The Rosary Girls (27 page)

64

FRIDAY, 6:15 PM

Patrick sat in Interview Room A. Eric Chavez and John Shepherd handled the interview while Byrne and Jessica observed. The interview was being videotaped.

As far as Patrick knew, he was merely a material witness in the case. He had a recent scratch on his right hand.
When they could, they would scrape beneath Lauren Semanski’s fingernails, looking for DNA evidence. Unfortunately, according to the CSU, it probably wouldn’t yield much. Lauren was lucky to even
have
fingernails.

They had gone over Patrick’s schedule for the previous week, and, to Jessica’s chagrin, they had learned that there wasn’t a single day that would have prevented Patrick from abducting the victims, nor dumping their bodies.

The thought made Jessica physically ill. Was she really considering the notion that Patrick had something to do with these murders? With each passing minute, the answer was getting closer to
yes
. The next minute dissuaded her. She really didn’t know what to think.

Nick Palladino and Tony Park were on their way to the Wilhelm Kreuz crime scene with a photograph of Patrick. It was unlikely that old Agnes Pinsky would remember him—even if she did pick him out of a photo lineup, her credibility would be torn to shreds by even a public defender. Nick and Tony would canvass up and down the street nonetheless.

“I hadn’t been keeping up with the news, I’m afraid,” Patrick said. “I can understand that,” Shepherd replied. He was sitting on the edge
of the battered metal table. Eric Chavez leaned against the door. “I’m sure
you see enough of the ugly side of life where you work.”
“We have our triumphs,” Patrick said.
“So, you’re saying that you were not aware that any of these girls had
at one time been a patient of yours?”
“An ER physician, especially in an inner-city trauma center, works
triage, Detective. The patient needing the most immediate care is treated
first. After patients are patched up and sent home, or admitted, they are
always referred to their primary care physician. The concept of patient
doesn’t really apply. People who come to an emergency room may only
be a patient of any given doctor for an hour. Sometimes less. Quite often
less. Thousands of people pass through St. Joseph’s ER every year.” Shepherd listened, nodding at all the appropriate cues, absently
straightening the already perfect creases in his pants. Explaining the concept of triage to a veteran homicide detective was wholly unnecessary.
Everyone in Interview Room A knew that.
“That doesn’t really answer my question, though, Dr. Farrell.” “It seemed that I knew the name Tessa Wells when I heard it on the
news. I didn’t, however, make any immediate connection to whether or
not St. Joseph’s had provided her with emergency care.”
Bullshit,
Jessica thought, her anger growing. They had discussed Tessa
Wells the night they had a drink at Finnigan’s Wake.
“You say
St. Joseph’s
as if it was the institution that treated her that
day,” Shepherd said. “It’s
your
name on the file.”
Shepherd held up the file for Patrick to see.
“The record doesn’t lie, Detective,” Patrick said. “I must have treated
her.”
Shepherd held up a second file. “And you treated Nicole Taylor.” “Again, I really don’t recall.”
A third file. “And Bethany Price.”
Patrick stared.
Two more files in his face now. “Kristi Hamilton spent four hours in
your care. Lauren Semanski five.”
“I defer to the record, Detective,” Patrick said.
“All five of these girls were abducted and four of them were brutally
murdered this week, Doctor. This
week
. Five female, teenaged victims
who just happened to pass through your office within the past ten
months.”
Patrick shrugged.
John Shepherd asked, “You can certainly understand our interest in
you at this point, can’t you?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Patrick said. “As long as your interest in me is in the
nature of material witness. As long as that’s the case, I’ll be happy to help
in any way I can.”
“By the way, how did you get that scratch on your hand?” It was clear that Patrick had an answer well prepared for this. He
wasn’t, however, going to blurt anything out. “It’s a long story.” Shepherd looked at his watch. “I’ve got all night.” He looked at
Chavez. “How about you, Detective?”
“I cleared my schedule just in case.”
