The Survivors Club (17 page)

“If you take good care of your body,” Libby always said with a wink, “your body will take good care of you.”

Jillian leaned over. “Hello, Mom,” she murmured. “Sorry I’m late.” She hugged her mother gently, careful not to squeeze too hard.

When she straightened, she saw something flash in her mother’s gaze. Frustration, anger, it was hard to tell, and Libby would never say. Since her stroke ten years ago, she had limited movement in the right side of her body, as well as expressive aphasia—while she could understand communication perfectly, she could no longer speak or write back. As one of the doctors tried explaining to Jillian, in her mother’s mind she could think fluently, but when she tried to get the words past her lips, her brain ran into a wall, blocking the flow.

Now Libby communicated via a “picture book,” filled with images of everything from a toilet to an apple to pictures of Jillian, Toppi, Trish. When she wanted something, she would tap on the picture. Right after Trisha’s funeral, Libby had stroked her daughter’s photo so often, she had literally worn it out.

“You saw the news?” Jillian asked, taking a seat on the couch.

Her mother tapped her left index finger once, meaning
yes
.

“He’s dead now, Mom,” Jillian said quietly. “He can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

Her mother’s chin came up. She had a fierce look on her face, but her fingers remained quiet.

“Are you happy?”

No movement.

“Sad?”

No movement.

“Frightened?”

Her mother made an impatient sound deep in her throat. Jillian paused, then she got it. “You’re mad?”

One tap.

Jillian hesitated. “You wanted the trial?”

Hard tap!

“But why, Mom? This way you know he’s punished. He can’t get off because someone in the jury box has a guilty conscience. We’ll never have to worry about parole or some kind of prison break. It’s over. We won.”

Her mother made another impatient sound in the back of her throat. Jillian understood. Why questions didn’t work well with this system. To get the right answer, you had to ask the right question. It was Jillian’s job, as the person still capable of speech, to come up with the right question.

Toppi had materialized in the doorway. “You didn’t see the news conference at six-thirty, did you?”

“No.”

“Eddie’s lawyer says he has a witness who proves Eddie couldn’t have attacked Carol. Instead, he was across town returning a movie at the time.”

“You’re kidding!” Jillian sat up straight. Beside her, her mother had flipped open the picture book. Her left fingers frantically skimmed away.

“That’s ridiculous,” Jillian announced. “Carol’s not even sure what time he broke into her house. You can’t have a definite alibi without a definite time.”

“Some of the press is starting to talk of a miscarriage of justice. Maybe Eddie was railroaded. Maybe the police were a little too eager to have a suspect. Maybe . . .” Toppi hesitated. “Maybe you, Carol and Meg applied a little too much pressure.”

“That is absurd!” Jillian was on her feet, her hands fisted at her sides. When backed into a corner, her first reaction was always anger, and now she was in a rage. Quick, someone get her a reporter. Any reporter. She wanted to slug one good. “All we did was put together the blood-donor connection between Trisha and Meg. That’s it! Eddie’s the one who just happened to have access to their home addresses. Eddie’s the one who just happened to see two out of three rape victims within weeks of their attacks. Eddie’s the one who just happened to have his semen present in their houses. How the hell does the press explain that?”

“They don’t. They just flash clean-cut photos from his high school yearbook and use words like
minority, suspected
of rape,
tragically
shot down.”

“Oh for the love of God!” Jillian had to sit down again. Her head was suddenly pounding. She thought she might be ill. “They’re turning him into a martyr,” she murmured. “Whoever shot him . . . He’s making him seem innocent.”

Libby thumped Jillian’s arm. She had found the picture she wanted. A new one, added by Toppi just one year ago to help Libby communicate about the trial. It featured a blindfolded woman holding the scales of justice.

“I know you wanted the trial,” Jillian said impatiently. “I understood that.”

Her mother thinned her lips. She tapped the photo more emphatically, this time the scales.

“Justice? Not just a trial, you want justice?”

Hard tap!

“Because we don’t have it yet,” Jillian filled in slowly. “The press is now trying the case in absentia, and they’re using Eddie’s looks and ethnicity as evidence. And the only way we could counter is with Eddie himself. By actually having the trial and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Eddie Como
is
the College Hill Rapist.”

Her mother tapped, tapped, tapped.

“You’re right, Mom. I’m angry now, too. We were robbed this morning.” Jillian’s voice grew bitter. “As if we hadn’t already lost too much.”

