Waking Hours (13 page)

“So you can definitely rule out that it’s a serial killer?” a man asked.

Dani recognized him. It was Vito Cipriano, the reporter from the
New York Star
. She wondered how he’d gotten in. Reporters were supposed to have been barred from the meeting.

When she heard a cell phone ring, she reached in her purse and checked her BlackBerry. Not hers. Casey looked at his phone, held up one finger to the audience, took the call, and listened for five seconds, then hung up and gave the crowd a parting smile.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said.

Cipriano repeated his question, shouting above the others who clamored for further information.

Casey touched Dani gently on the arm and spoke in her ear. “Let’s use the back door,” he said. “I think there’re going to be reporters out front.”

“Was that a strategically timed call to end the meeting?” she asked.

“I wish,” he said. “We’ve got a fire on West Ridge Road. I gotta go, but no need for you to come along. But I’m glad the phone rang when it did anyway. I was about done.”

She said good-bye to Casey and then moved through the crowd to where the blind man stood, as if he were waiting for someone. When she saw that he was alone, she touched him on the arm.

“Mr. Danes, it’s Danielle Harris,” she said. “Fred and Amelia’s youngest. I haven’t seen you in a long time—how are you?”

“Dani,” he said, smiling and turning his head slightly toward her. “Yes, it’s been a long time. I was enormously saddened when I heard about your folks. That was a great tragedy.”

“Thank you,” she said. “And how are you?”

“Things are looking up,” he told her with a smile. “Would you mind helping me to the parking lot? Much appreciated.”

Dani remembered what a great spirit Willis Danes had, ever the optimist. When she was very little, he did magic tricks for her, sleight of hand with coins and pencils. She recalled how he would ask, “Did it disappear? Because I sure can’t see it,” before pulling the object from behind her ear. His wife, Bette, was a potter and a knitter. She was always at his side, driving him to his piano tuning jobs and picking him up when he’d finished. Dani didn’t see her.

“Can I give you a ride home?” she asked.

Willis thanked her but told her he had a personal caregiver now who drove him.

“Bette didn’t pass the test when she went to renew her driver’s license,” he said. “She’ll get it next time, but they make you wait six months before you can take it again. You can walk me to my car though.”

They made small talk as she helped him down the steps and across the parking lot. When they got to his car, where his caregiver waited for him, he said, “So you’re a psychiatrist. Do you have an office here in town?”

“I do,” she said. “Right on Main Street. But my clinical practice is on hold. I’ve been working with the courts . . .” She stopped when she noticed his expression. Something was bothering him. “Are you okay? Do you need somebody to talk to?”

He took a deep breath. “I’m having a little trouble sleeping. My gerontologist thought I should talk to someone like you, but I don’t know any therapists.”

She had the feeling he wasn’t telling her the whole truth.

“If you’re worried about what happened on Bull’s Rock Hill—”

“No, no,” he said. “This started some time ago. Before that.”

“I can see you if you’d like,” she said. “I’ll have to check when I have time.”

“If it’s a bother . . .”

“It’s not,” Dani said. “I just need to find an opening in my schedule. I’ll call you.”

“Thank you,” he said, his lower lip trembling. “Thank you. I came here tonight hoping to have a word with you. Just let me know when it’s convenient for you.”

She watched him drive away, his caregiver behind the wheel.

Then it occurred to her—how could Willis Danes have come to the Grange Hall hoping to speak with her? Her attendance hadn’t been announced. She hadn’t known herself that she’d be at the town meeting until shortly before the event.

It was probably just one of those things people said when they were making casual conversation. Yet it reminded her, improbably, of the deer hanging from the wires, not in the content as much as the sense that strange things were happening for a reason. It was one sign of mental disturbance, she knew, to see patterns where none existed.

Don’t let the job get to you, Dani,
she told herself. John Foley had given her the same advice.

Easier said than done.

11
.

There wasn’t a square inch of the football field at East Salem High that Tommy didn’t know intimately. He’d probably spat half of it back out after having his face planted in the turf, making a tackle. He’d run up and down the bleachers when he was in training for football or track, and he’d scrambled beneath them as a boy, chasing or hiding from his friends. But he’d never seen it like this, somber and solemn and dedicated to a higher purpose. Three girls in school hoodies handed out small white candles at the gates by the scoreboard, newcomers lighting theirs from candles already lit. Some kids had apps on their smart phones that displayed pictures of candles.

Tommy paused by the gates where people who knew Julie Leonard had erected a kind of memorial to her, signs and notes and photographs taped to the fence. There were pictures of her marching in the Memorial Day parade in her Brownies uniform and pictures of her at Girl Scout camp. From her art class, examples of her artwork. She was a gifted painter and an even better drawer. Handwritten notes on the fence said,
We miss you, Julie!
and
We’ll never forget you
. Someone had even mounted an iPad displaying a video clip of Julie playing the tuba in the school pep band and laughing at herself, her eyes bulging to match her cheeks. What kind of girl played the tuba, Tommy wondered. One who didn’t take herself too seriously, he guessed, or who didn’t care what people thought of her—or wanted people to think she didn’t care.