They both turned their attention back to Patrick.
“Let’s just say that one should always beware of a wet cat,” Patrick
said. Jessica saw the charm shine through. Unfortunately for Patrick,
these two detectives were immune. At the moment, so was Jessica. Shepherd and Chavez exchanged a glance. “Have truer words ever
been spoken?” Chavez asked.
“You’re saying a cat did that?” Shepherd asked.
“Yes,” Patrick replied. “She was outside all day in the rain. When I got
home tonight, I saw her shivering in the bushes. I tried to pick her up. Bad
idea.”
“What’s her name?”
It was an old interrogation trick. Someone mentions an alibi-related
person, you slam them immediately with a question regarding the name.
This time, it was a pet. Patrick was not prepared.
“Her name?” he asked.
It was a stall. Shepherd had him. Shepherd then got closer, looking at
the scratch. “What is it, a pet bobcat?”
“Excuse me?”
Shepherd stood up, leaned against the wall. Friendly, now. “See,
Dr. Farrell, I have four daughters. They absolutely
love
cats. Love ’em. In
fact, we have three of them. Coltrane, Dizzy, and Snickers. That’s their
names. I’ve been scratched, oh, at least a dozen times in the last few
years. None of the scratches looked anything like yours.”
Patrick looked at the floor for a few moments. “She’s not a bobcat,
Detective. Just a big old tabby.”
“Huh,” Shepherd said. He rolled on. “By the way, what sort of vehicle
do you drive?” John Shepherd, of course, already knew the answer to this
question.
“I have a few different vehicles. I mostly drive a Lexus.” “LS? GS? ES? SportCross?” Shepherd asked.
Patrick smiled. “I see you know your luxury cars.”
Shepherd returned the smile. Half of it, anyway. “I can tell a Rolex
from a TAG Heuer, too,” he said. “Can’t afford one of them, either.” “I drive a 2004 LX.”
“That’s the SUV, right?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
“I would call it an LUV,” Patrick said.
“As in Luxury Utility Vehicle, right?”
Patrick nodded.
“Gotcha,” Shepherd said. “Where is that vehicle right now?” Patrick hesitated. “It’s in the back parking lot here. Why?” “Just curious,” Shepherd said. “It’s a high-end vehicle. I just wanted to
make sure it was safe.”
“I appreciate it.”
“And the other vehicles?”
“I have a 1969 Alfa Romeo and a Chevy Venture.”
“That’s a van?”
“Yes.”
Shepherd wrote this down.
“Now, on Tuesday morning, according to records at St. Joseph’s, you
didn’t go on duty until nine o’clock in the morning,” Shepherd said. “Is
that accurate?”
Patrick thought about it. “I believe it is.”
“Yet your shift began at eight. Why were you late?”
“Actually, it was because I had to take the Lexus in for service.” “Where did you take it?”
There was a slight rap on the door, then the door swung open. In the doorway Ike Buchanan stood next to a tall, imposing man in an
elegant Brioni pin-striped suit. The man had perfectly layered silver hair,
a Cancún tan. His briefcase cost more than either detective made in a
month.
Abraham Gold had represented Patrick’s father, Martin, in a highprofile malpractice suit in the late 1990s.Abraham Gold was as expensive
as they come. And as good as they come. As far as Jessica knew, Abraham
Gold had never lost a case.
“Gentlemen,” he began, using his best courtroom baritone. “This
conversation is over.”

“What do you think?” Buchanan asked.

The entire task force looked at her. She searched her mind for not only the right thing to say, but the right words to say it. She truly was at a loss. From the moment that Patrick had walked into the Roundhouse an hour or so earlier, she knew this moment would arrive. Now that it was here, she had no idea how to deal with it. The notion that someone she knew might be responsible for such horror was bad enough. The notion that it was someone she knew
intimately
—or thought she did—seemed to immobilize her brain.

If the unthinkable was true, that Patrick Farrell was indeed the Rosary Killer, from a purely a professional standpoint, what would it say about her as a judge of character?

“I think it’s possible.” There. It was said out loud.

They had, of course, run a background check on Patrick Farrell. Except for a pot misdemeanor in his sophomore year in college, and a penchant for driving well above the speed limit, his record was clean.

