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“Rumor mill was that a patient had done it,” Charlie supplied. “In fact, most folks thought Christopher Eola did it. Wouldn’t surprise me. Eola was admitted after my days as an AN. I ran into him once or twice, however, when I came in on Sundays. Scary customer, Mr. Eola. The cold side of crazy.”

Dodge was flipping through his pages. “Eola, Eola, Eola.”

“The hotline,” Warren murmured.

Both of them snapped to attention.

“What can you tell us about Eola?” Warren asked Charlie now.

Charlie tilted his head to the side. “You want the straight story or the version with the gossip mingled in?”

“We’d like to hear it all,” Warren said.

“Eola came to us a young man. Admitted by his parents, that’s what I was told. They dropped him off and hightailed it back to their mansion, never to return. Rumor was, Eola had had an inappropriate relationship with his younger sister. His parents discovered them together, and that was that. Bye-bye, Christopher.

“Eola was a good-looking kid. Light brown hair, bright blue eyes. Not big. Maybe six feet, but slender, refined. Maybe even a tad effeminate, which is why most of the ANs didn’t consider him a threat right away.

“He was also smart. Very social. You’d think someone with his privileged upbringing would hold himself apart. Instead, he liked to hang out in the Day Room, playing music for his fellow patients, holding a reading hour. More important, he’d roll cigarettes—I know that’s all considered evil now, but back in those days, everyone smoked, the doctors, the nurses, the patients. In fact, one of the best ways to guarantee cooperation from a patient was to give him a cigarette. It’s simply how things were done.

“Well, most of the cigarettes were roll-your-own, and some of the patients whose motor skills were impaired by various medications had a hard time getting it done. So Christopher would help them. That’s what he was doing the first time I saw him. Sitting in the Sunroom, cheerfully rolling cigarettes for a line of patients. It’s funny, but first time he looked up and saw me, I knew I didn’t like him. I knew he was trouble. It was his eyes. Shark eyes.”

“What did Eola do?” Dodge interrupted. “Why was he considered such a menace?”

“He learned the system.”

I perked up. I couldn’t help myself. Sitting in the nearby car, my ear glued to the cracked open window, I had a sense of déjà vu, of my father talking, of a shadowy man named Christopher Eola taking the same notes I once did. It gave me a chill.

“The system?” Dodge was asking.

“Hours, shift changes, dinner breaks. And, more important, medications. No one put it together until after poor Inge’s murder. But as management started asking more questions, it came out that some of the ANs had been falling asleep on their shifts. Except it wasn’t just one guy or one time. It was everyone, all the time. Well, this got the head nurse’s goat. So one night Jill did a surprise inspection of admitting. She found Eola in the office, mixing something into the AN’s brown-bag dinner. He looked up, spotted her, and, quite suddenly, smiled.

“Moment she saw that look, Jill knew she was dead. She grabbed the door and slammed it shut, trapping Eola inside. Eola tried to reason with her. Told her she was overreacting, swore he could explain everything. Jill dug in her heels. Next thing she knew, Eola was throwing himself at the door, snarling like an animal. A large man probably could’ve busted himself out, but like I said, Eola was all brains, not brawn. Jill kept Eola trapped for fifteen minutes, until another attendant arrived and they’d loaded up some sodium amytal.

“Later, they determined Eola had been stealing thorazine capsules from his fellow patients and mixing the powder into the ANs’ food. Furthermore, he would encourage his fellow patients into various disagreements, creating situations upstairs. When the AN rushed up to handle the problem, he’d slip into the office and go to work. Of course, Christopher never admitted to anything. Anytime you asked him a question, he’d just smile.”

Warren and Dodge were exchanging looks again. “Sounds like Eola had plenty of opportunities to wander the grounds.”

“Guess so.”

“And what year was this?”

“Eola was admitted in ’74.”

“How old?”

“I believe he was twenty at the time.”

“And what happened to him?”

“He finally got caught.”

“Doing what?”

“Organizing the patients into a revolt. Somewhere along the way, he’d commandeered one of the leather mats from an isolation room. Then he recruited the more ‘with it’ patients into creating a disturbance. When the AN appeared upstairs, the patients charged him with the mat, knocked him out cold. But Eola had made a slight miscalculation. We had another patient here at the time—Rob George. Former heavyweight champion. He spent his first two years in the hospital catatonic. But just three days earlier, he’d walked all the way to the Day Room by himself. The AN on duty got him back to bed without incident, only to find him sitting up an hour later. Clearly, he was coming ’round.

“Well, the night of Eola’s revolt, the whole unit got hopping. And apparently this got our boxing champion outta bed. Rob appeared in the middle of the Day Room. He looked at the AN, unconscious on the ground. Then stared at Christopher, grinning back up at him.

