Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (50 page)

Jessica had to stall.

Had to.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She closed her hand around the grip of the drill. It felt heavy and cold. She tested the trigger a few times. The drill responded, the carbon bit whirring.

“Bring her closer,” Jessica said weakly. “I can’t reach her.”

Chase walked over, lifted Sophie. He put her down just a few inches from Jessica. With her wrists banded together, Sophie’s hands were steepled in prayer.

Jessica lifted the drill, slowly, resting it for a moment on her lap.

She recalled her first medicine-ball training session at the gym. After two or three reps, she wanted to quit. She was on her back, on a mat, the heavy ball in her hands, completely spent. She couldn’t do it. Not one more rep. She would never be a boxer. But before she could give up, a wizened old heavyweight who had been sitting there, watching her—a longtime fixture in Frazier’s Gym, a man who had once taken Sonny Liston the distance—told her that most people who fail don’t lack strength, they lack
will
.

She had never forgotten him.

As Andrew Chase turned to step away, Jessica summoned all of her will, all of her resolve, all of her strength. She would have one chance to save her daughter, and the time to take that chance was now. She pressed the trigger, locking it in the
ON
position, then thrust the drill upward, hard and fast and strong. The long drill bit dug deep into the left side of Chase’s groin, puncturing skin and muscle and flesh, roaring far into his body, finding and shredding his femoral artery. A warm gush of arterial blood erupted into Jessica’s face, blinding her momentarily, making her gag. Chase shrieked in pain as he reeled back, spinning, his legs starting to give, his left hand jammed against the tear in his trousers, trying to stanch the flow. Blood pumped between his fingers, silken and black in the dim light. Reflexively he fired the Glock into the ceiling, the roar of the weapon huge in the confined space.

Jessica fought her way to her knees, her ears ringing, fueled now by adrenaline. She had to get in between Chase and Sophie. Had to move. Had to get to her feet somehow and plunge the drill into his heart.

Through the scarlet film of blood over her eyes, she saw Chase slam to the floor, dropping the gun. He was halfway across the basement. He screamed as he removed his belt and slipped it around the top of his left thigh, the blood now covering his legs, pooling on the floor. He tightened the tourniquet with a shrill, feral howl.

Could she drag herself to the weapon?

Jessica tried to crawl toward him, her hands slipping in the blood, fighting for each inch. But before she could close the distance, Chase picked up the blood-slicked Glock, and slowly rose to his feet. He stumbled forward, manic now, a mortally wounded animal. Just a few feet away. He waved the gun in front of him, his face a tortured death mask of agony.

Jessica tried to rise. She couldn’t. She had to hope that Chase would get closer. She raised the drill with two hands.

Chase stumbled in.

Stopped.

He was not close enough.

She couldn’t reach him. He would kill them both.

Chase looked heavenward in that moment and screamed, the unearthly sound filling the room, the house, the world, just as that world came back to life, a bright and raucous coil suddenly sprung.

The power had returned.

Upstairs, the television blared. Next to them, the furnace clicked on. Above them, the light fixtures blazed.

Time ceased.

Jessica wiped the blood from her eyes, found her attacker in the miasma of crimson. Crazily, the effects of the drug played havoc with her eyes, splitting Andrew Chase into two images, blurring them both.

Jessica closed her eyes, opened them, adjusting to the sudden clarity.

It wasn’t two images. It was two
men
. Somehow Kevin Byrne was standing behind Chase.

Jessica had to blink twice, just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

She wasn’t.

80

FRIDAY, 10:15 PM

I
N ALL HIS YEARS in law enforcement, Byrne was always surprised to finally see the size and shape and demeanor of the people he sought. Rarely were they as big or grotesque as their deeds. He had a theory that the volume of someone’s monstrousness was often inversely proportional to his or her physical size.

Without debate, Andrew Chase was the ugliest, blackest soul he had ever encountered.

And now, as the man stood in front of him, not five feet away, he looked small, inconsequential. But Byrne would not be lulled or fooled by this. Andrew Chase was certainly not inconsequential in the lives of the families he had destroyed.

Byrne knew that, even though Chase was severely wounded, he did not have the drop on the killer. He did not have the upper hand. Byrne’s vision was clouded; his mind was a mire of indecision and rage. Rage over his life. Rage over Morris Blanchard. Rage over the way the Diablo affair had played out, and how it had turned him into everything he fought against. Rage over the fact that, had he been a little better at this job, he might have saved the lives of a number of innocent girls.

Like an injured cobra, Andrew Chase sensed him.

Byrne flashed on the old Sonny Boy Williamson track “Collector Man Blues,” on how it was time to open the door, because the collector man was here.

The door opened wide. Byrne fashioned his left hand into a familiar shape, the first one he learned when he began studying sign language.

I love you.

Andrew Chase spun around, red eyes ablaze, the Glock held high.

Kevin Byrne saw them all in this monster’s eyes. Every innocent victim. He raised his weapon.

Both men fired.

And, as it had once before, the world fell white and silent.

F
OR JESSICA, THE TWIN EXPLOSIONS WERE DEAFENING, stealing the rest of her hearing. She folded to the cold basement floor. There was blood everywhere. She could not lift her head. As she fell into the clouds, she tried to find Sophie in the charnel house of torn human flesh. Her heart slowed, her eyesight failed.

Sophie,
she thought, fading, fading.

My heart.

My life.