Now that Patrick had retained counsel, they would have to step up the investigation. Agnes Pinsky had said that he
could’ve
been the man she saw knocking on Wilhelm Kreuz’s door. A man who worked at a shoe repair shop across from Kreuz’s apartment building
thought
he recalled a creamcolored Lexus SUV parked out front two days earlier. He wasn’t sure.

Regardless, there would now be a pair of detectives on Patrick Farrell 24/7.

65

FRIDAY, 8:00 PM

The pain was exquisite, a slow rolling wave that inched up the back of his neck, then down. He popped a Vicodin, chased it with rancid water from the tap in the men’s room of a gas station in North Philly.

It was Good Friday. The day of the crucifixion.
Byrne knew that, one way or another, this was all probably coming to an end soon, probably tonight; and with it, he knew he would face something inside himself that had been there for fifteen years, something dark and violent and troubling.
He wanted everything to be in order.
He needed symmetry.
He had one stop to make first.

The cars were parked two deep on both sides of the street. In this part of the city, if the street was blocked, you didn’t call the police or knock on doors.You definitely didn’t want to blow your horn. Instead, you quietly put your car in reverse, and found another way.

The storm door of the ramshackle Point Breeze row house was open, all the lights burning inside. Byrne stood across the street, sheltered from the rain beneath the tattered awning of a shuttered bakery. Through the bay window across the street he could see the three pictures that graced the wall over the strawberry velvet Spanish modern sofa. Martin Luther King, Jesus, Muhammad Ali.

Right in front of him, in the rusted Pontiac, the kid sat alone in the backseat, completely oblivious to Byrne, smoking a blunt, rocking gently to whatever was coming through his headphones. After a few minutes he butted the blunt, opened the car door, and got out.

He stretched, flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt, straightened his baggies.
“Hey,” Byrne said. The pain in his head had settled into a dull metronome of agony, clicking loud and rhythmically at either temple. Still, it felt as if the mother of all migraines was just a car horn or flashbulb away.
The kid turned, surprised but not scared. He was about fifteen, tall and rangy, with the kind of body that would serve him pretty well in playground hoops, but take him no further. He wore the full Sean John uniform—full-cut jeans, quilted leather jacket, fleece hoodie.
The kid sized up Byrne, assessed the danger, the opportunity. Byrne kept his hands in plain sight.
“Yo,” the kid finally offered.
“Did you know Marius?” Byrne asked.
The kid gave him the twice-over. Byrne was way too big to mess with.
“MG was my
boy,
” the kid finally said. He flashed a JBM sign.
Byrne nodded. This kid could still go either way, he thought. There was a simmering intelligence behind his now bloodshot eyes. But Byrne got the feeling the kid was too busy fulfilling the world’s expectations of him.
Byrne reached slowly inside his coat—slowly enough to let this kid know there was nothing coming. He removed the envelope. The envelope was of a size and shape and heft that could only be one thing.
“His mother’s name is Delilah Watts?” Byrne asked. It was more like a statement of fact.
The kid glanced at the row house, at the bright bay window. A thin,

the Rosary girls 331

dark-skinned black woman in oversized gradient sunglasses and a deep auburn wig dabbed at her eyes as she received mourners. She was no more than thirty-five.