Her mother flipped through the pages again. She came to another picture, this one also new. It looked like a child’s drawing, a caricature of a monster with big yellow fangs and red bugged-out eyes. Toppi had done the honors, her rendition of Eddie, because there was no way they would permit his real photo in the picture book. They refused to give him that much presence in their lives.

Now Libby’s left hand scrabbled with the page of the photo album. She got the plastic cover back. She yanked Eddie’s picture from the sticky back. Then she looked at Toppi and Jillian with her chin up, her brown eyes ablaze, and her lower lip trembling with unshed tears. She crumpled up Eddie Como in her feeble left hand. Then she flung the monster across the room.

Toppi and Jillian watched the paper hit the floor. The wad rolled to a stop five feet away. Then it was still.

“You’re right,” Jillian said softly. “Eddie Como is gone, so once and for all let’s get him out of our lives. Frankly, I’m tired of being afraid. I’m tired of being angry. I’m tired of wondering over and over again what I could’ve done differently.” Her voice rose, gained strength. “Fuck the press, Mom. Fuck the public defender. And fuck some voyeuristic public that has nothing better to do than watch our pain get played out on the nightly news. Eddie Como has taken too much from us, and I’m not giving him anything more. It’s over. That’s that. We’re not talking about him anymore. We’re not worrying about him anymore. We’re not afraid of him anymore. From here on out, Eddie Como is gone, and we are
done
!”

CHAPTER 19

The Victims Club

T
EN FORTY-FIVE P.M.

Carol was not done. She had not gotten Eddie Como out of her life. Instead, she was curled up, fully dressed, in an empty bathtub. The cold porcelain sides gave her a chill, so an hour ago she had pulled down all the towels to keep her warm. It was dark in the upstairs bathroom. No windows, no source of natural light. She didn’t know what time it was, but she suspected that it was late. Probably after ten. Things happened after ten.

Dan still wasn’t home. The house maintained its silence. Sometimes she hummed to herself simply to make a sound. But mostly she lay in the bathtub, a grown woman who couldn’t return to the womb. She rested her head on the hard, cold ledge and waited for the inevitable to happen.

I didn’t turn off the TV. I didn’t turn off the TV.

It wouldn’t matter. It was after ten. She was all alone. And she knew, she knew way down deep, that somewhere in the house, a window was sliding open, a foot was hitting the floor, a man was ducking into her bedroom.

Bad things happened. Women got raped, people got shot, others were blown up by car bombs. Husbands deserted you, wives went crazy, children were never born. Bad things happened. Especially after 10:00
P
.
M
.
Especially to her.

Eddie Como had sent her a note. She found it in the day’s mail, which Dan had left on the kitchen counter. The pink envelope looked like a Hallmark card and bore Jillian’s return address. A nice little note, Dan had probably thought. So had she. Until she’d ripped it open.

I’m going to get you,
Eddie had scrawled in red ink across white butcher paper.
Even if it’s from beyond the grave . . .

Carol had bolted back upstairs to the bathroom, but not before first making a stop at the home safe.

I’m going to get you . . .

Not this time, Carol decided. Not anymore, you son of a bitch. Carol reached beneath the towels and, very gently, stroked the gun.

Ten fifty-eight
P
.
M
.

Sylvia Blaire was walking home alone from the university library. She had a test tomorrow morning. Final exam for Psych 101. In theory, Sylvia enjoyed Psych 101, but she hadn’t kept up on the readings quite the way she should have. Now she was cramming twelve weeks’ worth of learning into two nights of studying, a feat she’d mastered in high school, but which was proving far more difficult in college.

Personally, she thought Professor Scalia should cancel the test. As if anyone could study today, with the big explosion just six blocks away, then the sirens wailing all morning long. The air still smelled acrid, a mixture of gasoline, scorched metal and melted plastic. In the student union, all anyone could talk about was the commotion. Frankly, nothing exciting ever happened in Providence. As far as the students were concerned, the school should cancel exam week and let them enjoy the buzz.

No such luck, though. Professors were such pains in the ass. So Sylvia had left the student union in favor of the library, where she’d managed to read six chapters of her textbook before falling asleep and dreaming about chickens scratching out the Pythagorean theorem in return for pellets. Screw it. She was going home to bed.

Sylvia walked down the street to her apartment. Generally there were more people out this time of night, but during finals week most of the students were sequestered away in various study labs suffering massive anxiety attacks. The street was quiet, the old shrouded houses still.