81

EASTER SUNDAY, 11:05 AM

H
ER MOTHER SAT ON THE SWING, her favorite yellow sundress accentuating the deep violet flecks in her eyes. Her lips were claret, her hair a lush mahogany in the summer sun.

The aroma of just-lit charcoal briquettes filled the air, carrying with it the sound of a Phillies game. Beneath it all—the giggles of her cousins, the scent of Parodi cigars, the aroma of
vino di tavola.

Softly came forth the scratchy voice of Dean Martin crooning “Come Back to Sorrento” on vinyl. Always on vinyl. The technology of CDs had not yet moved into the mansion of her memories.

“Mom?” Jessica said.

“No, honey,” Peter Giovanni said. Her father’s voice was different. Older somehow.

“Dad?”

“I’m here, baby.”

A wave of relief washed over her. Her father was there, and everything was going to be fine. Wasn’t it? He’s a police officer, you know. She opened her eyes. She felt weak, fully spent. She was in a hospital room but, as far as she could tell, she was not hooked to machines, nor an IV drip. Memory plodded back. She remembered the roar of the gunfire in the confines of her basement. It did not appear that she had been shot.

Her father stood at the foot of the bed. Behind him stood her cousin Angela. She turned her head to the right to see John Shepherd and Nick Palladino.

“Sophie,” Jessica said.

The silence that followed exploded her heart into a million pieces, each one a burning comet of fear. She looked from face to face, slowly, dizzyingly. Eyes. She needed to see their
eyes
. In hospitals, people say things all the time; usually the things that people wanted to hear.

There’s a good chance that . . .

With proper therapy and medication . . .

He’s the best in his field . . .

If she could just see her father’s eyes, she would know.

“Sophie’s fine,” her father said.

His eyes did not lie.

“Vincent’s down in the cafeteria with her.”

She closed her eyes, the tears now flowing freely. She could survive whatever news came her way. Bring it on.

Her throat was raw and dry. “Chase,” she managed.

The two detectives looked at her, at each other.

“What happened . . . to Chase?” she repeated.

“He’s here. In ICU. In custody,” Shepherd said. “He was in surgery for four hours. The bad news is, he’s going to make it. The good news is, he’s going to stand trial, and we have all the evidence we need. His house was a petri dish.”

Jessica closed her eyes for a moment, absorbing the news. Were Andrew Chase’s eyes really burgundy? She had a feeling they would be in her nightmares.

“Your friend Patrick didn’t make it, though,” Shepherd said. “I’m sorry.”

The insanity of that night seeped into her consciousness slowly. She had actually suspected Patrick of these crimes. Maybe, if she had believed him, he wouldn’t have come to her house that night. And that meant he would still be alive.

An overwhelming sorrow ignited deep within her.

Angela picked up the plastic tumbler of ice water, brought the straw to Jessica’s lips. Angie’s eyes were red and puffy. She smoothed Jessica’s hair, kissed her on the forehead.

“How did I get here?” Jessica asked.

“Your friend Paula,” Angela said. “She came over to see if your power had come back on. The back door was wide open. She went downstairs and she . . . she saw everything.” Angela teared up.

And then Jessica remembered. She almost could not bring herself to say the name. The very real possibility that he had traded his life for hers tore at her from the inside, a hungry beast fighting to get out. And, in this big, sterile building, there would be neither pill nor procedure that could ever heal that wound.

“What about Kevin?” she asked.

Shepherd looked at the floor, then at Nick Palladino.

When they looked back at Jessica, their eyes were grim.

82

CHASE ENTERS PLEA, RECEIVES LIFE SENTENCE

by Eleanor Marcus-DeChant,
The Report
Staff Writer

Andrew Todd Chase, the so-called Rosary Killer, pleaded guilty Thursday to eight counts of first-degree murder, bringing to a close one of the bloodiest crime sprees in the history of Philadelphia. He was immediately remanded to the State Correctional Institution in Greene County, Pennsylvania.

In a plea agreement with the Philadelphia District Attorney’s office, the 32-year-old Chase pleaded guilty to the murders of Nicole T. Taylor, 17; Tessa A. Wells, 17; Bethany R. Price, 15; Kristi A. Hamilton, 16; Patrick M. Farrell, 36; Brian A. Parkhurst, 35; Wilhelm Kreuz, 42; and Simon E. Close, 33, all of Philadelphia. Mr. Close was a staff reporter at this paper.

In exchange for the plea, numerous other counts, including kidnapping, aggravated assault, and attempted murder, were dropped, along with the death penalty provision. Chase was sentenced by Municipal Court Judge Liam McManus to a life sentence, without the possibility of parole.

Chase remained silent and impassive at the hearing, during which he was represented by Benjamin W. Priest, a public defender.

Priest said that, considering the horrific nature of the crimes, and the overwhelming evidence against his client, the agreement was the best thing for Chase, a paramedic with the Glenwood Ambulance Group.

“Mr. Chase will now be able to receive the treatment he so desperately needs.”

Investigators revealed that Chase’s wife Katherine, 30, was recently committed to the Ranch House Mental Health Facility at Norristown. They believe that this event may have triggered the spree.

Chase’s so-called signature included leaving a rosary at the scene of each crime, as well as the mutilation of the female victims’ hands.

83

MAY 16, 7:55 AM

There is a principle in sales, that being the Rule of 250. They say that, in one’s lifetime, one becomes acquainted with around 250 people. Make one customer happy, and that just may lead to 250 sales.