Sidney Sheldon's After the Darkness (18 page)

She hugged Mitch tightly. “You okay, sweetie? No offense, but you look like hell.”

“I'm fine.”

I'm not fine. I should have been there. I abandoned him, and now he's dead,
and I never got to say I was sorry. I never told him how much I loved him.

“Try not to be too upset. I know it sounds harsh, but if this hadn't happened, the booze would have gotten him soon enough.”

“It does sound harsh.”

“I saw the autopsy report, Mitch. I know what I'm talking about. Your father's liver was like a pickled walnut.”

“Jesus, Mom!”

“I'm sorry, honey, but it's the truth. Your father didn't want to live.”

“Maybe not. But he sure as hell didn't want some deranged junkie to stick a steak knife in his heart. He didn't ask for that! He didn't deserve that.” Mitch's mother raised an eyebrow as if to say,
That's a moot point,
but she let him finish. “And what about the police? What the hell have they been doing? They just let whoever killed Dad walk free. Like his life didn't mean anything at all.”

“I'm sure they've done all they can, Mitch.”

“Bullshit.”

It was bullshit. The Pittsburgh police had done the bare minimum, grudgingly completing the paperwork on Pete Connors's murder without lifting a finger to attempt to track down his killer. Mitch made a bunch of complaints, all of them politely ignored. That's when it dawned on him.

People like my dad don't matter. In the end, he was no different from those poor housewives he used to scam with promises of a better life and white-collar jobs. There's no justice for people like that. The underclass. No one cares what happens to them.

Two weeks after his father's funeral, Mitch telephoned Helen.

“I've made some decisions.”

“Uh-huh?” Her voice sounded weary.

“I'm going to become a cop. A detective.”

It wasn't what she'd been expecting. “Oh.”

“Not here, though. I need to get away from Pittsburgh. Start afresh. I thought maybe New York.”

“That's great Mitch. Good luck.” Helen hung up.

Ten seconds later, Mitch called her back.

“I was hoping you'd consider coming with me. We'd get married first, obviously. I thought we could—”

“When? When would we get married?”

“As soon as you like. Tomorrow?”

Six weeks later they moved to New York as man and wife.

Seven weeks after that, Helen was pregnant.

 

T
HEY CALLED THEIR LITTLE GIRL
C
ELESTE,
because she was a gift from the heavens. Helen delighted in motherhood, wandering around their minuscule Queens apartment cuddling her daughter for hours on end. Mitch loved the baby, too, with her shock of black hair and inquisitive, intelligent gray eyes. But he was working long hours, first training, then out on the streets. Often, by the time he got home, Celeste was asleep in her crib and Helen was passed out on the couch, exhausted. Imperceptibly, as the months and years passed, Mitch found it harder and harder to pierce the cocoon of love enveloping his wife and daughter.

He got promoted and moved them to a bigger place, expecting that this would make Helen happy. It didn't.

“We never see you, Mitch.”

“Sure you do. Come on, honey, don't exaggerate.”

“I'm not exaggerating. The other day I heard Sally-Ann ask Celeste if she
had
a daddy.”

Mitch said angrily, “That's ridiculous. Who's Sally-Ann anyway?”

Helen gave him a withering look. “She's your daughter's best friend. Sally-Ann Meyer? She and Celeste have been joined at the hip for the last two years, Mitch.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Mitch felt bad. He wanted to spend more time at home. The problem, as he told Helen, was that the bad guys never took a vacation. Muggers, junkies, gang leaders, rapists, every day they walked the streets of the city, preying on the vulnerable, the helpless, the poor.
Preying on people like my father.
Being a detective was more than Mitch's job. It was his vocation, the same way that being a mother was Helen's. And he was great at it.

The divorce came like a bolt from the blue. Mitch got home one night expecting to find his supper on the table. Instead he found a sheaf of legal papers. Helen and Celeste were gone. In hindsight, he realized
the writing had been on the wall for a long time. Ever since the economy imploded, crime in the city had been steadily rising. Then Quorum collapsed, unemployment in New York spiked and overnight a bad situation got twenty times worse. Mitch Connors was on the front line of a war. He couldn't just lay down his gun and be home in time for dinner.

Well, maybe he could. But he didn't. By the time he realized the toll his dedication had taken on his marriage, it was too late.