It didn’t bother her. The full moon was bright, the lamps cheery. Besides, she knew the drill. Walk with your chin up, your shoulders square and your steps brisk. Perverts sought out meek women who wouldn’t fight back, not former track stars like her.

Not that Providence had many perverts anymore. That rapist dude was dead. The women on campus had cheered.

Sylvia finally arrived at the old house that boasted her second-floor studio apartment. She paused on the darkened front steps, then shook her head. Stupid outdoor light had burnt out again. Thing seemed to go every three weeks and the landlord liked to wait another three before replacing it. This one Sylvia had bought with her own money. Like she could see anything tucked inside the covered patio without a light.

She dragged her backpack off her shoulder, and with a long-suffering sigh began digging for her keys. She finally found the heavy metal key chain in the bottom of her bag. The new key ring was a gift from the Rhode Island Blood Center commemorating the donation of her eighth pint of blood just two weeks ago. Way to go, Sylvia, she was now a member of the gallon club.

Sylvia drew out her keys. She flipped through the massive lot that she kept meaning to pare down but never did, until she came to the desired one. She slid her key into the front door lock.

A noise sounded on the right. Sylvia turned her head . . .

Eleven-twelve
P
.
M
.

Jillian is dreaming. In this dream, she knows that she is dreaming, but she doesn’t care. This dream is filled with warm, happy colors. This dream lifts the weight off her chest and takes her, for the first time in a long time, to a place she wants to go.

Jillian is sixteen years old. She is in a hotel—most of her childhood has been spent in hotels. It is two
A
.
M
. and Libby is gone. Her gig ended hours ago, but time has never meant much to Libby. Nights are for singing, dancing, drinking, having a good time. Libby has probably met another man by now and is once more falling in love. At this stage of the game, Jillian is used to the drill. Libby falls in love and disappears even more nights of the week. Her singing grows more robust, she wears her nicest gowns and brings Jillian lots of frivolous gifts. Then the bloom goes off the rose. She dumps him, he dumps her, or maybe his wife comes home. Who knows?

Libby falls out of love. They get a new hotel and she promises to spend more time with her daughter. Until, of course, the next handsome man enters the room.

The last time was different, however. The last time had consequences. Jillian now has a baby half sister, whom she was allowed to name. Jillian chose Trisha.

Three-month-old Trisha has fat pink cheeks and big blue eyes. Her head is covered with a downy mist of soft brown hair. She likes to grip Jillian’s finger in her tiny little fist. She likes to kick her tiny little feet. And she gurgles a lot, and blows bubbles a lot, and loves big wet zerberts right on her tummy. She also breaks into a wide, smacking smile every time Jillian picks her up.

Now Jillian is cradling baby Trish in her arms and watching her baby-blue eyes grow heavy with sleep. She tickles Trish’s chubby cheek with her finger. She inhales the sweet scent of baby powder. She feels her chest expand with the force of her love and thinks that if she cared for Trisha any more, her heart would surely explode.

Libby has never been the perfect mother. There have been times, in fact, when Jillian has grown close to hating her and her careless ways. But as of three months ago, Jillian forgave her mother everything in return for this one, precious gift. Trisha Jane Hayes. Finally, Jillian has someone she can love with her whole heart. Finally, Jillian has someone who will never leave.

The quiet, still night. The perfect weight of Trisha in her arms. The pure beauty of her baby sister, smiling back up at her and kicking her tiny, little feet.

In the dream Jillian knows she is dreaming, she would like to hold this moment forever. She understands, in this dream she knows she is dreaming, that darkness lingers just beyond her sight. That if she turns her head, the beautiful hotel room will spin away and she will find herself in a far different, uglier place. That if she looks at baby Trisha too closely, baby Trisha will spin away and she will find herself holding her grown sister’s dying form. That if she thinks too hard at all, she will realize that this moment never happened, that her baby sister cried most nights for her mother, and that Jillian was actually little more than an overwhelmed sixteen-year-old substitute. In this dream she knows she is dreaming, it is only her love for her sister that is real.

A sound intrudes. In the dream hotel room, the dream Jillian turns her head. She listens to the loud, squawking sirens racing down the street.

But then the hotel room falls away. Baby Trisha falls away. And dream Jillian and the real Jillian realize at the same time that the noise is not a siren on the street.

It is in the house. It is in Jillian’s bedroom.

Someone has pressed the panic alarm.

Sound. Carol heard it again. A thud in the nether regions of her home. It was followed by a thump.

