The Survivors Club (37 page)

“Not here.”

“Where the hell is she?”

“We don’t know yet. Viggio’s not talking. But we can apply some pressure, retrace his steps. We’ll find her, Lieutenant. It’s only a matter of time.”

Morelli looked at Tom and Laurie. “We have a man who may be the College Hill Rapist,” she told them quietly, “but we haven’t found Meg.”

“Do they have any leads?” Laurie asked.

“Sergeant Griffin believes it is only a matter of time.”

“How much time? Does she have food, does she have water? What if she’s being held somewhere outside? We want our daughter, we need our daughter to be safe.”

“Don’t let him go, Lieutenant,” Griffin was saying excitedly into the phone. “Don’t let Price out. We can do this on our own. We don’t need Price anymore.”

Morelli looked again at the Pesaturos’ anxious faces. She glanced at her watch. Five fifty-five
P
.
M
. She said, “I’m sorry, Sergeant. It’s too late.”

CHAPTER 41

The Candy Man

M
EG WAS FRIGHTENED.
H
ER ARMS AND SHOULDERS HURT
seriously now, throbbed with a low keening ache. Her fingers, however, she barely felt at all. They were slow, sluggish, like a separate entity that no longer belonged to her.

Sometimes she felt moisture in her hair, a slow, steady drip. At first, she thought the ceiling had developed a leak. Now she realized it was more blood from her torn, shredded wrists.

She still swayed back and forth, slower now, with less force. Sometimes the wall anchor moved. More often than not, it remained rigidly fixed. She was slightly built, admirably thin. In other words, she didn’t have the mass to get the job done. And now she was feeling tired beyond tired. She had strange spells where she couldn’t tell whether she was asleep or awake. Her lips were dry and cracked. Her tongue felt glued to her mouth.

Perversely, her bladder had finally given out on her. She hadn’t gone to the bathroom since first thing this morning and she simply couldn’t hold it any longer. The shame was worse than the discomfort. To be a grown adult with urine-soaked pants; it wasn’t right.

And now, to add insult to injury . . .

She missed her captor. She genuinely wished, way down deep, that he would return to her. Maybe, her fuzzy, fatigued mind reasoned, he would cut her down, ease the ache in her shoulders. Maybe, she fantasized, he’d give her a bath, let her feel human again.

And if he did touch her after that, if he did demand some kind of payment . . .

She wouldn’t be in the dark anymore. She wouldn’t be lost with wet jeans and bleeding wrists. She wouldn’t be alone in a musty basement that felt too much like a grave.

These thoughts were bad, she realized in the saner corner of her mind. These thoughts let him win. She had to hold tough, be strong. She had to ignore her pain. To focus her anger, as Jillian liked to say.

We are not victims. The minute we believe that, we let the rapist win. When it boils down to brute strength, ladies, perhaps we can’t protect our bodies. But we can
always
control our minds.

Oh please, oh please, oh please let her get out of this. Before her arms gave out completely. Before she did anything she’d regret. Before . . .

Before David Price arrived.

David couldn’t see out of the van very well. The transport vehicle offered no side window, and there was a mesh screen between him and the two state marshals, which blurred the front windshield.

That was okay: he didn’t need to know where he was or where he was going. That was not relevant to matters at hand.

David leaned forward and pretended to stretch out his back. Then he shifted restlessly from side to side, his fingers slipping along his left shirtsleeve until he found the slim wooden shape sewn into the cuff.

The bulk was barely noticeable. The quarter-inch-thick, heavily lacquered wooden lock pick was tucked inside the top seam of the cuff, where the heavy chambray fabric already formed a ridge. If nothing else, Viggio was very good at following instructions. Then, in a move he’d spent the past four months practicing, David leaned forward and bit the hem of his right pant leg. Inside the pant cuff, his tongue found the waiting treasure—what appeared to be crumbled bits of white chalk. Pieces of Alka-Seltzer—too small to be easily noticed, and like the wooden pick, guaranteed not to set off a metal detector.

Sometimes, the simple things truly worked the best.

David eased the pieces of tablet out of the pants cuff and into his mouth. Then, he started to chew.

Forty seconds later, he made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat.

The state marshal glanced in the rearview mirror.

“What the hell?” he said.

In the back of the transport van, David Price was foaming at the mouth.

Griffin was in Ron Viggio’s face. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me.
Where is she?
”

“My grandma’s been dead for years, but thanks for asking.”