 

T
HE
NYPD
HAD BECOME
M
ITCH
C
ONNORS'S LIFE.
But that didn't mean he loved it. Guys joined the force for different reasons, not all of them laudable. Some reveled in the authority that the badge and the gun gave them.
Power trippers.
They were the worst. Others were looking for a sense of camaraderie. To those guys, the NYPD was like a softball team or a fraternity. It filled a void in their life that marriage, family and civilian friendships couldn't fill. Mitch Connors understood those guys, but didn't count himself among their number. He hadn't become a cop to make friends, or to lord it over his fellow citizens. He'd joined up as a form of atonement for his father's death. And because he still believed he could make a difference.

Whoever killed Mitch's father had gotten away with it. That was wrong. Guilty people deserved to be punished. As for guilty
rich
people, educated people like Grace and Lenny Brookstein, they were the worst of all.

 

M
ITCH STOOD UP, KICKING
H
ELEN'S TORTURE
chair out of his way.
There was a problem with him taking this case. A downside. Now, what the hell was it?

At last it came to him.
Of course. The FBI would be involved…

It had been two years since the Brooksteins' audacious fraud first came to light, but as the whole of America knew, the stolen Quorum billions were still missing in action. Harry Bain, the FBI's debonair assistant director in New York, ran the task force set up to find the Quorum cash, and he'd come up with a big fat zero. Bain's agents had interviewed Grace Brookstein numerous times in prison, but she'd stuck like glue to her
story. According to her, she knew nothing about the money and neither did her dear departed husband.

Like most NYPD men, Mitch deeply distrusted the FBI. With Grace Brookstein on the run, it was inevitable that Harry Bain would start poking his Harvard-educated nose into Mitch's case, asking questions, tampering with witnesses, pulling rank. As Mitch's boss would so eloquently put it, “Bain'll be all over your ass like a bad case of herpes. You better be prepared to fight him off.”

Mitch was prepared.

The money is Harry Bain's problem. Grace Brookstein is mine.

Maybe, if he caught Grace and became a national hero, Helen would take him back. Was that what he really wanted? He didn't know anymore. Maybe he wasn't cut out for marriage.

It was time to get to work.

A
S SHE CLIMBED INTO THE VAN,
the warm air hit Grace like a punch.

Her fingers and toes throbbed painfully as her circulation began to return. It was good to be off the road, but she knew she could trust no one. How long till the news of her escape became public knowledge? Hours? A day at most. Perhaps it was on the radio already? They would issue a new Photofit…

“Where you headed?”

It was a good question. Where was she headed?

Grace looked at the compass on the dashboard. “North.”

Her “plan,” if you could call it that, was to meet up with Davey Buccola in three weeks' time. They had a rendezvous arranged in Manhattan—Times Square. It was Davey who had convinced Grace not to go after John Merrivale as soon as she got out. “Don't risk blowing your cover till we know all there is to know.” Davey was convinced he was close to proving who had killed Lenny. “Just a few more weeks. Trust me.” He'd proposed both the time and the place of their meeting. His theory was that Times Square was
so
public,
so
obvious, no one would think to look for Grace there. “Even if someone were to recognize you, they'll assume they made a mistake. And hopefully by then, they won't recognize you. You'll have had time to work on how you look.”

Grace would have liked to meet sooner, but Davey was adamant.
“Not till I have more to tell you. Till I'm certain. Every meeting's a risk. We need to make it count.”

In the meantime, Grace would find a safe place to lie low, get her head together and, of course, start working on a decent disguise. She already looked completely different from the woman America remembered from her trial. No one who knew Grace in her glory days as the queen of Wall Street would have recognized her now. The broken nose, the dull complexion, the short, lank hair and pain-deadened eyes; they would all help protect her in the first few hours and days. But ultimately, Grace knew, they wouldn't be enough. She would have to keep changing, daily, weekly, like a chameleon.

It wasn't just her looks that had to evolve.
I'll have to change on the inside, too.
Successful con artists, like successful actors, learned how to
become
someone else. They projected a confidence, a believability, that worked better than any mask or wig or hair dye. Grace had repeated the mantra endlessly in the days leading up to her escape:

Grace Brookstein is dead.

My name is Lizzie Woolley.

I'm a twenty-eight-year-old architect from Wisconsin.

“North, huh?”

The driver's voice brought Grace back to reality. “How far north?”

Grace hesitated.

“I only ask because you ain't got no case or nothing. And you look like you're dressed for Florida.” He chuckled. Grace noticed the way he stared at her bare legs. Instinctively she crossed them, pulling her skirt lower.

“I left in a hurry. My…my sister's been taken ill.”

It was such an obvious lie, Grace blushed. The driver didn't seem to notice. “What's your name, sweetheart?”

“Lizzie.”

“Pretty name. You're a real pretty girl, Lizzie. I guess you already know that, huh?”