“ ‘Good news, man—’ Eola started to say.

“And Mr. George pulled back his fist and knocked Christopher out cold. Good solid left-hand hook. Then he went back to bed. One of the other patients went down to the office at that point and took the phone off the hook. Without Eola, no one knew what to do.

“The ANs arrived, got everything in order. Next morning, Rob woke up and asked for his mother. Six weeks later, he was released. According to him, he never remembered the events of that night. I understand from the doctors, however, that upon emerging from a catatonic state, most patients’ first movements are reflexive, a matter of muscle memory. Like sitting up. Or walking. Or, I guess, if you’re a former boxing champ, a solid left hook.”

“So what happened to Christopher?”

“His fellow patients ratted him out, and given his history, Admin had enough to transfer him to Bridgewater, which handles the criminally insane. I never heard about him again. But Bridgewater is like that. This place here”—Charlie pointed to the ground beneath his feet—“was a treatment facility. Bridgewater…once you go in, no one expects to see you again.”

Sergeant Warren raised a brow. “Charming.”

Charlie shrugged. “Just the way things were.”

“But he could’ve been released,” Dodge prodded. “By the late seventies, weren’t patient populations shrinking everywhere? Deinstitutionalization didn’t just close Boston Mental, it affected everyone.”

Charlie was nodding. “True, true. Damn shame, if you ask me.” He cocked his head. “You know what kept me here? Working for four years, volunteering for six years after that? I’ve told you the scary stuff, the stories people
want
to hear about a mental institution. But truth is, this was a good hospital. We had patients like Rob George, who, with proper treatment, emerged from a catatonic state and got to go home to his loved ones. Second guy who almost killed me was a street kid named Benji. He was a good-looking kid, handsome Italian stock, but feral as they came. Police brought him in. First week, Benji stayed in a seclusion room, stark naked. He’d painted the wall and his body with his own feces. All you could see were his white eyeballs glowing in the dark.

“One day, when I was tending him, he sprang onto my back and damn near strangled me before another AN pulled him off. But you know what? He turned out to be a good kid. Regression, the doctors called it. Some kind of trauma had reverted him to a nearly two-year-old state; he wouldn’t talk, eat, use the toilet, or dress himself. But once we started treating him like a two-year-old, we all got along great. I’d come in on Sundays, read him children’s books, play silly songs. With a little bit of time, treatment, and human kindness, Benji grew up again, right before our eyes. He started wearing clothes, using the toilet, eating with silverware, saying please and thank you. Two years later, he was doing so well, a member of our board got him enrolled in Boston Latin. He went to school during the day—and slept in his room here at night. You’d find him studying in the middle of complete chaos in the Day Room.

“Eventually Benji graduated, got a job, moved out on his own. None of that would’ve happened without this hospital.” Charlie shook his head sadly. “People think it’s a sign of accomplishment when a mental institute closes. Three thousand people used to receive treatment here. Do you really think it’s all gone away? Mental illness has just moved underground, into the homeless shelters and the city parks. Out of sight, out of mind for the taxpayers. It’s a crying shame.”

Charlie sighed, shook his head again. Another moment passed. He squared his shoulders, holding out his paper. “I drew a map of the old compound,” he told Sergeant Warren. “How it looked before they started tearing down the buildings. Don’t know if it helps your investigation or not, but it sounded like the grave is old. That being the case, thought you might like to put the crime scene in the proper context.”

Warren took the paper, glancing at its contents. “This is perfect, Charlie, very helpful. And I appreciate you taking the time to speak with us. You’re a true gentleman.”

Dodge took the man’s contact information. Things seemed to be wrapping up.

At the last minute, as the police officer was escorting Charlie back to the cruiser, the older man happened to look my way. In my eavesdropping mode, I had risen up, until my face was in the window, my ear tilted toward the open slit.

The moment Charlie spotted me, he did a little double-take.

“Excuse me, miss,” he called over. “Don’t I know you?”

Immediately, Detective Dodge stepped between us. “Just another person assisting with the investigation,” he murmured, directing the retired minister back to the police cruiser. Charlie turned away. I slumped down, quickly working the window back up. I didn’t recognize Charlie Marvin. So why would he think he knew me?

The police cruiser drove off.

But my heart continued to pound too hard in my chest.

T
HEY WERE BOTH
silent on the drive back to the North End: Annabelle staring out the side window, sliding the glass pendant back and forth on her necklace; Bobby staring out the windshield, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

Bobby thought he should say something. He tried out several lines in his head:
Don’t worry. Things will seem better in the morning. Life goes on.

