The Secret Friend (23 page)

69

‘Are you praying to God to help you find Hannah?’ Malcolm Fletcher asked.

Darby reached inside her coat pocket and undid the strap of her shoulder holster as she looked around the church. The pews were empty, the walls with their stained-glass depictions of the stations of the cross covered in shadows.

‘I didn’t think I’d hear from you again, Special Agent Fletcher.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Jonathan Hale told us everything.’

‘A clever lie,’ Fletcher said.

‘I know what you’re doing. I know why you’re here.’

‘Aren’t you going to ask me about Detective Bryson?’

‘You’re admitting you killed him?’

‘I did you a favour. Who knows what sorts of schemes he was planning? You might want to check your evidence locker.’

‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’

‘I wanted Timmy to deliver a message and decided to send it air mail.’ Fletcher laughed, a deep, guttural sound that made her feel cold all over. ‘Aren’t you glad he’s dead?’

‘I don’t think he deserved to suffer.’

‘Another lie. That’s part of the reason you’re at church now, isn’t it? You wanted to lay down your guilt at the altar and beg the Almighty for mercy. I forget how much you Catholics enjoy the rack. Did He decide to end his insufferable reign of silence and answer your prayers?’

‘I’m still waiting.’

‘Don’t you know your god deals in silence and ash?’

‘We identified the remains.’

‘I’m sure Tina Sanders is relieved. She’s been praying for this moment for a long time.’

‘She still won’t speak to us.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘Let’s talk about Sam Dingle.’

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to end this conversation. I don’t entirely trust the phone. You never know who might be listening in. Oh, and Darby?’

‘Yes?’

‘Despite what you’ve read or heard about me, I have no intention of harming you now or anytime in the future. Hannah is in excellent hands. I hope you find her soon. Goodbye, Darby.’

Click.

Darby was standing outside the church, looking around the streets when her phone rang again. It was one of the surveillance technicians.

‘We couldn’t trace his call,’ the tech said. ‘If he calls again, just keep him talking. At some point he’ll slip and we’ll find him.’

‘Don’t bet on it,’ Darby said.

70

Hannah Givens was thinking about the letter again, wondering if she had made a mistake.

Three days ago Walter had presented her with a nice sheet of stationery and matching envelope with postage. He gave her a pen and told her to write a letter to her parents. He promised to mail it.

Hannah knew full well Walter would never mail the letter. It was too risky. The way forensics worked now, the police could trace a postage stamp to the exact post office where it had been purchased. She had seen it done on a TV show.

The letter, Hannah knew, was a peace offering, a way to get her to speak. Walter
needed
her to talk. He had tried to get her to open up by sharing a horrible story about how his mother had almost burned him to death and then followed it up with all that religious talk about the importance of forgiveness.

When she didn’t speak, when she continued to sit there, silent and staring, she could tell he wanted to hurt her. To his credit, he didn’t, but that didn’t mean Walter would wait forever. He’d hurt her once. There was no question in her mind he’d do it again.

Walter had left the felt-tipped pen. For a good amount of time she had played with the idea of using the pen as a weapon – stab him in the throat, if possible. At the very least, she could take out an eye. She had played through the scenarios in her mind and noticed that not once did she feel any fear. She had never injured another human being before but felt certain, if and when the time came, she could do it.

Walter, though, was smart. He wouldn’t forget the pen. At some point he would ask for it back.

Another idea had taken root in her mind, one with possibly even greater potential: What if she could use the letter as an opportunity to gain some leverage? The question consumed her waking thoughts.

Hannah came up with a plan. She concentrated on what she would say, creating several drafts in her mind before committing the words to paper.

Walter,

The Virgin Mary came to me in a dream last night and told me not to be afraid. She told me what a good, caring person you are. She told me how much you love me, that you wouldn’t do anything in this world to hurt me or my family. Your Blessed Mother also said that you would allow me to call my parents and tell them not to worry.

After I talk to my parents, I was thinking that maybe you would join me for dinner, and we could talk and get to know each other better.