The kid turned back to Byrne. “Yeah.”
Byrne absently thumbed the rubber band around the fat envelope. He had never counted the contents. When he had taken it from Gideon Pratt that night, he had no reason to think it was a penny less than the five thousand dollars they had agreed upon. There was no reason to count it now.
“This is for Mrs. Watts,” Byrne said. He held the kid’s eyes for a few, flat seconds, a look that both of them had experienced in their time, a look that needed no embellishment, no footnoting.
The kid reached out, cautiously took the envelope. “She gonna want to know who it’s from,” he said.
Byrne nodded. Soon the kid understood that no answer was forthcoming.
The kid stuffed the envelope into his pocket. Byrne watched as he swaggered across the street, up to the house, stepped inside, hugged a few of the young men standing sentinel at the door. Byrne looked through the window as the kid waited briefly in the short receiving line. He could hear the strains of Al Green’s “You Brought the Sunshine” playing.
Byrne wondered how many times this scene would be played out across the country this night—too-young mothers sitting in too-hot parlors, presiding over the wake of a child given to the beast.
For all that Marius Green may have done wrong in his short life, for all the misery and pain he may have spread, there was only one reason he was in that alley that night, and that play had nothing to do with him.
Marius Green was dead, as was the man who killed him in cold blood. Was it justice? Perhaps not. But there was no doubt that it all began the day Deirdre Pettigrew met a terrible man in Fairmount Park, a day that had ended with another young mother with a ball of damp tissue in her hands, and a front room full of friends and family.
There is no solution, just resolution,
Byrne thought. He was not a man who believed in karma. He was a man who believed in action and reaction.
Byrne watched as Delilah Watts opened the envelope. After the initial shock set in, she put her hand to her heart. She composed herself, then looked out the window, directly at him, directly into Kevin Byrne’s soul. He knew that she could not see him, that all she could see was the black mirror of night, and the rain-streaked reflection of her own pain.
Kevin Byrne bowed his head, then turned up his collar and walked into the storm.

FRIDAY, 8:25 PM

As Jessica drove home, the radio predicted a huge thunderstorm. High winds, lightning, flood warnings. Parts of Roosevelt Boulevard were already inundated.

She thought about the night she had met Patrick, so many years ago. She had watched him work in the ER that night, so impressed with his grace and confidence, his ability to comfort the people who came in those doors, looking for help.

People responded to him, believed in his ability to relieve their pain. His looks certainly didn’t hurt. She tried to think rationally about him. What did she really know? Was she able to think about him in the same terms she had thought about Brian Parkhurst?

No, she was not.
But the more she thought about it, the more it became
possible
. The fact that he was an MD, the fact that he could not account for his time at crucial intervals in the time line of the murders, the fact that he had lost his kid sister to violence, the fact that he was a Catholic, and, inescapably, the fact that he had treated all five girls. He knew their names and addresses, their medical histories.
She had looked again at the digital photographs of Nicole Taylor’s hand. Could Nicole have been spelling out f a r instead of p a r?
It was possible.
Despite her instincts, Jessica finally admitted it to herself. If she didn’t know Patrick, she would be leading the charge to arrest him, based on one immutable fact:
He knew all five girls.

FRIDAY, 8:55 PM
Byrne stood in the ICU watching Lauren Semanski.

The ER team had told him that Lauren had a lot of methamphetamine in her system, that she was a chronic user, and that when her abductor had injected her with the midazolam, it did not have quite

the effect it might have had if Lauren had not been full of a powerful stimulant.

Although they had not yet been able to talk to her, it was clear that Lauren Semanski’s injuries were consistent with those that might have been incurred by someone leaping from a moving vehicle. Incredibly, although her injuries were numerous and serious, except for the toxicity of the drugs in her system, none was life threatening.

Byrne sat down next to her bed.
He knew that Patrick Farrell was a friend of Jessica’s. He suspected that there was probably more to their relationship than mere friendship, but he would leave that for Jessica to tell him.
There had been so many false clues and blind alleys in this case so far. He was not sure that Patrick Farrell fit the mold, either. When he had met the man at the Rodin Museum crime scene, he had not gotten a feeling of any kind.
Still, that didn’t seem to matter much these days. Chances were good that he could shake hands with Ted Bundy and not have a clue. Everything pointed to Patrick Farrell. He’d seen many an arrest warrant issued on much less.
He took Lauren’s hand in his. He closed his eyes. The pain settled above his eyes, high and hot and murderous. Soon, the images detonated in his mind, shunting the breath in his lungs, and the door at the end of his mind swung wide...

FRIDAY, 8:55 PM
Scholars believe that a storm rose over Calvary on the day of Christ’s death, that the sky grew dark over the valley as He hung upon the cross.

Lauren Semanski had been very strong. Last year, when she tried to take her own life, I had looked at her and wondered why such a determined young woman would do such a thing. Life is a gift. Life is a blessing.Why had she tried to throw it all away?