It sounded like the same bullshit people had fed him after the shooting, so he kept his mouth shut. Truth of the matter was, Annabelle’s life
did
suck, and he had a feeling things were only going to get worse. Particularly once she came face-to-face with Catherine Gagnon.

He’d first mentioned Annabelle’s name to Catherine out of sheer curiosity; Annabelle claimed to not know Catherine, what was Catherine’s impression? Catherine, it turned out, was as oblivious to Annabelle’s existence as Annabelle was to hers.

Yet both women had been targeted by predators who favored underground chambers. Both women shared a close physical resemblance. And both had resided near Boston in the early eighties.

Bobby continued to believe, had to believe, there was a connection.

Apparently, the higher-ups had agreed, because they’d okayed the Arizona expedition. Theory was, if they could get Catherine and Annabelle together in a room, something was bound to shake loose. The connecting factor. The common denominator. The startling revelation that would break the case wide open, making the BPD look like heroes and allowing everyone to resume sleeping at night.

Earlier, the idea had seemed a slam-dunk winner. Now Bobby was less certain. He had too many questions racing through his mind. Why had Annabelle’s family continued to run even after leaving Massachusetts? How had Annabelle become a target in Arlington, if the perpetrator was operating out of Boston State Mental in Mattapan? And why did a former lunatic-asylum volunteer, Charlie Marvin, also seem to recognize Annabelle, when according to her she’d never set foot on Boston State Mental grounds?

Bobby blew out a puff of air, rubbed at the back of his neck. He wondered when he was going to start to develop some answers instead of a longer list of questions. He wondered how he was going to squeeze approximately twelve hours’ worth of phone calls into the approximately two hours he had before the next task-force meeting.

He wondered, once again, if he should say something reassuring to the subdued woman sitting beside him.

No answers yet. He kept driving, hands upon the wheel.

Night had descended, end of day prodding the city to life. Route 93 streamed ahead of them, a long ribbon of glowing red brake lights coiling to an island of glittering skyscrapers. People commented that the Boston cityscape was particularly beautiful at night. Bobby’d spent his whole life living in the city and his whole career driving around it. Frankly, he didn’t get it. Tall buildings were tall buildings. Mostly, this time of night, he wanted to be home.

“You ever lose someone close?” Annabelle spoke up abruptly. “A family member, friend?”

After the long silence, her question startled him into an honest answer. “My mother and brother. Long time back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…That’s sad.”

“No, no, no, they’re still alive. It’s not what you think. My mother walked out when I was six or seven. My brother made it about eight more years, then followed suit.”

“They just left?”

“My father had a drinking problem.”

“Oh.”

Bobby shrugged philosophically. “Back in those days, the choices were pretty much flee the scene or dig your own grave. To give my mother and brother credit, they didn’t have a death wish.”

“But you stayed.”

“I was too young,” he said matter-of-factly. “Didn’t have long enough legs.”

She blinked her eyes, looking troubled. “And your father now?”

“Has been sober for nearly ten years. Been a rough road for him, but he’s holding course.”

“That’s great.”

“I’m proud of him.” He glanced over at her for the first time, making eye contact, holding it for the fraction of an instant driving would allow. He wasn’t sure why he said this, but it felt important to get it out: “I’m not so great with booze myself. I understand how hard my father has to fight.”

“Oh,” she said again.

He nodded at that.
Oh
summarized his life quite nicely these days. He’d killed a man, gotten involved with the victim’s widow, realized he was an alcoholic, confronted a serial killer, and derailed his policing career all in the course of two years.
Oh
was pretty much the only summary he had left.

“Do you still miss your family?” Annabelle was asking now. “Do you think about them all the time? I honestly hadn’t thought of Dori in twenty-five years. Now I wonder if I’ll ever get her out of my head.”

“I don’t think about them the way I used to. I can go weeks, maybe even a month or two, not thinking of them at all. But then something will happen—you know, like the Red Sox winning the World Series—and I’ll find myself wondering, What is George doing right now? Is he cheering in some bar in Florida, going nuts for the home team? Or when he left us, did he leave the Red Sox, too? Maybe he only roots for the Marlins these days. I don’t know.

“And then my mind will go nuts for a few days. I’ll find myself staring in the mirror, wondering if George has the same wrinkles around his eyes that I’m getting. Or maybe he’s a plump insurance salesman with the beer gut and double chin. I haven’t seen him since he was eighteen years old. I can’t even picture him as a man. That gets to me sometimes. Makes me feel like he’s dead.”

“Do you call him?”

“I’ve left messages.”

“He doesn’t return your calls?” She sounded skeptical.

