All the Way Home (39 page)

“Sorry, John,” she says aloud, “I don’t think that’s going to be for a while.”

B
arrett is putting the last neatly folded polo shirt on top of the pile in his bag when there’s a knock on the door.

Frowning, he glances over at it, wondering who on earth it can be. Must be somebody looking for a guest in another room, he thinks, deciding to wait a minute before bothering to answer.

He glances at the television set, where the Weather Channel meteorologist is talking about a series of strong storms due to move across the Great Lakes into northern New York State later today and tonight.

There’s another knock
.

Barrett clicks off the television set and walks swiftly across the threadbare motel carpet to open the door.

A uniformed police officer is standing there, with several others just behind him, looking poised to take action.

“Barrett Maitland?”

“Yes?” His heart is pounding.

The cop looks past him, taking in the open suitcase on the bed, the airline ticket ready on the desk by the door.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” the cop says in a heavy North Carolina accent, his eyes coldly fastened to Barrett’s face.

“Questions?”

Relax,
he tells himself.
There must be some kind of mix-up. This can’t possibly be about
—

“Questions about what, Officer?”

“Is it true you were snooping around Russell Anghardt’s home over on Grove Street earlier today?”

“I wasn’t snooping—”

“Neighbor of his said you were there, asking questions
.
”

He raises an eyebrow. He’d never mentioned his name to that old woman with the poodle
.
How had they tracked him down?

Then again, it can’t be too hard in a remote, tiny town like this, he realizes. There’s only one motel, and he’d be willing to bet he’s the only newcomer with a northern accent to show up here in the last twenty-four hours.

“After you left, Mrs. Knisley realized she hadn’t seen Mr. Anghardt around lately, so she called us,” the cop goes on, his eyes narrowed at Barrett, as though daring him to make a move or slip up, blurting something he shouldn’t
.

Barrett waits, holding his breath, thinking this can’t be happening.

“We went right over there to investigate, Mr. Maitland. And when we did, we found Russell Anghardt’s body, such a bloody mess that this sure as hell ain’t no death by natural causes.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

R
ory returns home just as it’s getting dark outside, and sees that Sister Theodosia’s car is no longer sitting in the driveway.

In the kitchen, on the table, she sees the note from Molly and is surprised that her sister actually did as she’d asked earlier and let Rory know where she’d gone. Maybe Molly’s coming around.

“Mom?” she calls, walking to the foot of the stairs, turning on lights as she goes. “Are you up there?”

There’s a faint, muffled reply.

Encouraged by it, Rory goes up, and taps lightly on her mother’s closed bedroom door.

“Mom? It’s me, Rory. Can I come in?”

“Come on.”

She opens the door and sees Maura sitting in a chair by the window, her usual spot. Her hair is neatly combed and she’s wearing a pair of lightweight summer slacks and a sleeveless blouse, dressed, for once, appropriately for the warm summer night.

“Where’s Sister Theodosia?” Rory asks.

“She left.”

“Where did she go?”

“Back to Buffalo, I guess.”

At least her mother is lucid enough to know where her friend lives.

“Did she help you comb your hair and get dressed?”

Maura nods. “She said I would be too warm in a sweater.”

Rory bites back the urge to say that she and Kevin, and probably Molly, too, had been telling her exactly that.

“When did she leave?”

“Right after we got back from the doctor.”

“Doctor?” Rory repeats, startled
.
“What doctor?”

“I don’t know . . . he gave me some medicine. Told me to keep taking it. Said it would help me to feel better. I didn’t want to go, but Sister Theodosia brought me.”

Well, hallelujah,
Rory thinks in disbelief. She picks up an orange prescription bottle from her mother’s nightstand, and glances at the label. The name of the medication isn’t familiar, but she recognizes the doctor’s name. Desiderio. It’s the same psychiatrist that Daddy had taken Mom to years ago.

“Have you eaten anything, Mom?” Rory asks, smoothing the quilt on the bed and walking toward the doorway. “Do you want me to make you some soup or something?”

“I’m not hungry anymore. Kevin made me a sandwich earlier. I think I’ll just go to sleep now.”

Rory freezes in the doorway.

“Who made you a sandwich, Mom?”

“Kevin. Where is he now?”

“Mom, he’s in Europe, remember?” She sighs. “Mom, did you take that medicine?”

“Not yet. I will, though. I’ll take it later.”

“You need to take it now, Mom. You keep imagining things. This isn’t good. You go around seeing people who aren’t here . . . Daddy, and Carleen, and Emily, and Kevin.”

“Emily? Where is she, anyway? She was here before, but I haven’t seen her in a while. You need friends, Rory. Someone to play with. You’re so alone here.”

Oh, Mom
.

Touched, she says gently, “Mom, I’m not alone. I’m with you and Molly. I don’t need friends. And Emily—”

“I know. She’s gone,” her mother says flatly. “Just like Carleen. And Daddy . . .”

“And Kevin. Good, Mom. I was worried that you didn’t—”

“It’s all right, Rory. I’m all right.” She stands and turns away from the window. “I’m going to go to sleep now.”

In the kitchen, Rory opens a can of tomato soup, pours it into a kettle, and turns on the burner. As she stands stirring it, she shoves aside disturbing thoughts about her mother and thinks instead about her long day at the big stone Lake Charlotte public library on Front Street.