Why had any of them tried to throw it away?
Nicole had lived with the ridicule of her classmates, an alcoholic father. Tessa had survived her mother’s lingering death, and faced her father’s slow

descent.
Bethany had been the object of scorn for her weight.
Kristi had problems with anorexia.
When I had treated them, I knew that I was cheating the Lord.They had set

themselves on a path and I had diverted them.
Nicole and Tessa and Bethany and Kristi.
Then there was Lauren. Lauren had survived her parents’ accident only

to walk out to the car one night, start the engine. She had brought her stuffed Opus with her, the plush little penguin toy her mother had given her for Christmas in the fifth year of her life.

Today she had resisted the midazolam. She was probably back on the meth. When she punched open the door we were moving at approximately thirty miles an hour. She jumped out. Just like that.There was far too much traffic for me to turn around and get her. I had to just let her go.

It is too late to change plans.
It is the Hour of None.
And although Lauren was the final mystery, another girl would do, one

with shiny curls and a halo of innocence around her head.

The wind picks up as I pull over, cut the engine. They predict a massive storm.There will be another storm tonight, a dark reckoning of the soul.
The light inside Jessica’s house . . .
. . . is bright and warm and inviting, a solitary ember in the dying coals of dusk.
He sits outside in a vehicle, sheltered from the rain. In his hands is a rosary. He thinks about Lauren Semanski, and how she got away. She was the fifth girl, the fifth mystery, the final piece in his masterwork.
But Jessica is here. He has business with her, too.
Jessica and her little girl.
He checks the items he has prepared: the hypodermic needles, the carpenter’s chalk, the sail maker’s needle and thread.
He prepares to step into the wicked night . . .
The imagery came and went, teasing with clarity, like the vision of a drowning man looking up from the bottom of a chlorinated pool. The pain in Byrne’s head was fierce. He walked out of ICU and into the parking lot, got into his car. He checked his weapon. Rain pelted his windshield.
He started his car and headed to the expressway.
Sophie was terrified of thunderstorms. Jessica knew where she’d gotten it, too. It was genetic. When Jessica was small, she used to hide under the steps at their house on Catharine Street whenever it thundered. If it got really bad, she used to crawl under the bed. Sometimes she would bring a candle. Until the day she set the mattress on fire.
They had eaten dinner in front of the television again. Jessica had been too tired to object. It didn’t matter anyway. She had picked at her food, disinterested in such a routine event when her world was cracking at the seams. Her stomach churned with the events of the day. How could she have been so wrong about Patrick?
Was
she wrong about Patrick?
The images of what had been done to these young women would not leave her alone.
She checked the answering machine. There were no messages.
Vincent was staying with his brother. She picked up the phone and dialed the number. Well, two-thirds of it. Then she put the phone down.
Shit.

She did the dishes by hand, just to give her hands something to do. She poured a glass of wine, poured it out. She made a cup of tea, let it get cold.