“We have you, Viggio. We know all about how you stole semen samples from the sperm bank, then injected them into douches. You’re already looking at two counts of murder, let alone four counts of first-degree sexual assault. You’re a little beyond minimum time behind bars, Ronnie boy. Start talking now, and maybe you have some hope of ever seeing daylight.”

Sitting in the back of the police cruiser, Viggio yawned.

“Are you trying to protect David Price? Because he’s already sold you out. Three hours from now, when he’s done meeting with his daughter, he’s going to give your name.”

Viggio laughed.

“We caught you because of him, Viggio. If he hadn’t told us that you’d personally met Eddie Como, we wouldn’t have thought to check personnel at the sperm bank.”

Viggio frowned.

“Yeah, that’s right. You were doing so well, too. You had the perfect setup, a great little plan. Except for David Price. He was your weak link. He’s who got you into this mess. Here you thought he was helping you, when really he was playing you all along. You’re not a brilliant criminal mastermind. You’re just David Price’s pawn.”

Viggio thinned his lips. Despite his best intentions, he was starting to look pissed.

Griffin’s turn to shrug. He straightened, crossed his arms over his chest and gave Viggio a dismissive glance. “Pawns can be sacrificed, Viggio. Guys like Price do it all the time. Why do you think we’re here? Price wanted to buy his freedom, so he sold you out. Now he gets to meet his little girl, while you go to prison for the rest of your life. Hardly seems fair. Where is Meg, Viggio? Talk now, while you still have a chance.”

“Go to hell.”

“Come on, Viggio. David isn’t going to help you. You’re fucked, you’re screwed. Whatever you thought you had coming, it’s over. What do you still owe him?”

Viggio’s gaze flickered toward his car, now cordoned off in the driveway. Griffin caught the look. He stared at Viggio’s vehicle, and then he got it.

“That’s another car bomb, isn’t it, Viggio? Except, instead of using it on a hired gun, you were going to use it on David Price. You were going to hook it up, then watch your favorite partner-in-crime go boom. Well, I’ll be damned. So there really isn’t any honor among thieves. Wait a minute.” Griffin’s voice changed. He leaned forward intently. “That means David Price was going to get into a vehicle. What the hell do you know, Viggio?
What the hell does David Price have planned?
”

Jillian was pacing the living room of the Pesaturo home while Libby and Toppi watched. Her right hand twisted Trisha’s medallion relentlessly. Her left hand was clasped behind her back.

“This isn’t right,” she told Libby and Toppi, though they had probably grown bored with her tirade by now. “Tom and Laurie need us. Meg needs us. We should be
doing
something!”

“Jillian,” Toppi said firmly, patiently, “we’re not professionals. Sometimes the right thing to do is to wait.”

“But David Price is getting exactly what he wants! Surely there’s got to be another way! God, why can’t I think of another way?”

Libby sighed. Toppi stared at Jillian.

“How do we even know he will give up the rapist’s name?” Jillian quizzed them. “Griffin is right. After meeting with Molly, Price can say anything he likes. It’s too late to do anything about it then.”

“They could send him to Super Max,” Toppi said. “Or punish him with this LFI thing.”

“Oh, like David Price cares about that. It’s games he likes, getting the upper hand, controlling all the moves on the board.” She stopped abruptly, frowned. “Huh.”

“What?” Toppi asked.

“David likes to control everything,” Jillian said slowly. “But this
meeting . . . He let the police pick the place and the route for getting there. He only set the time. If he were planning something, you’d think he’d want to choose the location. Someplace he knew well, or had an opportunity to booby-trap. Or have the College Hill Rapist booby-trap. That would make sense. David helps the College Hill Rapist come up with the perfect crime. In return, the rapist helps David get out of jail.”

“Maybe he’s not planning anything,” Toppi said firmly. “You heard Lieutenant Morelli. The police are focusing all of their resources on this meeting. Price can hardly just exit the van and keep walking.”

Jillian glared at her irritably. “Of course he’s planning something! If he really wanted to see his daughter, he would’ve pressed the issue
before
going to jail. So this isn’t about Molly. It’s about getting out of prison.” She paused, still thinking out loud. “And it’s about revenge. Arranging things so that Meg would be the first victim, then setting up the assassination of Eddie Como so it would bring Griffin onto the case. His actions are personal, almost autobiographical—same victim, same detective. But he didn’t pick the place. Why didn’t he pick the place?”

And then, her eyes flew open. “Oh no!”

“What?”

