A sound escaped the girl’s throat.
“It’s time to tell the truth, Channing. To take responsibility for what happened in that basement.”
“What happens to Elizabeth if I do?”
He leaned back in the chair. “Liz walks free. Her life goes on.” The girl turned her head, but Beckett wasn’t finished. “Looking away is the easy part,” he said. “It always has been. The only real question is if you’ll let Liz die with a needle in her arm because you and your friends decided to get high. You okay with that? Look at me. This is your chance to do what’s right. Right here. Right now.”
The girl took her time. He let her have it.
“Does Liz know you’re doing this?”
“I told her I wouldn’t.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I look out for people I love, no matter the cost.”
“You love her?” Channing asked.
“Other than my wife she’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”
Channing considered his words for another long minute, and Beckett saw the instant she broke. “I’ll do it on one condition.”
“What?”
Channing told him what she wanted.
Beckett looked at the two-way glass, then shrugged and pushed a notepad across the table. “All right.”
The girl smoothed cuffed hands across the page.
Beckett held the pen where she could see it. “But, I want all of it.”
“Everything.”
“On camera and uncensored.”
“For her,” Channing said; and Beckett nodded.
“For Liz.” He gave her the pen. “Because she would do the same for you.”
Beckett watched the girl write, then took the page and folded it into a pocket. Two minutes later he was on the other side of the glass, and Marsh was setting up a video camera to take the girl’s statement. She looked small but determined.
Hamilton saw the emotion on Beckett’s face. “What did she give you?”
“A note,” Beckett said.
“May I see it?”
“It’s for Liz. It’s personal.”
“I don’t care.”
“You want the note, you fucking shoot me.” Beckett’s face said he was deadly serious.
Hamilton could push it, but why bother? He had the girl, and she was going to talk. “How did you know?”
“About Billy Bell?” Beckett shrugged. “I talked to the gardener this morning. I thought the mother was the only one buying drugs. Turned out it went deeper.”
“That’s not what I meant. How did you know Channing would talk?”
“Maybe I didn’t.”
“I saw your face at the drink machine. You said you could break her in five, yet you did it in two. You were certain.”
“Liz loves the kid.” Beckett studied the girl through the glass, the delicate features and swollen eyes. “I figured maybe the kid loved her back.”
Hamilton didn’t buy it. He leaned against the glass and watched Beckett’s face. “I’ve seen husbands kill their wives; mothers turn on sons. Channing and Detective Black barely know each other. It has to be more than that.”
“Maybe.”
“You have a theory?”
“Maybe she needed to confess.”
“Why?”
“They say familiarity breeds contempt.” Beckett put his hands on the glass, thinking of his wife and the warden and his own bitter mistakes. “Who do we know better than ourselves?”
When the tape was running, it began. Questions came, and the girl spoke haltingly. How she met the Monroe brothers. Where she was when they took her. The state cops walked her through it, and as surprised as they were by the story she told, no one doubted the truth of what she said. The details were too strong, the emotions too real. She spoke of the candle, the mattress, the things they did to her. In places she broke, and in places she froze. The tale of abuse was so hard to hear it shook everyone listening. Forty hours, the child was gone. Forty hours at the hands of monsters. Eventually, she got to the part that tore out the final piece of Beckett’s heart.
Even Hamilton was pale by then, sitting rigidly when he asked the question. “How did you get your hands on the gun?”
“I wouldn’t do what he wanted me to do. The smaller one. Brandon Monroe. I wouldn’t do it, so he hit me again, bit me again.” She stopped; collected herself. “The next time he did that, I bit him back, right here.” She touched the soft spot above her hip bone. “He got angry and threw me against a wall. When he came for me, I tried to crawl away, but he dragged me by the foot. I was scraping at the floor, trying to hold on to something. The gun was just there in the dark.”
“Where was Detective Black at this time?”
“In the other room.”
“Could you see her?”
“Yes. Sometimes.”
“Can you be more specific?” She shook her head; kept shaking it. A full minute passed. “This is what you’re here for,” Hamilton said. “This is what we need.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she scrubbed it away. “Elizabeth was on the mattress.”
“Was she awake?”
“Yes.”
“Was she wired?”
The girl said nothing. Another tear fell.
“We need to understand the level of her incapacity, Channing. If she was able to act? Why she didn’t? You tell us she’s not the shooter…”
The girl looked at the two-way glass, and Beckett, on the other side, felt the stare all the way down in his soul.
He’d made this happen.
He’d done it.
“She was wired to the mattress,” Channing said. “Facedown…”
Twenty minutes later Beckett hit the door, and Francis Dyer followed him out into the hall. People stopped and stared. They knew what was happening. Not specifics, but they knew. “What the hell have I done?” Beckett pushed into an empty office. Dyer followed. “Jesus Christ, Francis. Liz will never forgive me.”
“You saved her life. No charges. No prison. You did what cops are supposed to do. You got to the bottom of things.”
“I made her a victim.”
“Titus Monroe did that.”
“You think she’ll be a cop again? You think she’ll just get over it? People will see that testimony. Every cop in here will know what happened, that I broke the most important part of her.”
“You didn’t-”
“That’s bullshit, Francis. We all have our armor; we all need it.” Beckett dragged his hands through his hair. “She’ll never forgive me. Not for this. Not after I promised.”
“Why don’t you get out of here? Take the day. Take a drive.”
“Yeah. Sure. A drive.”
“I’ll need the affidavit, though.”
“What?”
“Billy Bell’s affidavit. The one you showed the girl.”
“Jesus, man. There is no affidavit.” Beckett laughed a ragged laugh and withdrew the same piece of folded paper from his pocket. “This is a blank page. I just pulled it off the printer.”
19
Crybaby called it a cabin, but that was not accurate. The driveway cut through private forest for over a mile, ending on a bluff above a mirrored lake that blurred into the feet of distant mountains. The cabin, made of stone and wood, was massive and so permanent looking it could have been carved from the earth itself.
Elizabeth climbed from the car and took it all in: the hundred-year oaks, the plunging views. “‘The cabin’s yours,’ he says. ‘Have a drink, relax.’”
That wasn’t going to happen.
She followed a walkway to the back of the house. Bushes were overgrown, but the grass had been cut often enough to hold the forest back. She found the key where he’d said it would be, beneath a flat rock on the other side of the empty pool. Unlocking the main door, Elizabeth disengaged the alarm and entered the house, passing through a vaulted foyer and into the main room, where a wall of glass framed views of the lake and mountains. The fireplace was large enough to sit in. She saw sheeted furniture, books, a table long enough to feed thirty people. Dust covered everything, with tracks where the caretaker had been through on previous occasions. She followed them into the kitchen, then upstairs, and outside onto an upper balcony that felt like the roof of the world.