The Survivors Club (40 page)

“I’m not looking at anything.”

“There’s no one left, Griffin. I shot your stupid friend, the skinny one, Waters. ’Fraid you can’t break his nose anymore, Griffin. He interrupted me in the basement, so I killed him.”

Griffin remained silent.

David waved his knife. “Do you hear me! You’re all alone! I killed your friend, I tormented your wife. I murdered ten kids and
you didn’t do a thing
. And now, my good friend, I’m
out of jail
. Yep, you helped me with that, too. Welcome, Great Sergeant Griffin. Welcome, the aspiring criminal’s best friend.”

“Where’s Meg?”

“What?” David drew up short again. Something was wrong. None of this was going according to the usual script. He had sweat on his forehead. And he felt . . . he felt strangely tired. All this effort. He was putting on a good show. What the fuck was up with his audience?

“Where is Meg?” Griffin asked again, circling, circling, circling.

“Meg’s irrelevant.”

“You think?” Circling, circling, circling.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you haven’t exactly gotten away yet, David. Think about it. You went to a lot of trouble to get out of prison, only to become trapped in your former home. That’s a lot of running, I would agree, but not much progress.”

“Shut up.”

Griffin shrugged. “If you say so.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” David screamed. “Goddammit,
yell at me!
”

Griffin didn’t say a word. Just circled, circled, circled.

And David . . . And David . . . Something went. In his head. Behind his eye. He felt a little pop, as if all of his homicidal fury had just exploded like a neutron bomb. And then his arm was above his head. And then he was running, because he had to kill Griffin. He had to kill this man with his calm face and steady voice and knowing, knowing eyes. Goddammit, after all of this planning, he deserved a better audience.

David screamed at the top of his lungs. He charged forward . . .

And Griffin pulled his gun out of the small of his back and shot him point-blank in the chest. Pop, pop, pop. David Price went down. He didn’t get back up again.

Thirty seconds later, Fitz stepped into the room from where he’d been sheltering Meg in the hall. He approached David’s body while Meg peered in cautiously from the doorway. The detective leaned down, discovered no pulse, and looked back up at Griffin.

“That was expertly played,” Fitz said grimly.

And Griffin said, “I learned from a master.”

He came out of the house, Meg and Fitz in his wake. Ambulances had arrived, their lights blazing, their sirens piercing. Funny how he had never heard their approach. In the bedroom, his world had been small, just comprised of David and the lessons of his past. Now it was lights, camera, action.

Jillian came around the house, fresh from her cameo as a fleeing Meg Pesaturo. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was a long, tangled mess, her clothes were stained with blood. He thought she had never looked better. She glanced at him once, her chin up, her gaze curiously open and proud. Then Meg was flying into her arms and she was holding the girl close, stroking her hair.

Griffin went to the ambulance where they were loading up Waters on a stretcher. An oxygen mask was over Waters’s face, but his gaze was alert, focused.

“How is he?” Griffin asked.

“Gotta get to the hospital,” the EMT said.

“He gets the best.”

“Men in blue always do.”

“Mike . . .”

Waters tried a halfhearted thumbs-up. Then the stretcher was in the back, the doors were closing and the ambulance was pulling away.

More cruisers came screeching down the street. More lights, camera, action.

Griffin stood in the middle of the chaos of his old neighborhood, his old life. He looked at Meg. He looked at Jillian. He looked up at the bedroom where a dead David Price now lay.

And he whispered, “Cindy, I love you.”

The night wind blew down the street and carried his words away.

In the intensive care waiting room, Dan sat with his elbows on his thighs and his fingers digging into his hair. Thirty minutes had passed. It might as well have been a year.

A door opened and closed. Dan finally looked up to see a white-jacketed doctor standing before him. He tried to read the man’s face, tried to steel his body before he heard the words.

“Your wife would like to see you.”

“What?”

“Your wife . . . She suffered an episode. But the good news is, she’s now regained consciousness.”

“What?”

“Would you like to see your wife, Mr. Rosen?”

“Oh, yes. I mean,
please
.”

Dan went down the hall. Dan went into the room. And there was Carol, pale but conscious, lying on the bed. His feet suddenly stilled. He couldn’t remember how to move.

“Honey?” he said.

“I heard your voice,” she whispered.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

“I heard your voice. You told me that you loved me.”

“I do, Carol! Oh I do. There has never been anyone else. You have to believe me. I’ve made so many mistakes, but Carol, I have never stopped loving you.”