“Not so far.”

“And your mom?”

“Ditto.”

“Why? That doesn’t make any sense. It’s not your fault your father was a drunk. Why do they blame you?”

He had to smile. “You’re a kind person.”

She scowled back. “I am not.”

That just made his smile grow. But then he sighed. It felt strange, but not bad, to be talking about his family. He had been thinking about them more and more since the shooting. And leaving more messages.

“So, I went to this shrink a couple years ago,” he said. “Department orders. I’d been involved in a critical incident—”

“You killed Jimmy Gagnon,” Annabelle said matter-of-factly.

“I see you’ve been busy on the Internet.”

“Were you sleeping with Catherine Gagnon?”

“I see you’ve been talking to D.D.”

“So you
were
involved with her?” Annabelle sounded genuinely surprised. Apparently she’d just been fishing, and he’d stupidly taken the bait.

“I have never so much as kissed Catherine Gagnon,” he said firmly.

“But the lawsuit—”

“Was ultimately dropped.”

“Only after the shoot-out in the hotel—”

“Dropped is dropped.”

“Sergeant Warren obviously hates her,” Annabelle said.

“D.D. will always hate her.”

“Are you sleeping with D.D.?”

“So,” he said loudly, “I did my job and shot an armed man holding his wife and child at gunpoint. And the department sent me to a shrink. And you know that old saw that shrinks only want to talk about your mother? It’s true. All the woman did was ask about my mother.”

“All right,” Annabelle said, “let’s talk about your mother.”

“Exactly, one soul-baring moment at a time here. It was interesting. The longer my mother and brother stayed away, the more, on some level, I’d internalized things as being my fault. The shrink, however, raised some good points. My mother, brother, and I shared a pretty traumatic time in our lives. I felt guilty they’d had to run away. Maybe they felt guilty for leaving me behind.”

Annabelle nodded, jingled her necklace again. “Makes some sense. So what are you supposed to do?”

“God give me the strength to change the things I can change, the courage to let go of the things I need to let go, and the wisdom to know the difference. My mother and my brother are two of those things I can’t change, so I gotta let go.” Their exit was coming up. He put on the blinker, worked on getting over.

She frowned at him. “What about the shooting? How are you supposed to handle that?”

“Sleep eight hours a day, eat healthy, drink plenty of water, and engage in moderate amounts of exercise.”

“And that works?”

“Dunno. First night, I went to a bar, drank until I nearly passed out. Let’s just say I’m still a work in progress.”

She finally smiled. “Me, too,” she said softly. “Me, too.”

She didn’t speak again until he parked in front of her building. When she did, her voice had lost its edge. She simply sounded tired. Her hand went to the door latch.

“When do we leave in the morning?” she asked.

“I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“All right.”

“Pack for one night. We’ll handle the arrangements. Oh, and Annabelle—to board the plane you’re going to need valid photo ID.”

“Not a problem.”

He arched a brow but didn’t press. “It won’t be so bad,” he found himself saying. “Don’t let the news articles fool you. Catherine’s a woman, same as any other. And we’re just going to talk.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Annabelle popped open the door, stepped out onto the curb. At the last moment, however, she turned back toward him.

“In the beginning,” she said softly, “when I saw myself declared dead in the paper, I was relieved. Dead meant I could relax. Dead meant I didn’t have to worry about some mysterious boogeyman chasing me anymore. Dead left me feeling a little giddy.”

She paused, took a deep breath, then looked him in the eye. “But it’s not like that, is it? You, Sergeant Warren, and I aren’t the only ones who know it wasn’t my body in that grave. Dori’s killer also knows he abducted my best friend in my place. He knows I’m still alive.”

“Annabelle, it’s been twenty-five years…”

“I’m not a helpless little girl anymore,” she filled in.

“No, you’re not. Plus, we don’t know if the perpetrator is active these days. The chamber was abandoned. Meaning he could’ve been incarcerated for another crime, or here’s a thought, maybe he did the world a favor and dropped dead. We don’t know yet. We don’t.”

“Maybe he didn’t stop. Maybe he moved. My family kept running. Maybe it was because someone kept chasing.”

Bobby didn’t have an answer for that one. At this point, anything was possible.

Annabelle shut the door. He rolled down the window, so he could monitor the situation while she went to work inserting the keys. Maybe he was getting a little paranoid, too, because his gaze kept scouring up and down the street, checking every shadow, making sure nothing moved.

The outer door opened. Annabelle turned, waved, stepped into the brightly lit space. He watched her pull the door shut firmly behind her, then go to work on the inner sanctum. Then that door was also opened and closed and he caught one last glimpse of her back as she headed up the stairs.