Hannah had set the envelope and pen in the sliding food carrier along with the dirty paper plates from today’s lunch. Now she had to wait to see what Walter would do.

To pass the time, she reread the short diary written by a woman named Emma. Hannah flipped to the last page and began to read:

I don’t know why I’m bothering to keep this journal. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism, this need to leave something behind – to leave my mark. Maybe it’s the fever. I can’t stop shaking; I’m cold and hot at the same time. Walter, of course, thinks I’m faking. I told him to take my temperature and he did. He said my temperature was a little high but nothing to worry about. He said he wouldn’t let anything happen to me.

When my fever didn’t break, Walter came into my room holding two big white pills – penicillin, he said. He came back at lunch with two more pills, then two more at dinner. This went on for days (at least it seemed like days; time has no meaning down here). Finally I said to him, ‘Do you want me to die?’

‘You’re not dying, Emma.’

‘The pills aren’t working. There’s something wrong with me. I can’t keep any food down. I need a doctor.’

‘You have to give the medicine a chance to work. Keep drinking water. I bought you the fancy kind you like, the Pellegrino. You need to stay hydrated.’

‘I don’t want to die here.’

‘Stop saying that.’ Walter then launched into another story about how ‘his’ Blessed Mother came and told him how I would be fine.

‘Please listen to me, Walter. Will you listen to me for a minute?’ He didn’t answer so I kept talking. ‘I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. I don’t know where you live. You can blindfold me, put me
in the car and drive me to a hospital in some other city. Just drop me off and leave. I swear to God I won’t tell anyone who you are.’

His face changed and, I don’t know, he looked disgusted, as though whatever was wrong with me was somehow my fault.

‘I don’t want to die alone,’ I said. ‘I want to see my father.’ I begged, I cried – I did it all.

Walter waited until I was done, and then he gripped my hands and said, ‘Pray with me, Emma. We’ll pray together to Mary. My Blessed Mother will help us, I promise.’

Walter has just left the room. I try not to think about what will happen to me when I die.

Maybe God gives you a second chance. Maybe he lets you come back until you leave your mark. Or maybe there is no such thing as a soul. Maybe you’re just like everything else that wanders the earth, alive for a short amount of time only to die alone, only to be forgotten. Please God, if you’re there and you can hear me, please don’t let that be true.

Hannah skimmed over the next paragraph, a long, delusional rambling of a repeated fever dream where Emma found herself wandering around dark streets at night, wondering why the sun wouldn’t come out, why there weren’t any lights on inside the houses, why the streets didn’t have any names.

And here were the last words the woman named Emma wrote:

I keep thinking about my mother. She died when I was eight. The day of her funeral, when my father and I were finally alone, I remember how he kept reassuring me that my mother’s death was a
part of God’s divine plan. The image that comes to my mind over and over again from that day is how the traffic kept moving past us, the people in those cars going about their lives, going to their jobs, going to see their families and friends. Life just keeps moving forward. It doesn’t stop for you. It doesn’t even pause to offer you an apology. What scared me then – what scares me now – is how small you really are. In the grand scheme of things, you don’t matter. If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll get a nice obituary and maybe a handful of people will pause to remember you for a while, but in the end they just go on, keep on moving forward and force themselves to forget until you’ve faded just a bit – you have to fade just enough so when they remember you you’re not as sharp. You’re easier to carry.

My father won’t be that lucky. He’ll leave my pictures up and he’ll stop and stare at them and wonder what happened to me, what my last moments were like. I wish I could give him this diary or whatever it is I’m writing here so he could have some, I don’t know, some final peace, I guess. I want my father to know

The entry ended.

I want my father to know.
Emma’s last words.

What happened to her? Had she died here, in this room? On this bed? If she died here, what had Walter done with her body?

Had he killed her?

Walter knocked on the door.

71

Hannah shoved the notebook underneath the sheets. She waited for the door to open. It didn’t. The card reader didn’t beep and the lock didn’t click back.

Walter knocked again. Then she realized he was waiting for her to speak.