“Dan?”

He finally got his feet to move. He took tiny, meek little steps toward the bed. She was awake now, capable of remembering all that he’d done, all of the ways that he had failed her. She was awake and he had not been a good husband, and . . .

Carol took his hand. “Dan,” she told him quietly. “I love you, too.”

EPILOGUE

Jillian, Carol and Meg

“W
HAT ABOUT THIS DRESSER?
C
OMING OR GOING?
”

“Going.”

“And the lamp?”

“Definitely going.”

“I don’t know, I kind of like it.”

Carol rolled her eyes at Meg, then looked at Jillian for support. “I don’t think French country quite goes with anything in a college dorm,” Jillian told Meg. “Maybe it’s the heavy gold fringe.”

“Hey now,
anything
can coordinate with beanbag chairs and lava lamps. I believe it’s called
eclectic
.” But Meg dutifully tagged the lamp for Dan and Carol’s upcoming furniture auction. She’d been cheerfully trying to scam items for two hours now. Fortunately, not many of Carol’s heavy French antiques were small enough for Meg’s soon-to-be new address—the Providence College dorms.

“Next room?” Jillian asked.

“Next room,” Carol agreed.

“Are you sure?

“I’m sure.”

All three of them exited the bedroom and journeyed down the hall. Passing the staircase, they could hear the voices of their families floating up the stairs. Dan and Tom were busy sorting through the toolshed, but Laurie, Toppi and Libby had staked out the kitchen. Last Jillian saw, they had Griffin retrieving all of the high objects from the cupboards. As fast as he got an item in one box, they’d want it placed in another. He kept wiggling his eyebrows at Molly, then doing as he was told. Molly thought the whole project was loads of fun, and even now they could hear her shrieks of laughter as Griffin performed his latest Herculean task.

Molly was doing extremely well these days, and had surprisingly few questions about her strange sojourn to the park six months ago. Meg, on the other hand, was looking paler, thinner. She had recovered physically from her abduction, as had Detective Waters. But with Meg’s newfound memories had come nightmares, night sweats, panic attacks. She was holding up, pushing through. She had her life back, she’d told Jillian and Carol at their last Survivors Club meeting, and she was determined to get on with it. Just next month, she’d return to Providence College for her degree. Her father was still negotiating for the right to call her every night and provide armed guards, but that was to be expected. And in his own way, Tom was really sweet.

Jillian, Carol and Meg came to the closed door at the end of the hall. The last room to be tagged for auction. The room.

“Are you sure?” Jillian asked again. “Meg and I could do this.”

“Dan offered as well,” Carol said quietly.

“Maybe you should accept his offer.”

“I thought about it. He’d like to help more.”

Jillian and Meg didn’t say anything.

Carol shook her head. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. I
need
to do this. It’s just a room, after all. Just a room in a house that’s not even mine anymore. The new owners arrive next week. They’ll fill this place with their things, their kids, their dreams. If they can handle this room, I can, too.”

Jillian didn’t think that was quite the same, but it wasn’t for her to say. She opened the door to the musty, shadowed space, then gave Carol a moment to marshal her resources.

The master bedroom had been unused for over a year and a half. The air smelled stale, the corners were draped with long, intricate cobwebs. The hardwood floor held a fine coating of undisturbed dust. Old ghosts fit in comfortably in a space like this. Jillian could look at the dusty wrought-iron bed, and for the first time picture perfectly what Carol had gone through. A man coming through that window under cover of night. A man pouncing, hitting, gagging, tying. A woman screaming, and still not making a sound.

A woman victimized in a place where she had every right to feel safe.

Meg had unconsciously taken Jillian’s hand. Then Carol walked right in, snapped on a light, and that easily the spell was broken. The room was just a room after all. One, as a matter of fact, in need of a good cleaning.

“Everything in here,” Carol said briskly, “goes.”

Twenty minutes later, they retired to the hallway. Carol sat on the floor with a sigh. Jillian and Meg followed suit, leaning their heads against the wall.

“Any regrets?” Jillian asked softly.

Carol opened her eyes. “Honestly? Not as many as I thought I would have.”

“It’s a beautiful home,” Meg said. “You should be proud of what you did with it.”