Somehow, she’d made it until Sophie’s bedtime. Outside, thunder and lightning raged. Inside, Sophie was scared.
Jessica had tried all the usual remedies. She had offered to read her a story. No luck. She had asked Sophie if she wanted to watch
Finding Nemo
again. No luck. She didn’t even want to watch
The Little Mermaid.
This was rare. Jessica had offered to color her Peter Cottontail coloring book with her (no), offered to sing
Wizard of Oz
songs (no), offered to put decals on the colored eggs in the kitchen (no).
In the end, she just tucked Sophie into bed and sat with her. Every time there was a crack of thunder, Sophie looked at her as if it were the end of the world.
Jessica tried to think of anything but Patrick. So far, she had been unsuccessful.
There was a knock at the front door. It was probably Paula.
“I’ll be right back, sweetie.”
“No, Mom.”
“I won’t be more than—”
The power flickered off, then back on.
“That’s all we need.” Jessica stared at the table lamp as if she could will it to stay on. She held Sophie’s hand. The kid had her in a death grip. Mercifully, the lights stayed on.
Thank you, Lord
. “Mommy just has to answer the door. It’s Paula.You want to see Paula, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said. “Gonna be okay?”
Sophie nodded, despite the fact that her lips were trembling.
Jessica kissed Sophie on the forehead, handed her Jools, her little brown bear. Sophie shook her head. Jessica then grabbed Molly, the beige one. Nope. It was hard to keep track. Sophie had good bears and bad bears. She finally said yes to Timothy, the panda.
“Be right back.”
“Okay.”
She walked down the stairs as the doorbell rang once, twice, three times. It didn’t sound like Paula.
“All
right
already,” she said.
She tried to look through the beveled glass in the door’s small window. It was pretty well fogged over. All she saw were the parking lights of the EMS van across the street. It seemed that even typhoons didn’t deter Carmine Arrabiata from having his weekly heart attack.
She opened the door.
It was Patrick.
Her first instinct was to slam the door. She resisted. For the moment. She glanced out at the street, looking for the surveillance car. She didn’t see it. She didn’t open the storm door.
“What are you doing here, Patrick?”
“Jess,” he said. “You’ve got to listen to me.”
The anger began to rise, dueling with her fears. “See, that’s the part you don’t seem to understand,” she said. “I really don’t.”
“Jess. Come on. It’s
me
.” He stamped from one foot to the other. He was thoroughly soaked.
“Me? Who the hell is
me
? You treated every one of these girls,” she said. “It didn’t occur to you to come forward with this information?”
“I see a lot of patients,” Patrick said. “You can’t expect me to remember them all.”
The wind was loud. Howling. They were both almost yelling to be heard.
“Bullshit. These were all within the last year.”
Patrick looked at the ground. “Maybe I just didn’t want to...”
“What, get involved? Are you fucking
kidding
me?”
“Jess. If you could just—”
“You shouldn’t be here, Patrick,” she said. “This puts me in a really awkward situation. Go home.”
“My God, Jess.You don’t really think I had anything to do with these, these...”
It was a good question, Jessica thought. In fact, it was
the
question.
Jessica was just about to answer when a crack of thunder boomed, and the power browned out. The lights flickered on, off, on.
“I...I don’t know what to think, Patrick.”
“Give me five minutes, Jess. Five minutes, and I’ll go.”
Jessica saw the world of pain in his eyes.
“Please,” he said. He was soaking wet, pitiful in his pleading.
Crazily, she thought about her weapon. It was in the hall closet upstairs, top shelf, where it always was. She was actually thinking about her weapon, and whether she could get to it in time if needed. Because of
Patrick
.
None of this seemed real.
“Can I at least come inside?” he asked.
There was no point in arguing. She cracked open the storm door as a sheer column of rain swept through. Jessica opened the door fully. She knew that there was a team on Patrick even if she didn’t see the car. She was armed and she had backup.
Try as she did, she just couldn’t believe Patrick was guilty. This wasn’t some crime of passion they were talking about, some moment of insanity when he lost his temper and went too far. This was the systematic, cold-blooded murder of six people. Maybe more.
Give her a piece of forensic evidence, and then she’d have no choice.
Until then...
The power went out.
Upstairs, Sophie wailed.
“Jesus
Christ,
” Jessica said. She looked across the street. Some of the houses still seemed to have power. Or was that candlelight?
“Maybe it’s the circuit breaker,” Patrick said, walking inside, walking past her. “Where’s the panel?”
Jessica looked at the floor, hands on hips. This was all too much.
“Bottom of the basement stairs,” she said, resigned. “There’s a flashlight on the dining room table. But don’t think that we—”
