Best Place to Die (29 page)

L
il arrived home to chaos. As she turned into the cul-de-sac she spotted Kyle in blue scrubs and a lab coat following a leggy strawberry blonde – almost redhead – to a gleaming white two-door Mercedes SLK convertible with the top down. In the passenger's seat Alice looked out smiling. Her mouth was moving and Lil imagined what was coming out – ‘Are we going home . . . Where's Johnny?' or the ever annoying: ‘Which one's the boy?' Hanging back at the top of the hill were Ada and Aaron.

She pulled up behind the convertible as the blonde threw a small overnight bag into her tiny trunk and then opened the driver's door. ‘Kyle, you've done enough. This is crazy, you're working yourself to death for people who don't give a shit.'

‘Kelly!' His face flushed, his fists clenched at his sides. ‘You don't have a clue. She's not a lap dog. You don't have a plan? How the hell do you think you're going to take care of her?'

Lil quickly pieced together the scene. This was obviously Kyle's sister, plenty of family resemblance, both tall and angular. But where his dark, hooded eyes gave him a haunted poetic look, Kelly was a bombshell. The kind of woman used to turning heads, from her riotous mass of curls, to her voluptuous curves in a beautifully draped cream suit with a mid-thigh slit that revealed long, toned legs that ended in a pair of stylish pumps. But it was her eyes that left Lil breathless, a pure cornflower blue, and in the late afternoon sun, dazzling. ‘And these two,' Kelly said, casting Lil a dismissive glance, and then up at Ada. ‘You leave Grandma with perfect strangers . . . and you're calling me the irresponsible one? Really?'

‘Kelly, please. You have to think this through. Where will she stay? You're not prepared . . .'

‘Sweetie, I love you more than life itself. But give it a rest.' She eased into the tan leather and swung her legs in a single graceful arc. She pulled out a pair of shades. ‘Here,' she said, grabbing the seat belt and pulling it across Alice's shoulder and lap. ‘There we are. Grandma, ready to go home?'

Alice was ecstatic. ‘Yes, please!'

The engine roared and off they went. As they turned at the end of the road, Alice gave a backward glance. She seemed so happy, her dyed-red hair whipped in the breeze, her eyes fixed on Kyle. Restrained by the seat belt she gave an awkward wave.

Kyle stood motionless and defeated, his shoulders sagged. ‘This is not going to work. Crap!'

Lil went to his side. ‘Sorry,' she said, but she had more pressing things to attend to and started up the walk.

‘She's right, you know,' he said, and Lil stopped. ‘What's holding me here? I took this job so she could have a place to live, and now . . . But the funny thing is, I can't leave.'

‘Of course not,' she said. ‘Too many people need you right now. You're a good man, you did your best with Alice, and stuff happens. It's no one's fault.'

‘I need to get back to Nillewaug. Kelly will figure it out, probably call me in a couple hours wanting to bring Alice back.'

‘If she does,' Lil said, ‘we'll take her back. Don't think twice about it.' But as the words left her mouth, she felt a guilty twinge.
For God's sake let his sister take care of Alice.
The poor man had enough on his plate, and Lil had been around enough to know what happens to good people . . .
They finish last
. ‘Kyle, I think your grandma will be fine. And maybe if your sister doesn't have you to bail her out, she'll do what needs to be done. Sometimes people step up to the plate, but you have to give them the chance.' And, not knowing what else to say, she headed up the path.

‘Lil.' Ada grabbed her hand at the top of the hill. ‘Are you OK?'

She looked down at their entwined fingers. Aaron had headed back in. ‘Where's your mother?'

‘Cooking,' Ada said. ‘She feels awful about letting Alice wander off.' She cracked a smile. ‘Whenever my mother feels like she needs to apologize she'll never say it with words . . . but with pot roast.'

Still holding hands Lil inhaled. ‘It smells delicious.'

‘It will be,' she said. ‘Think the paparazzi's watching? I mean really, “
Lesbians in their Midst.
” They stole that from your column . . . Tchotchkes in the Mist.'

‘That's what I thought. And I stole that from Dian Fossey. How are you holding up?'

Ada gave her a worried expression. ‘The truth?'

‘Yes.'

‘Scared, and angry. How dare they?'

‘I know, the first of those pieces about us appeared yesterday, and then one today.' She stood with Ada, feeling the warmth of her fingers. But something else, they were standing in front of their home, and someone, someone very close had been spying on them. ‘We have got to find out who did this. I refuse to be frightened in my own home, and I can't stand that this happened to you.'

‘Aaron's been on that blog trying to figure who it might have been, obviously someone who knows us, and knows enough about Pilgrim's Progress to find their way around.'

Lil glared across the walk. ‘Bernice?'