Don’t speak unless he allows you to talk to Mom and Dad.

Two more knocks and when Hannah didn’t answer, he opened the door.

Walter was dressed in a crisp white shirt and grey pinstriped dress pants. He was holding two items – a gift-wrapped box and, folded on top, a white terrycloth robe. He placed both items on the table.

‘I thought you might want a clean robe,’ he said. ‘You can wear it on your way to the bathroom. You can take a shower or, if you prefer, a bath.’

Hannah didn’t answer.

‘I read your letter,’ Walter said. ‘I’ve prayed long and hard, and I’ve decided to let you call your parents.’

‘Thank you.’

Walter smiled. His face changed, became more relaxed.

‘It’s good to hear your voice,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been too talkative, but I thought…’

‘You thought I was going to hurt you again.’

Hannah had anticipated the question. She knew what to say.

‘I know what happened in the car was an accident. I forgive you.’

Walter placed the gift-wrapped present on the bed.

‘You didn’t have –’

‘I wanted to,’ he said. ‘Go ahead and open it.’

Hannah tore off the paper. Inside the box, wrapped in tissue paper, was the black Calvin Klein cocktail dress she had admired in the Macy’s store window the night of the snowstorm.

‘Do you like it?’ Walter asked.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Hannah shivered beneath her pyjamas. She forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘I was hoping you’d wear it tonight, at dinner. I’m making veal cutlets. The first course is braised scallops served in a white wine sauce.’

‘It sounds wonderful.’ Hannah took a deep breath and plunged. ‘I’d like to talk to my parents now. I don’t mean to be pushy; it’s just that I’m worried about my father. He’s very sick. He has cancer.’

That was a lie. Hannah had watched a
Forensic Files
show about a man who raped and killed prostitutes. The killer had snatched one woman and handcuffed her inside the back of his van. She kept talking about her father, how he had cancer and if she died nobody would take care of him. Her abductor raped her and let her go. After he was caught, he told police he didn’t kill the woman because his mother also had died of cancer.

‘Why don’t you shower first?’ Walter said. ‘Change into the robe, and I’ll escort you to the bathroom. Knock on the door when you’re ready.’

Hannah wondered if Walter was watching through the peephole. She stepped behind the curtain that hid her toilet and changed quickly. She pulled the robe tightly around her, knotted the belt around her waist and knocked on the door.

Walter stepped into the room. He was holding a pair of handcuffs.

‘To make sure you don’t run away or, you know…’

Go along or try to fight him? If she fought him now, on this issue, he might not let her make the phone call.

‘They’ll be off in a moment,’ Walter said.

Hannah needed to push past her fear. She needed to be brave. She turned around and Walter slipped on the handcuffs. Hannah wondered if he did this because of Emma. Had she tried to run away during her first visit to the bathroom?

Walter stepped up next to the card reader. It beeped and the lock clicked back. The card reader was set up next to his waist, she noticed.
The card must be in his pocket. That way he can keep his hands free.

Hannah stepped into the hallway of a half-finished cellar. To her left was a linen closet. He turned her around and she saw, at the end of the hallway and to the right of the stairs, a bathroom of white tile. The door had two padlocks on it.

Hannah walked slowly, wanting time to process everything she was seeing. The concrete floor was cold beneath her bare feet.

‘May I take a bath?’

‘Of course,’ Walter said.

‘How long do I have?’

‘Take as long as you want.’

Good. Not only did she want some time to soak in the hot water – she hadn’t bathed since her arrival – she wanted to poke around and see if she could find anything. If she did, through some miracle of God, find something useful, would Walter know it was missing? She’d have to give it some thought.

Heading past the cellar steps, Hannah glanced to her left and saw a washer and dryer. The clothes she had worn to the deli that day were folded neatly on top.

‘I don’t know what kind of shampoo or soap you like, but if you tell me, I’ll be more than happy to get them for you,’ Walter said. ‘Whatever you need, whatever you want, just ask and I’ll gladly –’

The doorbell rang.