“It’s not going to be at the location! Don’t you get it? All the snipers, the lieutenant and Molly . . . That’s just a cover, something to distract the police. He didn’t pick a place,
because he has no intention of getting there!
Whatever he’s going to do, it’s going to be en route. Quick, where’s the phone, where’s the phone? I’ve got to call Griffin!”

Driving down Route 2 in Cranston, State Marshal Jerry Atkins urgently radioed the state police cruiser in front of him. “Something’s wrong with Price. He’s foaming at the mouth. Jesus Christ, I think he’s going into convulsions! What do you want us to do?”

Pause.

“Well we can’t just let him die . . . He’s supposed to give up the damn rapist. Wait a sec. Whooooa! He’s out. He’s on the floor. Jesus, I think he’s choking on his tongue. He needs immediate medical attention. Quick, pull over!”

Up ahead, the police cruiser abruptly turned right, heading into a restaurant’s parking lot. This part of Route 2 was nothing but an endless strip mall, not a great place for an emergency stop with a violent felon on board. But then, from the back of the van, came another loud crash as Price’s shackled ankles jerked violently.

A second police cruiser pulled in behind them and tried to fashion a barricade in the back of the lot. The parking lot wasn’t crowded. It was the best they could do.

Jerry jumped down from the driver’s side of the van. He had a small first-aid kit, and only the faintest idea of how to proceed.

“Radio for an ambulance,” he yelled.

“We’re talking to the lieutenant!”

“Does she know first aid?”

“Don’t unshackle him!”

“Jesus Christ, do I look like an idiot?”

Jerry threw open the side door. His partner was right behind him. Apparently, the state police did think they were idiots and their escorting officer, Ernie, shoved them both aside. He peered in first with his holster unsnapped and his hand on the butt of his firearm.

“Holy shit.”

Jerry and his partner pushed past Ernie and promptly drew up short. David Price’s scrawny body seemed to have folded in on itself, a jumbled tangle of shackled arms and legs that could not be natural. As the three men stared in shock, his body spasmed again and his head lolled back, giving them an eerie image of a man trying to stare out through the whites of his eyes.

Jerry was galvanized first. “Quick, quick, get him straightened out. We gotta get a stick in his mouth before he bites off his tongue.” He jumped into the van, grabbing at David’s shackled feet. Ernie went for his shoulders.

Jerry had a strange thought. Price’s hands—they weren’t where they should be. What had happened to the thick belt that should be shackling his hands to his waist? His gaze fell to the floor, he saw a small wooden sliver. Almost like a lock pick. And then . . .

Jerry’s head came up.

David’s magically freed hand grabbed Ernie’s Beretta.

Jerry yelled, “N—”

The bullet slammed into his brain.

Crackle, confusion. In the cordoned-off park in Cranston, Lieutenant Morelli strode away from the Pesaturo family with her cell phone in one hand and her radio in the other. She was sweating heavily beneath the weight of her Kevlar vest, and her gaze kept going to the surrounding rooftops, checking on her snipers.

“What do you mean Price is having some kind of fit?

“No, don’t pull over. What? You’ve already pulled over? Whose dumb idea was that?”

Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open first ring and while still listening to Brueger’s muddled explanation on the radio, barked, “Morelli.”

“He’s going to do something on the way,” Griffin yelled over the phone. “He was never planning on meeting Molly. It’s a ruse. Viggio was going to tamper with his getaway car!”

“Griffin . . .” And then to the radio, “I know you can’t let him die!”

“Lieutenant, where is the transport van? Tell me where to find the transport van.”

“Dammit, Brueger, where are you? Griffin’s yelling that Price has some kind of escape plan. Don’t touch him. You hear me? Nobody touches David Price. Brueger?”

Shots. Sudden, sharp, coming over the airwaves. Lots of them. And then men swearing, and more gunfire, and then a gurgle. Close. In the receiver. A man choking on his own blood.

“Brueger? Brueger, do you hear me? Brueger, what is happening?”

“Where is the van, where is the van?” Griffin was yelling.

“Brueger!”

Silence. Total silence. Even Griffin had finally fallen quiet. Seconds ticked away. The sweat trickled hot from Morelli’s forehead to the tip of her chin. She turned around slowly. She stared at Tom and Laurie Pesaturo, who were watching her with shocked, frightened eyes. Her gaze fell. She looked at Molly. Pretty little Molly, who, if there was any justice in this world, would never know her real father.

And then. A voice.

“Send Griffin my love,”
David Price said over the radio. “
Oh, and somebody might want to send an ambulance. Wait, on second thought, I believe the coroner will do.
”