Fear Nothing (42 page)

My sister took a sip of coffee. On the table, she was rhythmically tapping the fingers of her left hand, a sign she wasn’t as calm as she was trying to appear.

“How is it?” I asked, gesturing toward her drink.

She grimaced. “Tastes like cat pee. And impossible to order. Some kid in line yelled at me.”

“Starbucks is a cultural thing. You’ll get used to it.”

She grimaced again, set down the cup. Picked up the hat, twisted it in her hands.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Is there anything special you want to do? Something you’ve dreamed about all these years?”

She regarded me funny. “Adeline, I was a lifer. Lifers don’t dream. We don’t have someday.”

“But is it as you remembered, the outside world?”

“Kinda.” She shrugged. “Louder. Crazier. Like the memories were faded, now here’s the real deal.”

“It’s overwhelming.”

She shrugged again, striving for nonchalance, while continuing to twist the hat. From thirty years in solitary to midday in downtown Boston. It would be too much for most people.

“You could go,” I said evenly. “Leave me. Just walk away.”

My sister didn’t take the bait. Instead, it was her turn to regard me steadily. “Go where? With who? To do what? I don’t know how to drive. I’ve never held a job. I don’t know how you find an apartment or house, let alone how to cook a meal. For most of my life, the state has taken care of me. I think I’m a little old to change that now.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. My theme for the day.

“Why? None of it had anything to do with you. What happened, happened. Aren’t you the professional shrink? Because sometimes, you seem a little dense to me.”

“You’ll help me?” I asked. Because now that she was on the outside, I wasn’t so sure.

“I checked out my pressing social calendar. Looks like I can squeeze in one confrontation with a serial killer today. But that’s it. Any more killers, and we’re gonna have to negotiate payment terms. Hell, maybe I’m employable after all.”

“You seriously don’t know who the Rose Killer is?”

“No.”

“You haven’t been talking to anyone?”

She gave me a look.

“The killer came to my condo last night,” I whispered. “Brought me a present. Three mason jars filled with human skin.”

My sister didn’t even blink. “Why would the killer think you’d like something like that?”

I didn’t say anything. I could’ve, but I didn’t.

“Scared, Adeline?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Never. Don’t even understand the emotion. You can’t feel pain. Seems you should be fearless, too.”

“I have nightmares sometimes. I’m in a very dark place. All I can see is a strip of yellow light. And I’m terrified. I wake up screaming every time. It puzzled my adoptive father for years. That a girl who couldn’t feel pain could still experience fear.”

“You dream of the closet,” my sister said.

“I think so.”

“Well, then, you do have things to fear. Adeline, I don’t want to talk about the past. You started this game. I sure hope it wasn’t just for a trip down memory lane.”

“I need you to do as you promised; I need you to protect me.”

She looked at my cut-up face, and even I got the irony. But then she shrugged and went with a breezy, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And afterward . . .”

“You’ll give me the one thing I’ve always wanted,” my sister mused, and for once, I could catch the wistfulness in her voice.

This was the trick to managing my sister. You could want love and loyalty. But far more reliable was to appeal to her basic narcissism. Assure her there was something in it for herself. My sister, who after thirty years of institutionalization, would never make it in the real world.

“I’m going to take you to my place,” I informed her now.

“Is it safe?”

“As safe as anywhere.”

“But the cops’ll be watching.”

“Which is why I have a plan. Do you trust me, Shana?”

She smiled. “Do you trust me, little sister?”

“I’m bearing the marks to prove it.”

“Fair enough.” She rose to standing, tossing the coffee cup in the nearest garbage receptacle, then picking up the bag. “Lead on. It’s your rodeo.”

 • • • 

I
TOOK HER TO
B
ROOKS
B
ROTHERS
. Her first attempt at a disguise had given me the idea. Police might be suspicious if I returned to my condo with a female but not of a leading psychiatrist returning with a professionally attired gentleman. Maybe a colleague. A boyfriend. Or my own therapist. The possibilities were endless, and none of them included my recently escaped sister.

Shana was self-conscious in the store. And she couldn’t stop touching. The shirts, the ties, the suits, at one point, the faux-painted wall. She had a wide-eyed quality about her, like a country hick recently arrived in the big city.