“Mommy!” from upstairs.
Patrick took off his raincoat. “I’ll check the panel, then I’m gone. I promise.”
Patrick grabbed the flashlight and headed to the basement.
Jessica shuffled her way to the steps in the sudden darkness. She headed upstairs, entered Sophie’s room.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Jessica said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Sophie’s face looked tiny and round and frightened in the gloom. “Do you want to come downstairs with Mommy?”
Sophie shook her head.
“You sure?”
Sophie nodded. “Is Daddy here?”
“No, honey,” Jessica said, her heart sinking. “Mommy’s... Mommy’s going to get some candles, okay? You like candles.”
Sophie nodded again.
Jessica left the bedroom. She opened the linen closet next to the bathroom, felt her way through the box that held the hotel soaps and sample shampoos and conditioners. She remembered when she used to take long, luxurious bubble baths with scented candles scattered around the bathroom, back in the stone age of her marriage. Sometimes Vincent would join her. Somehow it seemed like someone else’s life at the moment. She found a pair of sandalwood candles. She took them out of the box, returned to Sophie’s room.
Of course, there were no matches.
“I’ll be right back.”
She went downstairs to the kitchen, her eyes somewhat adjusted to the dark. She rummaged in the junk drawer for some book matches. She found a pack. Matches from her wedding. She could feel the gold embossed jessica and vincent on the glossy cover. Just what she needed. If she believed in such things, she might imagine that there was a conspiracy afoot to drag her into some deep depression. She turned to head back upstairs when there was a slash of lightning and the sound of shattering glass.
She jumped at the impact. A branch had finally snapped off the dying maple next to the house and smashed in the window in the back door.
“Oh, this just gets better and better,” Jessica said. The rain swept into the kitchen. There was broken glass everywhere. “Son of a
bitch
.”
She got out a plastic trash bag from under the sink and some pushpins from the kitchen corkboard. Fighting the wind and gusting rain, she tacked the bag around the opening in the door, trying not to cut herself on the shards that remained.
What the hell was next?
She looked down the stairs into the basement, saw the Maglite beam dancing about the gloom.
She grabbed the matches and headed into the dining room. She looked through the drawers in the hutch, found a variety of candles. She lit half a dozen or so, placing them around the dining room and the living room. She headed back upstairs and lit the two candles in Sophie’s room.
“Better?” she asked.
“Better,” Sophie said.
Jessica reached out, dried Sophie’s cheeks. “The lights will be on in a little while. Okay?”
Sophie nodded, thoroughly unconvinced.
Jessica looked around the room. The candles did a fairly good job of exorcising the shadow monsters. She tweaked Sophie’s nose, got a minor giggle. She just got to the top of the stairs when the phone rang.
Jessica stepped into her bedroom, answered.
“Hello?”
She was met with an unearthly howl and hiss. Through it, barely: “It’s John Shepherd.”
He sounded as if he was on the moon. “I can barely hear you. What’s up?”
“You there?”
“Yes.”
The phone line crackled. “We just heard from the hospital,” he said.
“Say again?” Jessica said. The connection was horrible.
“Want me to call on your cell?”
“Okay,” Jessica said. Then she remembered. The cell was in the car. The car was in the garage. “No, that’s okay. Go ahead.”
“We just got a report back on what Lauren Semanski had in her hand.”
Something about Lauren Semanski.
“Okay.”
“It was part of a ballpoint pen.”
“A what?”
“She had a broken ballpoint pen in her hand,” Shepherd shouted. “From St. Joseph’s.”
Jessica heard this clearly enough. She didn’t want to. “What do you mean?”
“It had the St. Joseph’s logo and address on it. The pen is from the hospital.”
Her heart grew cold in her chest. It couldn’t be true. “Are you sure?”
“No doubt about it,” Shepherd said. His voice was breaking up. “Listen... the surveillance team lost Farrell... Roosevelt is flooded all the way to—”
Quiet.
“John?”
Nothing. The phone line was dead. Jessica toggled the button on the phone. “Hello?”
She was met with a thick black silence.
Jessica hung up, stepped over to the hallway closet. She glanced down the stairs. Patrick was still in the basement.
She reached inside the closet, onto the top shelf, her mind spinning.
He’s been asking about you,
Angela had said.
She slipped the Glock out of the holster.
I was on my way to my sister’s house in Manayunk,
Patrick had said, not twenty feet from Bethany Price’s still-warm body.
She checked the weapon’s magazine. It was full.
His doctor came to see him yesterday,
Agnes Pinsky had said.
She slammed the magazine home, chambered a round. And began to descend the stairs.