Kids gathered in small groups, holding hands or leaning against the landing pad by the pole vault pit or sitting on tackling dummies, but the largest group had gathered at midfield between the thirty-yard lines, more than five hundred kids but fewer than a thousand, Tommy guessed. On the first riser of the bleachers, a few feet above field level, a microphone had been set up, connected to a portable PA system. Tommy stood to the rear of the crowd and listened. The first speaker was the school principal, who cautioned students against spreading unsubstantiated rumors, urged them to support each other, and told them the school guidance counselors would be available after school every day until five thirty for any students who needed someone to talk to.

When she said the microphone was open for anyone who had anything to say or share, no one came forward at first, a silence that grew more awkward with each passing second. Then a girl stepped up and said she just wanted to say what a good friend Julie was to everybody, how she watched other people’s pets for free when the owners went on vacation, and how she cheerfully shared her food when other kids forgot to bring their lunch money. Another girl remembered how Julie had organized a campaign to send letters and Girl Scout cookies to soldiers. A boy said Julie was the kind of person who always remembered the names of new students. Her younger sister, Kara, spoke of how her big sister taught her how to read and let her sleep in her bed when there were thunderstorms and never ate the last brownie in the pan.

Tommy listened, trying to hear any reason why someone might want to hurt Julie or take advantage of her. From the sound of it, Julie Leonard had led a sheltered life. There were no stories of Julie traveling in Europe with friends or trekking in the Himalayas. She was a nice kid who just wanted to have as many friends as possible.

Vulnerable
, Tommy thought.
Victim
began with the same letter.

Tommy felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He reached to shut it off, but when he glanced at it, he saw he had a text message from Dani.

A
RE YOU HERE
? W
HERE ARE YOU
?

He texted back: I’
LL MEET YOU WHERE THEY DO THE COIN TOSS
.

W
HERE IS THAT
?

Y
OU
’
RE KIDDING
,
RIGHT
?

O
F COURSE
I’
M KIDDING
.

M
IDFIELD
.

T
HANK YOU
. B
Y THE WAY
,
KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN
. W
E THINK THE KILLER IS PROBABLY HERE
.

It made sense, Tommy thought, if they were dealing with a killer who was trying to make a statement of some kind. What good was making a statement if you missed the reaction?

He surveyed the crowd, seeing mostly the backs of people’s heads and silhouettes in the darkness. There should be some sort of scientific device that could pick up someone’s evil aura, he thought, maybe an infrared camera that could discern between normal human beings and the cold-blooded variety. But the truth was that killers looked just like everybody else, had mothers and fathers, ate when they were hungry, felt hot in the summer and cold in the winter. What made them different? Dani could probably answer that. It was odd to think he could be within a few feet of a murderer and not know it.

Dani was dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, jeans, and black boots that came to just below the knee.

“Let’s not keep meeting like this,” he said. “How you holding up?”

“Long day,” she said, smiling weakly. “I went through something like this earlier at the Grange Hall. Town meeting. People are scared.”

“Then count me as ‘people,’ ” Tommy said.

“I didn’t think of you as someone who was easily scared,” Dani said.

“Define ‘easily,’ ” Tommy said. “Maybe
shocked
is a better word. Things are happening in this town that aren’t supposed to happen in this town. Or anywhere. It’s hard to put into words.”

“You don’t have to. I know what you mean.”

“If you had to guess,” Tommy said, “off the record, would you say whoever did it is likely to do it again?”

“If I had to guess?” Dani replied. “Yes. Likely. But not right away. Meanwhile, everything seems suspicious. We had a garage fire out on West Ridge Road. I didn’t go. They think it was a nine-year-old kid who was trying to help his mom clean up after his birthday party, and he accidentally threw away one of those birthday candles that keeps relighting itself after you blow it out.”

“I hate those things. But I’m pyrophobic. I lit my bangs on fire when I was six, blowing out the candles on my cake. And those were just the regular kind.”

“So how was your day?” she said.

“Unproductive. I asked some of the high school jocks who work out at the gym if they knew anything. They’re pretty freaked out. Talking about what they’d do to the killer if they got their hands on him. Just macho bluster. You see anything here of interest?”

“If I have, I won’t know until later,” she said. “We have people taking pictures. Discreetly.”

“I was thinking somebody should do that,” Tommy said. “By the way, the mother’s name is Connie Leonard. The father is unaccounted for and skipped out on his child support payments ten years ago. Kara and the mom live on Lake Kendell.”

“And you know all this how?” Dani asked.

“Gerald Whitney told me,” Tommy said. “The funeral director. I called him. He was my scoutmaster. What have you got going on tomorrow?”

“I’m impressed. Casey is questioning the other kids at the party,” Dani said. “He wants me there.”

“What time?”

Dani took a moment to choose her words. “Tommy,” she said, “you’re not allowed. Even as my paid assistant.”

“I prefer the term
flunky
.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I can get you coffee,” he offered.

“If I need something, I’ll text you,” Dani said. “You’re more than a flunky, Tommy. I’m glad you’re part of the team.”

“How about Executive Director of Investigative Services?”

“Don’t push it,” she said, smiling. She checked her BlackBerry to make sure she hadn’t accidentally deleted his contact information.

“I hope your phone number is unlisted,” he said.