Grace pulled at the top of her blouse, looking for another button to do up, but there wasn't one. This guy was giving her the creeps.

Without warning, he swerved to the side of the road, bringing the van to a sudden halt. Grace jumped.

“Sorry. I gotta take a leak.” Unclicking his seat belt, he jumped out.

Grace watched him disappear behind the back of the van. Her mind was racing.

Should I get out? Run?
No, that was crazy. She needed a ride and she'd gotten one. She'd let him take her fifty miles or so, then get out near a small town somewhere.
I can't afford to get spooked by every guy who hits on me. That's what men do, right? He's okay.

Two minutes later, the driver returned. He was carrying a thermos and a Tupperware container full of sandwiches. He must have gotten them from the back of the van.

“Hungry?”

Grace's stomach gave an audible rumble. She was starving.

“Yes.”

He turned on the ignition and pulled back onto the road. “Well, go on, then, Lizzie. Knock yourself out. I already ate, but my wife always packs me extra.”

So he's married.
Instantly, Grace relaxed.

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

She started to eat.

 

G
RACE WOKE UP IN THE BACK
of the van with her face pressed to the floor. Her wool skirt had been pushed up around her hips and her panties yanked down around her ankles. The driver was on top of her. His hand was between her legs.

“That's right, Lizzie. Nice and wide now. Open up for Daddy.”

Grace groaned. She tried to move, but her body felt as if it were made of lead. With the added weight of the driver on top of her, it was impossible. With his free hand he forced his swollen penis inside her.

“No!” Grace didn't know if she'd said the word aloud or in her head. It made no difference. The man kept thrusting, deeper, harder. There was nothing frenzied about his movements, though. He was taking things slow. Enjoying himself. Grace felt his hands move upward, clawing under her bra until he found her breasts.

“How about those titties?” He was whispering in her ear, taunting her. Grace could feel the prickle of his mustache against her cheek. “You
awake now, Lizzie, are you? I feel you stirring down there.” Another thrust. “How does it feel, baby? Is it good to get fucked? I'll bet it is. Well, don't worry, Lizzie. We got all night.”

He continued to rape her. Unable to move, Grace tried to think.
He must have drugged me. The flask. He must have slipped something into the tea.
She wondered how late it was and where they were now. Were they still near Bedford, or had hours passed? She couldn't hear any traffic.

We're probably somewhere secluded. Woodland. Where no one will hear me scream.

What would he do when he'd finished with her? Throw her out into the woods? Kill her? Slowly the thick fog in Grace's head began to clear. In his eagerness to get inside her, the driver had left her clothes on, even her shoes.

My shoes…

His movements were getting faster now as he built to a climax. Grace gritted her teeth, waiting for him to come, but he suddenly stopped, pulling out of her and flipping her over onto her back like a rag doll. Looking up at his face, into those flat Asian eyes dancing with sadistic pleasure, Grace knew:
He's going to kill me.

The rape was just foreplay.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered her.

Grace lifted her legs in the air, spreading them wide then wrapping them around his back, pulling him back inside her. “Make me.” She gazed into his eyes, her pupils dilating with excitement.

He smiled. “Well, well, well. So you
do
like it, little Lizzie. Even better. This is going to be quite an evening.”

He started fucking her again, faster this time. Grace tightened her grip around his waist. Inside her left shoe she began to move her toes till she could feel Cora's stiletto.

“Yeah! That's it, baby!”

Grace felt the muscles stiffen across his shoulders and back. He started to ejaculate, then suddenly pulled out of her. Holding his grotesque, twitching penis in one hand, he knelt over her, pulling her mouth open with his other hand. Grace felt the hot spray of his semen on her tongue, down her throat. She gagged. He was laughing, closing his eyes, lost in sexual pleasure.
This is it. This is my chance.
Arching her back, with
one single, fluid movement, Grace pulled off her shoe, grabbed the knife, flicked it open and plunged it between his shoulder blades.

For a split second the driver remained kneeling, a look of shock and bewilderment on his face. Then he fell forward, silently, the blade still stuck in his back like the key in a windup toy. It took all of Grace's strength to wriggle out from under him and remove the knife. Blood spurted from the wound like water from a faucet.

Grace rolled him onto his side. He was trying to talk to her, mouthing words, but all Grace could hear was a bloody gurgle. She kicked him hard in the crotch. He already
looked
incapacitated but you could never be too sure. After rifling his pockets for cash and anything else of value, she hurriedly pulled on her underwear and straightened her clothes, making sure she still had Karen's “survival package” of documents. Then she went around to the front of the van and took the car keys, as well as the thick, lumberjack jacket the man had been wearing when he picked her up.