‘Or the bastard next to her,' Ada offered. ‘But we'll figure it out. How did your interview with Sam King go?'

‘You were right about that; he had quite the story to tell,' Lil said, turning away from the neighbors, convinced they were being watched. She stared deeply into Ada's eyes, their hands still connected. ‘Have I told you how much I love you?'

‘You have, and it's good to hear. You want to hear something cute that Aaron said?'

‘I could use it.'

‘He said we're in the Blue Lagoon phase of our relationship.'

In spite of everything Lil cracked a smile, feeling like she could lose herself in the warmth of Ada's gaze. ‘He's right.'

‘We have work to do, don't we?' Ada said.

‘You don't have to . . .'

‘Please, I'm not just talking about your story. But I'll be damned if some creepy imbecile is going to try and intimidate me and my girlfriend.'

‘Really?' And, mimicking the recently departed Alice: ‘Which one's the boy?'

Two hours later, and they'd not stopped. Lil had filled Ada in on Sam King's horrible story. Now, sitting next to each other – Lil on the desktop and Ada with her laptop – they were staring at two small mug shots of a tired-looking woman, her face bones and angles beneath pockmarked skin, and a limp mass of skunk-root blonde. Across her chest an identification number and her name – Victoria Binghamton. Only her china-blue eyes gave a trace of the beautiful child she'd once been. Next to Lil's keyboard was a small stack of Victoria Binghamton's electronic footprint, on the top was her obituary dated six years ago. She'd died at Bronx Memorial of an overdose. There was no mention of any family. Just her last address, age – 34, and date of birth – 4/23/62. Beneath that was a print out from the New York Department of Corrections website; it was her criminal record, mostly drug and small larcenies: sale of a controlled substance in various degrees, possession of stolen goods, two violations of parole. The list filled the computer screen and, when added up, it appeared that since her twenties, Victoria Binghamton had spent much of her life in prison.

Ada turned slightly, the Grenville high-school website open on the laptop. She flicked through 1976 and 1977, and in the latter found Victoria (Vicky) Binghamton's Sophomore portrait. ‘It's the same girl. So now what? She's dead, and those three bastards just got away with it . . . you said Bradley treated her when she was a little girl. Any chance we still have the records?'

‘Come on,' Lil said, scribbling down Victoria's date of birth. They headed to their bedroom. ‘I hate doing this,' Lil said. ‘Bradley's got to be turning in his grave.'

‘Yes, and . . . why do you hang on to them?'

‘Touché. But it's not like I can just throw them out.'

‘They have been helpful,' Ada added.

‘But it's wrong.' Lil turned on the closet light and pulled back a rack of clothes to reveal two towers of neatly stacked archival boxes of patient records. These represented decades of his private practice. When he'd turned it over to a younger physician, he'd handed over all the records for active patients. But everyone who was dead, had moved away, or had not responded to the notice about his leaving the practice, he'd held on to their records; it was a sizeable number. ‘I still don't know what to do with them.'

‘OK,' Ada said, ‘let's agree that this is the last time we do this.'

‘You sound like an alcoholic trying to quit.'

‘Fine,' Ada said, already tugging at one of the boxes labeled ‘AA-CE'. Luckily it was near the top. Lil grabbed the other side, and they hauled it from the closet and dropped it on the bed.

‘Hold on,' Ada said, as she pulled the drapes closed. She stared intently through an opening in the fabric, trying to imagine someone taking pictures. ‘It had to have been someone who knows about photography.'

Lil, who was ripping the tape off the box, responded, ‘How so?'

‘They got the shot of us in bed. It was obviously at night. If they'd used a flash there would have been glare in the glass. So either they had an incredibly steady hand or had a tripod.'

Following her train Lil added, ‘More likely they just rested it on the table,' referring to the iron patio set. ‘But you're right.' She instantly thought of Sam King who'd shot all those wonderful pictures of the Ravens. She lifted the cover off the box and her fingers walked down the tabs. ‘This brings back memories; it even smells like Bradley's office. And all this color-coding was my handiwork – state of the art at the time.'

‘Very pretty,' Ada said. ‘I'm thinking pink for girls and blue for boys.'

‘Are you making fun of me . . .? There she is!' Lil checked the date of birth on the outer flap. 4/23/62. No need to delve further – she pulled out Victoria Binghamton's file. ‘I can almost feel him watching us.'

‘Bradley?'

‘Yeah, he would not approve of this.'

‘Let me.' Ada took the chart and opened it. On the inside flap was the birth information, born in Brattlebury Hospital by Caesarean to Mary Binghamton, and no father's name listed. Which, in 1962, in a town like Grenville, would have been noteworthy. Then came the page of vaccinations and Well-Baby visits. The back-to-school physicals, a tonsillectomy/adenoidectomy at eight. Nothing out of the ordinary, until the end.

