button to start the engine, checked the rearview mirror, and pulled away with a squeal of tires while Becky stared numbly out the window. As they sped away, Carl put on his sunglasses to battle the midday glare. News vans tried to follow them, but Carl was an aggressive driver when pushed, and easily put distance between them and the reporters hunting for a scoop.
“Thanks again for bailing me out,” Becky said as Carl maneuvered his way through the heavy stop-and-go traffic.
“I’m just glad you’re safe,” he said. “Where am I taking you?”
“Let’s try the Copley Plaza Hotel.”
“You know, at five hundred dollars a day, that’s not a long-term solution,” Carl said.
“I understand that, but I needed—I need—the space. Just take me there, will you?”
“As you wish,” Carl said.
“How’s Meghan?” Becky asked.
“She’s … she’s struggling
.”
“Where is Meghan?” she asked.
“Becky, let’s not—”
“Where is she, Carl?”
“She back in the Behavioral Health Unit at White,” he said.
“Fuck!” Becky screamed, smacking her hand on the car dashboard with a thunderous pop. “Fuck! Fuck him! He promised! He promised!”
“It wasn’t Zach’s fault,” Carl said.
“The hell it wasn’t.” Becky’s eyes were ablaze.
“He tried to help … well, help you, anyway,” Carl said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Zach resigned from White.”
“He did what?”
“You heard me. Zach quit. Yesterday, in fact.”
“How do you know?”
“Amanda … Dr. Nash told me.”
“Why?”
“Because he thought Meghan was going to resume her mitochondrial treatments, but Jill Mendoza and DCF had other plans—and, thanks to you, they’re still Meghan’s guardians, not us.”
Becky looked away. They were silent for a time as Carl navigated the Mercedes to the freeway entrance.
“We’ve sure fallen a ways, haven’t we, Becky?” he said.
“I’m not harming her,” Becky said. “I’m not. And I never have been.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? You’re in real trouble. God, what were you thinking?” Carl sounded disgusted, horrified, and baffled all at once.
“I was thinking that you must really have given Kelly London the goods to get her to turn against me like that,” Becky said with bite. “What was it, Carl? How much did it cost to buy her off? Or were you giving her something else?”
“Kelly came to that decision on her own,” Carl said. “I had nothing to do with it.”
The look Becky sent him implied that his lies needed more work than their marriage.
“The kidnapping charge is going to send you to prison—my lawyer says you’ll get seven years and do two, maybe one and a half. Maybe the judge will make it a suspended sentence.”
“I don’t give a shit about me right now,” Becky said. “I care that my daughter is right back where she started—on that floor, not getting the care she needs.”