Ready.

Walking back to the rear of the van, Grace opened the door. The driver was still alive, but barely. Underneath him the pool of blood was growing bigger, like a deep red puddle. When he saw the knife in Grace's hand, his eyes widened.

“No!” he gurgled. “Please…”

Her intention had been to finish the job. To drive the knife in to his heart, in and in and in and in, like his sick, rapist's dick, until he was dead. But watching him beg for mercy, hearing him plead so pathetically for his life, Grace changed her mind.

Why let him die quickly? He doesn't deserve it.

I'll leave the bastard where he is. Let him bleed to death
,
slowly and alone.

Grace flipped the blade shut, turned and ran.

 

I
T WAS TWO HOURS BEFORE
G
RACE
reached the outskirts of the nearest small town. The road signs proclaimed it to be Richardsville in Putnam County. Dawn was breaking, a faint strand of burnt-orange light forcing its way through the black night sky. At intervals during her long walk, she'd heard the distinct, insectlike whirring of choppers overhead.
They're hunting for me already.
She wondered if they'd found the van driver? If
they were close? Adrenaline coursed through her bruised body, along with a torrent of other, conflicting emotions: Disgust. Terror. Pain. Rage. She'd been raped. She could still feel the evil man inside her, hurting her, violating her. She had also just killed a man. Thinking about the fear he would feel as the life drained out of him, alone in those dreadful woods, Grace recognized another, unfamiliar emotion in the maelstrom: hatred. She was not sorry for what she'd done. But all her feelings and thoughts were eclipsed by one, overriding sensation: exhaustion.

She needed to sleep.

The Up All Night Motel looked like something out of the opening credits of a horror movie. Out front, a flickering, cracked neon sign promised
LUXURY INDIVIDUAL BATHROOMS
and
COLOR TV IN EVERY ROOM!
Inside, the oldest man Grace had ever seen snored quietly at the reception desk. His gnarled face was crisscrossed with lines and his body looked ancient and shrunken. He reminded Grace of someone.
Yoda.

“Excuse me.”

He jerked awake.

“Help ya?”

“I'd like a room, please.”

Yoda looked Grace up and down. She felt her stomach turn to water.
Does he recognize me?
She was so nervous she was sure her teeth were chattering, though she could conceivably pass that off as cold. She'd tried to make her voice sound firm and authoritative when she asked for the room, but it came out a frightened quaver.
Can he see I've been attacked? Can he smell that bastard on me? Maybe I shouldn't stay here? I should keep moving.
But she knew she was too exhausted to go on.

The old man, however, seemed more irritated than interested by her presence. After a long pause he grumbled, “Foller me,” and led her down a long, cheerless corridor. At the end was a numberless white door. “This do for ya?”

There was a single bed, made up with cheap, polyester sheets, floral curtains and a coffee-colored carpet splattered with miscellaneous stains. In the far corner, a tiny television was nailed to the wall. Next to it, the door to the “luxury individual bathroom” stood open, revealing a luxury individual toilet with no seat or lid and a luxury individual shower with mold growing between the tiles.

“This is fine. How much do I owe you?”

“How long you stayin'?”

“I'm not sure.” Suddenly conscious of her disheveled appearance and the fact that she had no luggage with her, Grace blurted out, “I had a fight with my boyfriend. I left in kind of a hurry.”

Yoda shrugged, bored.

“Twenty dollars for tonight.”

Grace pressed a bill into his hand and he left. Locking the door behind him, Grace drew the curtains closed. She took off all her clothes and walked into the bathroom. Only then did she sink to her knees, lean over the toilet and vomit. When her stomach was empty, she stood up and stepped into the shower. Under the weak, lukewarm jets of water, she scrubbed at herself with the used bar of soap until her skin bled. She could still feel the man's filthy hands on her breasts, his revolting, rapist's seed on her face, in her mouth. There'd been two bottles of drinking water in the back of the van that she'd used to clean herself up as best she could a few hours ago, so as not to arouse suspicion. On the long walk here she had forced herself to focus on the shower awaiting her, on being clean. But she knew now she would never be clean again.

Drying herself off, she retched again, but there was nothing left inside her to throw up. She moved into the bedroom and sank down on the bed. It was warm in the room. Leaning back against the cheap foam pillow, Grace flicked on the TV. Her own face stared back at her. Or rather, her face as it had once been, long, long ago.

So it's public already. At least they're using an old picture. I'll have to do something about a disguise first thing in the morning
,
before they release a new one.