I picked out a classic dark-gray suit, while the salesman followed in our wake, eyeing Shana’s wandering fingers anxiously, then my ravaged face and bandaged hand with growing concern. At last, I collected my sister, shoving her and the clothes into a dressing room.

“Holy shit,” she exclaimed thirty seconds later.

“It doesn’t fit?”

“Fit? Have you
seen
these prices?”

“Come, now,
darling.
” I overemphasized the word, given the hovering sales clerk. “Quality costs, but you’re worth it. Now,
try it on!
”

Shana emerged nearly ten minutes later. She was struggling with buttons, struggling with the tie. She looked like someone more at war with her wardrobe than at home in her clothes. But I buttoned her up, smoothed her out, then got her turned in front of the mirror.

Both of us stared. Was it the hair? Something about the lines of her face? Because God knows our father had never run around in a Brooks Brothers suit, and yet, for a second there . . . Shana might have been the one standing on the carpet, but it was Harry Day who stared back from the mirror.

I couldn’t help myself. I shivered. Shana saw it. She thinned her lips, didn’t say a word.

“We’ll take it,” I informed the salesman. “Clip the tags. He’ll wear it out.”

I added a long black wool coat to the stash, then handed my credit card to the attending salesman, who was still looking at everything but my face.

The credit card was my extra, the one I kept in my safe and not in my purse, in the event of theft. The police were most likely monitoring my other cards, given Shana had allegedly escaped with my purse. But this card should be clear. Even if the police tracked the purchase, a professional woman shopping at Brooks Brothers wasn’t too suspect, was it?

From the clothing store, I took my sister down a few blocks to a walk-in hair salon. There, a bored kid tidied up her hack job, then, per my request, added blond highlights. A TV was on in the corner of the salon. Evening news covering the morning’s prison escape, complete with flashing a photo of my sister’s bored-looking mug shot. I glanced at the hairstylist. He didn’t seem to notice the news or the photo. Or if he did, he didn’t seem to connect a gaunt woman in prison orange with the nicely attired gentleman sitting in his salon chair.

I was still grateful to hustle us both out of there. Across the street to the drugstore for one last purchase: a pair of reading glasses with thick black frames. When I perched them on the end of her nose, Shana frowned, looking like she might sneeze.

But the end result was worth it.

Shana Day had disappeared completely. Now, a successful businessman stood in her place.

“Is this how your father looked?” Shana asked me. “You know, your
other
dad.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He was an academic; he preferred tweed.”

My sister stared at me as if I was speaking another language. No doubt for her, I was.

“Roger,” I announced briskly, straightening the glasses on her face. “We’ll call you Roger. You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re my therapist. After this morning, no one would blame me for needing a shrink.”

My sister touched one of the marks on my face.

“I am an expert in pain,” she deadpanned.

Then she turned away, shifting restlessly under the weight of all the new clothes, fingers clenching and unclenching at her sides.

We continued down the street, me still looking over my shoulder, my sister with an expression that was once more impossible to read upon her face.

Chapter 35

S
HANA’S FORMER FOSTER MOTHER,
Mrs. Davies, was defiant.

“So she’s escaped. What can she do to me? Ruin my sleep, damage my reputation, make me wish I was no longer alive? She’s already done all that and more.”

“Can we come inside?” Phil persisted. “Take a look around?”

The old woman finally complied, floral housecoat whirling around her ankles as she bustled down the narrow hall. She moved with more energy today than yesterday, D.D. noted. Rage had that effect on people.

D.D. walked through Mrs. Davies’s home, while Phil conducted a quick sweep of the external perimeter. Outside there wasn’t much land, given how tightly together the Boston houses were constructed. Inside, D.D. could say the same, given how much stuff Mrs. Davies had crammed into her family’s home. Personally, D.D. thought there was barely enough room for Mrs. Davies inside the house, let alone an escaped killer.

They reconvened with Mrs. Davies in the rear of the house, finding her sitting on the sofa, stroking a black-and-gray tiger cat.

“Can you think of anyplace Shana would go?” Phil asked.

“Please. It’s been thirty years. How many people have come and gone? Not even the city is the same, post–Big Dig and all.”