‘That!' Lil said, reading over Ada's shoulder. ‘That's never a good sign.' She pulled out an unbound page of blue-lined progress note paper. Holding it into the light she knew some things without reading a word. ‘Bradley would only do this if he was either stressed or hurried, and if it was the latter he'd leave it for me to file properly the next day.'

‘Which leaves stressed,' Ada said, as she looked at the note.

‘See how he timed and dated it, both at the beginning and at the end. He'd only do that when he thought a note might turn into evidence.' She read aloud:

‘
November 8, 1977. 3:15 a.m. I received a call from Mary Binghamton asking that I evaluate her daughter, immediately. I told Ms Binghamton that she should take her daughter to the emergency room at Brattlebury Hospital, which she was unwilling to do. Ms Binghamton arrived, with Victoria who had clearly been assaulted. I was able to do a very limited examination, and reiterated my grave concerns to Ms Binghamton that Victoria would need to be seen in an emergency room. While there were no apparent fractures, there were extensive contusions to the face, neck and shoulders. She had two ecchymotic orbits and was in obvious pain. Her vital signs were stable, and her mental status showed signs of acute shock. She was barely verbal and answered most questions with a simple yes or no. When asked what happened to her, she either would not, or could not, answer. It was clear she needed more thorough evaluation, including a rape examination, and crisis counseling. As Victoria is a minor I informed her mother that the assault would have to be reported and Victoria would need to be seen in an emergency room. Ms Binghamton requested I not do that. I informed her that as a mandated reporter for the State of Connecticut I had no choice.

‘
She asked if Victoria had any broken bones. I told her that without X-rays I couldn't say with certainty, but on examination there were no acute fractures. At which point Ms Binghamton instructed her daughter to get dressed. I attempted to reason with her, and offered to call an ambulance, but she adamantly refused further treatment. When I reiterated that the assault would be reported, she replied,
‘
And you think that will hurt the animals that did this to my daughter? The only one it will hurt is her.
'

I immediately contacted the Grenville police and spoke directly with Chief Henry Morgan at 4:10 a.m. He informed me that he would follow up immediately with the Binghamtons. I then left a phone message with the Department of Children and Families, reporting the assault, and will contact them during business hours.
'

Lil looked at Ada, who was clearly distraught.

‘That poor girl. Bastards!'

‘There's more,' Lil said, seeing a quickly scrawled line from later that morning, where Bradley documented submitting a formal report to DCF and talking to a case worker who'd said there would be an investigation. And then the doorbell rang, and the phone, and Lil's cell.

Then, a knock at the front door, and a second and a third.

‘What now?' Ada said.

The knock turned into a loud banging. ‘Mrs Campbell, federal agents. Open the door.'

D
ennis Trask's thoughts had laser-sharp clarity as his gloved hands found easy purchase on the familiar slope of Grassy Mountain. Since leaving the police station yesterday afternoon, he was certain of things he'd previously suspected. These were the facts as he saw them: Jim Warren killed Delia Preston. His good friend Jim Warren killed his father, and his lifelong pal Jim Warren was taking him for a fool. It was that last realization that had robbed him of sleep.
He actually thought he could pull this over on me?
Wally, if he was somehow caught up in Jim's machinations, couldn't be blamed; he was an idiot who needed to be told to wipe his nose . . .
You put it in her, you moron!
But Jim . . . the motive clear; he was in trouble for the scams he and Delia were running at Nillewaug. Couldn't leave well enough alone . . . and his response when caught . . . burn it down and eliminate anyone who could rat him out.
You killed my father!
As he scrambled up the wooded face of Grassy Mountain, he thought through his plan, looking for holes and not finding any. Pulling out a piece of dull tan fabric he scraped it against a tree trunk letting it snag and rip. The coat he'd torn it from, along with the Browning under-over shotgun slung across his back and the Timberland boots he was wearing had all been lifted earlier that evening from the unlocked workshop of Gary Grasso. And what a pain his mother, Betty Grasso, had been; his first-grade teacher, and one of the Nillewaug victims. Gary, whose wife had left years ago on account of his drinking, lived alone. He'd have no alibi, a pair of muddy boots, a torn coat, the gun that fired the bullet that ended Jim Warren's life and a whopping motive. The only tricky bit was avoiding the pair of Feds parked at the entrance to Jim's cul-de-sac. But they were concerned with Jim trying to make another stab at freedom. They would not be expecting this. And by the time they figured where the shot had come from, he'd be long gone. ‘Nope, time to get what's coming, Jim.' And, clearing the crest, he stared at the Warren Manse, perched on the best lot of Eagle's Cairn, and moved into firing range. ‘Ostentatious bastard.' The only lights were from a TV up in his son's room, a glance at his pretty little daughter's window let him know she was out for the night.