Someone was in her house. Someone was genuinely inside Carol’s home. The panic that held her in its grip all night gained momentum and became suddenly, terrifyingly real.

Carol’s breathing accelerated. Very slowly, she straightened legs that had grown cramped and numb while curled beneath her. Then she drew back the pile of towels and slid way down, until just her eyes peered above the rim of the bathtub. More noises down the hall. Maybe the bedroom. That bedroom. The bedroom.

Very carefully, Carol raised the barrel of her .22 and aimed it at the door.

Now the sound was in the hallway. Footsteps, definitely, coming her way.

“Dan?” she called out hoarsely. Questioningly. Hopefully.

There was no reply.

And then the footsteps stopped, two dark shadows coming to rest in the lighted crack beneath the bathroom door. He was here.

Goose bumps rippled up Carol’s arms.

Steady, Carol. Steady . . .

The gun in her hand. The breath held in her chest . . .

She watched the brass doorknob slowly begin to twist.

Jillian bolted out of bed. She grabbed her bathrobe, made it to her door, then did an abrupt about-face and raced back to her bed for her pepper spray. The alarm still sounded shrilly through the house.

Running out into the hallway, she found Toppi standing in a white linen nightgown, looking sleepy-eyed and dazed.

“Did you—”

“No.”

“Libby!” they both cried and went rushing for her room.

Jillian shoved through the door, leading with her pepper spray and looking around frantically. Libby was lying in her bed. Her face was stark white. She had the security remote clutched tight against her chest.

“Mom, Mom, what is it?”

Libby raised her trembling arm. She pointed to the window behind them. And very slowly, Jillian and Toppi turned.

Eleven thirty-three
P
.
M
.

Griffin was still at headquarters sifting through paperwork and rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly when the officer on duty stuck his head into the conference room.

“Sergeant.”

“Officer Girard.”

“Sir, 911 just got a report of a disturbance over in East Greenwich. A home security system is going off, and apparently a woman in a bathrobe is now running through the yard. I thought you’d want to know—the house belongs to Jillian Hayes.”

“Damn.” A disturbance at Jillian’s house tonight of all nights could not be a good thing, and he was at least twenty minutes away. Griffin started talking as he headed for the door.

“Do me a favor, Officer, and put in a call to Detective Fitz.”

“He’s with Providence?”

“That’s the one.”

“Sorry, sir, but I believe the Providence detectives are out on a call. I heard it on the scanner, though they seem to be keeping the details hush-hush. Some kind of incident on College Hill.”

Griffin drew up short. “On College Hill?”

And Officer Girard repeated, “Yes, sir. College Hill.”

The bathroom door swung open. Carol closed her eyes, then squeezed the trigger.

Pop, pop, pop
. The tiny .22 leapt in her hand. And the dark shrouded form fell flat on the floor.

“Oh my God,” the dark shrouded form moaned. “I think you just shot me.”

And Carol said, “Dan?”

Jillian was running. She tore through her yard in her baby-blue bathrobe, shoving back tree limbs, pouncing on bushes. Lights were blazing, neighbors gathering, sirens roaring down the street. She was making a spectacle of herself. She didn’t care.

“Come out, come out, you bastard!” she cried. She pointed her pepper spray and attacked a shuddering leaf. “You want to play a practical joke? I’ll show you a joke, you cowardly son of a bitch. Come on. Show yourself!”

She ran close to the perimeter. Her neighbors shrank back. She ignored them, tears streaming down her face, her nose running from the blowback of pepper spray. He had to be out here somewhere. He couldn’t have gone far. And she would find him, and she would grab him by his scruffy, probably teenage neck, and, and . . .

She needed to hurt someone. She needed to inflict violence and pain, and that scared her, too, so she kept running, trampling new budding bulbs and freshly planted pansies. She had to move. She had to fight. She was not in a dark basement anymore. She was not powerless!

There, that bush. It moved. Cowardly son of a bitch . . .

Jillian made a beeline for the trembling sand cherry, and abruptly ran into something hard. “Umph,” she said, falling back a few steps, then belatedly raising her eyes to discover Sergeant Griffin’s large, unrelenting form.

“Jillian,” he said quietly.

“Did you see what he did?”

“The officers told me what happened.”

“It was my mother’s bedroom.
Do you know what that did to her?
The EMTs had to come, she’s having problems breathing. If that sick bastard gave her another heart attack, I swear I’ll kill him myself. I’ll find him and I’ll rip him from limb to limb!”

“Jillian,” he said quietly.