Her misgivings had been eased somewhat when she’d found both of Barrett Maitland’s books listed in the library’s card catalogue. It had taken extensive searching through the paperback spinner racks to locate them, and when she did, she saw that it was indeed the man she knew smiling out from the photo on the back cover.

So Barrett Maitland really is an author.

That means he really could be writing about the Lake Charlotte disappearances . . . and probably
is,
Rory reminds herself.

Finding that photo of Carleen in his room means nothing
.
After all, he openly admitted that he’s researching her disappearance—of course he’s going to be interested in photos of her, and maybe have one in his possession
.
His other two books contain plenty of pictures, including ones of the victims
.

But where did he get the picture of Carleen? Rory had recognized it as her senior portrait, the one that hangs above the staircase in the foyer.

Maybe one of her old friends had given it to him.

The thing was, Carleen didn’t have a whole lot of friends left by the time she disappeared
.
She’d changed so much in the year they were in California, while she was pregnant, that when she came back she seemed to have no interest in picking up where she left off with her crowd. From what Rory knew, she ran around with older kids, mostly guys. Not the kind of people you’d go around exchanging senior portraits with.

Rory had glanced over Barrett Maitland’s brief bio at the back of the book, seeing that he’d been raised in New Hampshire, gone to school at Bennington, and lived in New York, just as he’d told her.

That doesn’t mean he wasn’t lying,
she thinks, stirring the tomato soup, pressing the lumps against the sides of the kettle to smooth the texture. He could have been lying about everything, even the book about the Lake Charlotte disappearances. Just because he’s a writer doesn’t mean he can’t be a killer, too. After all, what kind of ghoul writes about such a gory subject?

Oh, come on. The fact that he writes about crime doesn’t make him a killer,
Rory reminds herself.
That’s like saying all science fiction authors are likely to be aliens.

The thought is so ludicrous that she has to chuckle aloud.

She finishes stirring the soup, pours it into a bowl, and carries it to the table. She sits down to eat, and then, remembering something, stands again and goes over to the phone.

After calling Information, she dials the number for St. Malachy’s, wondering if it’s too late to find Lydia McGovern there. But if she’s not mistaken, it’s the director herself who answers the phone.

“Hello, I’d like to speak to Lydia McGovern, please?” Rory asks.

“This is she. Who’s calling, please?”

“I don’t know if you remember me, Ms. McGovern—my name is Rory Connolly, and I was there yesterday, visiting David Anghardt?”

“Oh, yes, of course I remember you. You left so quickly.”

“I’m sorry. I suddenly felt ill and I needed fresh air.”

“Are you better now?” the woman asks, such genuine concern in her voice that Rory feels instant guilt over the white lie.

She assures her that yes, she’s fine now.

“I’m glad. David was quite worked up after your visit. I think he was thrilled to have another visitor, someone other than Sister Mary Frances. After you left, he kept calling for her. ‘Sister, Sister,’ he kept shouting, and it took us quite some time to get him settled.”

“Sister?” Rory echoes slowly. “That’s what he was saying?”

“Yes, he just adores her. I think I told you—she’s an occasional visitor to our home, but David is her favorite. She brings him a little gift every time—or, maybe I shouldn’t say little. She does always remember to bring him those chocolate-covered raisins he likes so much, but she’s also the one who gave him that beautiful quilt, and the lovely, framed watercolor prints on his walls. She understands how little money we have for the kinds of homey touches that mean so much to our residents
.
”

“She sounds wonderful.”

“Poor David misses her so terribly when she isn’t here. In fact, I didn’t realize she’d made a recent visit, as Susan said yesterday, but now it makes sense.”

“What does?”

“That David ran away again on Saturday. He does that every once in a while . . . manages to sneak out of here, and get away. I think he’s trying to find Sister Mary Frances, or maybe his father, poor thing. This time, he was missing for almost twenty-four hours before he was found Sunday morning wandering in the bus terminal in Albany.”

“That’s awful.” Rory has chills just thinking about David Anghardt stumbling out into the world, where he’d be at the mercy of anyone ruthless who happened to get their kicks taunting someone like David. “How did he get all the way up there?”

“We’re not sure. He must have taken a bus. The Adirondack Trailways line makes a daily stop at the gas station right across the road from our gate. Anyway, is there something I can help you with, Rory? I know you’re calling long-distance.”

“Actually, Ms. McGovern, there is. I was wondering if you’re familiar with someone named Barrett Maitland.”

“Barrett Maitland? Should I be?”

“He’s a true-crime writer, and he’s here in Lake Charlotte researching the disappearance of Emily Anghardt and several other girls.”

“Oh, the writer.”

Rory doesn’t have to see Lydia McGovern’s face to know that it’s wearing a disapproving look.

“You know him, then?”

“He’s called here a few times. I spoke to him once or twice, and I told him that we don’t release personal information from our residents’ records under any circumstances.”

“What did he want to know?”

“Where he could find David’s family, for one thing. He needed an address. I pointed out that we don’t even have one, but if we did, we certainly couldn’t provide it to a total stranger.”

“So he didn’t say why he needed it?”

“Just that he needed to interview them for his book. He wanted to come here to talk to David, but I said absolutely not. I can’t have him upsetting the poor boy.”

Again, Rory feels a prickle of remorse for her own visit, hoping the woman doesn’t realize that it stemmed more from curiosity and suspicion than a genuine desire to cheer up someone less fortunate than herself. She vows to go to St. Malachy’s again this summer, and, next time, to bring David Anghardt some Raisinets, one of those huge boxes like they sell at movie theaters.