“I am. But you know, it is just a house. And for as much love and attention as went into renovating it, a lot of not so loving things happened here. It’s good to get out. I can get a fresh start. The money will help Dan make a fresh start. And you know, our new home is nice, too. Just on a much smaller scale. But that back family room, I’m already thinking . . . Take out a wall, add a few more windows, and we’d have the perfect sunroom right off the kitchen. Put up some plants, polish the hardwood floors . . .”

She broke off. Jillian and Meg were smiling at her.

“You’re hopeless,” Jillian said.

“I like houses. All houses, I guess. Oh, hey. I’m a house slut!”

She beamed proudly and they laughed.

“Dan’s taking to corporate life?” Jillian asked.

Carol shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Being on payroll again means less freedom, but it’s also a lot less stress than running his own practice. Plus, let’s be frank, we need the money.”

“The auction will help,” Meg said.

“Sure. Between downsizing the house, getting Dan a real job, getting me a part-time job, hey, we might actually be debt-free by the end of the year.” She smiled, though it was chagrined. “Not exactly what we were expecting as we hit our mid-forties. No savings, no retirement funds. No white picket fence.”

“Is he going to his Gambler’s Anonymous meetings?”

“He goes to his meetings, I go to my shrink. Ah, yuppie love.”

“You put the new house in your name?” Jillian checked.

“He insisted upon it himself. The car’s in my name now, too, and get this, we have only one credit card, which is owned by me. Even if he does slip, there’s not much damage he can do.”

“He’s trying very hard, Carol.”

“Actually, I’m proud of him. Maybe life isn’t what we were expecting. But maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. When we had everything we thought we wanted, we were miserable. Maybe by having nothing we’ll finally learn to appreciate one another. Own less, but have more. I think . . . well”—her tone grew brisk again—“we have to start somewhere.”

“You love him?” Meg asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Then you’re very lucky.”

Carol smiled. She angled her head and looked directly at Meg. “Now, how about you, hon? You’re still very pale.”

“Too many nightmares,” Meg said immediately, making a face. “You know what’s strange? I keep dreaming about Eddie Como. He’s the man lurking over me. I know that’s not right. I know it was Ron Viggio, but somehow . . . We spent so long focused on Eddie, it’s like my subconscious can’t make the change.”

“He’s a symbol,” Jillian said softly.

“Exactly.”

Now they all made a face and looked away. Eddie was still a tough subject. They had spent too long hating him. Viggio seemed almost like an abstraction, whereas Eddie remained tangibly real. Poor Eddie Como, railroaded for crimes he didn’t commit, framed by a psychopath and then sacrificed at a courthouse just to lure a certain state detective onto the case.

Tawnya had finally dropped her lawsuit. Because Eddie’s semen was definitely found at the four rape scenes, her lawyer explained that he could no longer make the case for police negligence or corruption. Plus, the police had found the editing software that Ron Viggio had used to make the computer image file of Eddie threatening Jillian with violence, further evidence that Eddie had been deliberately framed by a madman. In the end, Eddie really hadn’t done anything worse than be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like them, he had been a victim.

Two months ago, Jillian, Carol and Meg had gone together and put flowers on Eddie’s grave. It was as much as they could do for now. After that visit, on her own, Jillian had written another check for Eddie, Jr.’s, college fund.

“At least there won’t be a trial this time,” Meg said now.

“Thank God,” Carol echoed.

Jillian was more philosophical. “It would’ve been too hard for D’Amato to argue the case. Viggio’s lawyer would simply keep saying Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, and the whole thing would’ve grown too confusing. A plea bargain was probably better all the way around.”

“Cool, composed, Jillian,” Carol said, but smiled.

Jillian’s look was more somber. “He killed my sister, Carol. I would’ve liked to see him on trial. I would’ve liked to hear twelve jurors find him guilty. And maybe it would’ve helped us make a better transition, refocus our anger where it belongs.”

“He’s never getting out of jail,” Meg spoke up.

“Yes, but if only he could’ve died like David Price.”

No one argued that. As part of Viggio’s plea bargain, he had to make a full allocution of his and Price’s scheme. The details had been chilling. How Viggio had grown increasingly convinced that he needed to come up with the perfect way to commit rape. How he had approached David Price while they were both being held in ACI’s Intake and worked with David to devise the perfect plan. Viggio had already heard about Korporate Klean from his last time behind bars. One of the big jokes among inmates was that when you finally get out, the only job you could get would be cleaning up after a bunch of “jerk offs”—everyone knew Korporate Klean had the contract for the sperm bank.