D.D. and Phil exchanged glances. Fair enough.

“Mrs. Davies,” D.D. spoke up. “Yesterday you mentioned a foster girl, AnaRose Simmons, who was moved by the state after Shana’s . . . incident.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Davies’s expression softened immediately. “She was so beautiful. This pretty little thing, but so shy. Barely spoke two words, but sweet, very sweet.”

D.D. had been thinking about it all night. She liked Samuel Hayes, and his posting of items on a murderabilia site definitely bore checking out. But if they were looking for a female . . . what about a little girl returned from a loving foster home to her crack addict mom’s care due to Shana’s transgression? Such a thing certainly would’ve pissed D.D. off.

“Have you heard from AnaRose at all?”

“Oh, no. I never followed up. I told you that.”

“What about her, trying to get in contact with you, once she was of age?”

Mrs. Davies gazed at her sympathetically. “It doesn’t work like that, dear. You think it might. But the number of kids I’ve seen. Most come and go, and when they go, they’re gone. That’s what the lifestyle does to them. They don’t cling. They live only in the present, for they’ve learned the hard way, it’s all they have.”

D.D. frowned. “And AnaRose?”

“I don’t know what became of her. If anyone would, it might be Samuel. He was like a big brother to her. They might have kept in touch.”

“Speaking of Mr. Hayes—”

“Samuel?”

“We’re worried about him as well,” D.D. informed her. Across from her, Phil nodded, playing along. They hadn’t been able to locate Samuel thus far. Why not recruit Mrs. Davies to their cause?

D.D. paused. “Do you maybe have a cell phone number? A better way for us to reach him?”

“Oh. Oh yes. Just one moment.”

Mrs. Davies disappeared into the kitchen. D.D. tried hard not to think about that space, the piles of unwashed dishes, the rotting food, the cat hair covering the counters. A few minutes later, the older woman returned with a scrap of paper in her hands.

“I could call him if you’d like?” Mrs. Davies offered brightly.

“That would be great.”

Mrs. Davies dialed the number. Nothing like a suspect receiving a call from a known number. Mrs. Davies was making D.D. and Phil’s lives easier all the time.

Enough time had passed that D.D. was growing concerned, when:

“Samuel!” Mrs. Davies exclaimed. Her face split into a warm smile. All these years later, it was easy to see she still considered him to be like a son to her.

It almost made D.D. feel guilty.

“Have you heard the news, then?” Mrs. Davies continued. “Shana Day escaped. I have two fine detectives at my house now. They’re worried about me, Sam. And they’re worried about you, too.”

A pause, Samuel saying something back. Whatever it was, it made Mrs. Davies frown.

“Well, I don’t know. . . . I . . . Yes . . . No. Here. You talk to them. They’ll want to hear from you directly anyway.”

Without further prompting, Mrs. Davies thrust the phone into D.D.’s hand. She lifted it to her ear.

“Samuel Hayes? Detective D. D. Warren, BPD. We’re working with the task force to locate Shana Day.”

Phil nodded encouragingly. Emphasize Shana Day. They weren’t suspicious of Samuel at all. No, he wasn’t currently a lead suspect in the murder of three women, let alone under suspicion because he had possible ties to their other lead suspect, AnaRose Simmons. No, they weren’t dying to interrogate him.

“In these situations,” D.D. continued briskly, “it’s a matter of protocol to visit an escaped inmate’s known associates. In this case, that includes you. But I’ll be honest, Mr. Hayes. Given Shana’s track record, it’s not so much that we believe you’re involved with her escape, as much as we have reason to fear for your safety.”

“What?” Samuel Hayes sounded startled.

“It would be best if we met in person,” D.D. continued smoothly. “We can be at your residence ASAP. Address?”

“My safety? But, but, but . . .”

She had him right where they wanted him. Not defensive about a police visit but bewildered.

“Street address,” she prompted.

He rattled it off, tone still uncertain.

“We’ll be there just as soon as we’re done securing Mrs. Davies’s residence. Oh, and I wouldn’t go out if I were you. Keep all doors and windows locked. Trust us on this one.”

D.D. ended the call. She returned the phone to Mrs. Davies, who appeared suitably wide-eyed.