From there, things fell into place. Viggio spotted Eddie in the waiting room and realized they were a close physical match. He struck up a conversation with the guy, found out he worked for the Rhode Island Blood Center and needed some extra money because his girlfriend was pregnant. He started shadowing Eddie at the college blood drives and realized this was the perfect opportunity. He could attack socially conscious college coeds, and it would simply further implicate Eddie in the eyes of the police. He’d written the details to David Price, who had recommended using latex ties. That would make the frame airtight. David had also kindly suggested Meg as the first victim. A suitable “trial run,” he’d called her.

Even if Viggio did screw up, they figured Meg wouldn’t go to the police. She wouldn’t want to have to admit her association with David Price, whose name Viggio made sure to mention during the rape. That the trauma of the attack induced amnesia wasn’t part of the plan, but hardly hurt them.

Viggio scoped out the other victims in advance. Carol was a last-minute substitute but felt safe to him: he’d spent enough time in her neighborhood to figure out her husband’s car was never in the driveway. Trish met his criteria of a young coed living alone. Jillian’s intrusion had startled him, but it had proved irrelevant to his plan.

By this point in the allocution, Viggio’s voice was cocky. In theory, he’d suffered three complications—Meg’s memory loss, Carol’s substitution and Jillian’s unexpected arrival, and none of them had stopped him. He was invincible. Then the women had gone on TV, and not even that mattered. The police did the sensible thing. They arrested Eddie Como, and phase two of the plan went into effect.

David’s involvement hadn’t been free, of course. He saw Eddie’s frame-up as the perfect opportunity to get out of prison. Viggio had instructions to hire an assassin, kill the assassin, then immediately strike again, leaving Eddie’s sperm at the scene. The new rape would stir the public into a panicked frenzy. And David could step to the plate with his offer to save the day. A hop, skip and jump later, and David would finally be out of prison.

Viggio, of course, had had his reservations. But once he figured out he could kill David Price the same way he’d killed the hired gun, he hadn’t minded anymore. He’d followed David’s instructions and inserted the wooden lock pick and Alka-Seltzer tablets into David’s favorite pair of clothes, which were then dutifully retrieved by David’s lawyer from David’s storage area. Then Viggio had kidnapped Meg to increase police pressure to release David. Finally he’d secured a getaway vehicle, to be left at David’s former home.

Of course, what David didn’t know was that Viggio had taken the liberty of booby-trapping the getaway car with a bomb. For Viggio, David getting out of prison equaled David winding up dead, which equaled Viggio attacking, torturing and killing young women forever. It was the perfect plan.

Until the police pulled up in his driveway, and Detective Waters tackled him in a neighbor’s salvage yard. Viggio wasn’t going anyplace anymore.

And the three women . . . The three women were doing their best to heal.

Now Meg turned to Jillian. “Your turn,” she said. “Carol is getting a fresh start with Dan, I’m getting a fresh look at my sordid past. Now what’s new with you?”

“Not much.”

Carol and Meg exchanged looks.

“I would never call Sergeant Griffin ‘not much,’ ” Carol drawled.

Jillian promptly blushed.

“Uh huh,” Carol said. “So that’s the way it is.”

“You have a dirty mind!”

“Damn right. Come on, Dan and I are seeing a sex therapist who has literally banned us from having sex for the next six months. I have to live through someone.”

Both Jillian and Meg looked at her curiously. “Does that work?” Meg asked.

Carol’s turn to blush. “Actually . . . well, yes. It . . . it takes the pressure off. Sometimes, before, when he would touch me, I would freeze up. I was already thinking, then he’s going to want to touch here or touch there and I just couldn’t handle that level of intrusion. I wasn’t ready. Now—now I know a kiss will be just a kiss. I can focus on that. On him kissing me. And when I do that, all the other things go away. I’m not in the bedroom anymore. It’s not dark, the TV’s not on. I’m just a woman kissing her husband of over ten years. It’s . . . nice. Honestly, we’re dating again.”

“I’m going to cry,” Meg said thickly, and rubbed her eyes. “You’re getting to fall in love all over again, and I can’t even figure out if I’m ever going to have a normal relationship. Look at me! I’m almost twenty-one, my sister is really my daughter, and the total sum of my sex life boils down to one pedophile whom I thought I loved, and one rapist who was a present from the pedophile. Now that’s
sick
!”