“Or he didn’t want to spend more time with the scumbag than he had to.”
Driscoll recognized revulsion in the Sergeant’s voice. He fought back the impulse to take her by the hand. Seeking diversion, he picked up the black-and-white photo of the twins. “What turned you two kids into a pair of revenge-seeking killers?” he asked, staring into the eyes of the Kodak-captured innocents.
“My money’d be on the father,” said Margaret, looking like she was about to spit.
Driscoll closed the door to his office. He knew Margaret intimately. Her past was no secret to him. He knew it’d just be a matter of time before this revelation of sexual abuse would stir unwelcome memories.
“Would it help if we talked about it?” he said, taking a seat on the edge of his desk.
Margaret slumped in her chair as if her body were a blowup doll that someone had pricked with a needle. “Is it this case?…I don’t know. I feel sorta stretched. About everything. So stretched, that I tried to reach my therapist from when I was a kid. She’s the only one I know. And wouldn’t you know it. The woman’s dead. I gotta be honest with you, John, working with you, now, after the death of your wife…”
She stopped talking and scrunched her face. “You know I have feelings for you. That’s a given. And I know you have feelings for me. I also know you need time to grieve. But it hasn’t been easy for me to sit on those feelings. Especially since her death. Jesus! Look at me! You’ve lost your wife. Your emotions must be doing somersaults, and I’m complaining about pining. Grow up, Margaret! But that’s the problem. When it comes to men, I’m like an eighth grader, for Chrissake! I needn’t go into detail. We both know why. Just when I think I got a handle on things, this sexual abuse bombshell explodes in my face. It puts me back in Mary Janes and a training bra with my old man peeping through the keyhole to my bedroom!”
Margaret began to cry. This time, Driscoll took her by the hand. “I can have you reassigned. No one need know why.”
“My emotional baggage is like lint. It’s in my pocket no matter where I go.”
“I have a therapist. I don’t see her much. But she was there for me after Colette’s accident. Her name is Elizabeth. You’d like her.”
Margaret used her hands to wipe tears from her cheeks. Her expression was one of embarrassment. “Look at me. Some gun-totin’ detective, huh?”
“A human gun-totin’ detective,” Driscoll said with a smile.
“I’m glad we had this time, John. I miss what we had.”
“What we have,” Driscoll said. “I’m just in for repair.”
Chapter 39
The following morning Driscoll was seated at his desk, perusing the Crime Scene report from the aquarium, when Margaret sauntered in. She appeared out of sorts. After sitting down, she robotically reported that her inquiry into any reported rapes, between siblings or otherwise, in and around Oak Flat, West Virginia, during 1990, had turned up nothing. In retrospect, Driscoll wished he had given the assignment to Thomlinson.
“You okay?”
“Will be.”
“My door is always open.”
“I know. Thank you. I’ll be fine. What I need now is distraction. What’s that you’re reading?”
Driscoll hesitated.
“It’s okay, John. The incest inquiry is behind me. It’ll help if I stay focused on what’s to come.”
He smiled at her. “You know…”
“You gonna tell me what you’re reading or do I have to grab the damn file?”
“It’s the forensics report on Francis Palmer’s blood evidence. Their reenactment of the assault suggests he was stationary when both blows were inflicted to his head. I’m thinking something pissed off our assassin.” Driscoll was about to help himself to a cup of squad room coffee when his desk phone rang.
“Driscoll, here.”
“You’ve got mail,” the caller said and hung up. Driscoll hadn’t a clue to the caller’s identity.
He powered on his IBM desktop and was immediately connected to the department’s Web site. He clicked on his mailbox, eyes on the screen. There, superimposed under a red and white bull’s-eye, was the face of a male adolescent with wavy blond hair, the color of hay, and piercing aquamarine eyes. To the right of the face was a small speaker icon that Driscoll clicked. The prerecorded voice of Malcolm Shewster sounded through the desktop’s speaker.
“John, whoever or whatever you’re pursuing is yesterday’s news. This is our boy! My team of specialists is to be commended. You now have what you wanted from the start. The sister will have the same face, give or take a few curls. Take a good look into those eyes, John. He’s out there and he’s daring you to nab him. And nab him you will. Set your eyes on the prize. And, John, you may as well get used to looking at that face because this afternoon its hits every newsstand and newswire in the nation with something the city has left out. A hefty bounty. And that’s only step one in a full-scale Shewster alliance. Over and out. For now.”
Driscoll’s eyes locked on Margaret’s. “Alliance? The man asked me if he could have his team project a current-day likeness of the twins. That’s all. What’s with the hefty bounty and an alliance? I never agreed to any alliance.”
“Usually, grieving parents are Lone Rangers.”
“I know. So far the only alliance he’s made is with our evidence and our investigation. This guy’s made his fortune on the backs of people, not hand in hand with them. He’s gotten himself very involved in this case. Just how far does that involvement go? The man’s up to something. I’m sure of it. Which means you and I are gonna keep a short leash on him.”
Chapter 40
It was Saturday, just before 8:00 P.M. on Fifth Avenue at East Fiftieth Street in New York City. Pedestrians were making their way inside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral only to exit a few minutes later spattered by holy water. The avenue was getting ready for evening. Neon lights were slowly coming to life above store windows as taxicabs hauled sightseers to restaurants, movie theaters, and Broadway shows. A woman stood at Saint Patrick’s southwest corner, perplexed by the endless flow of vehicular traffic. She seemed distracted, anxious, turning her head furtively toward the cathedral’s entrance. She carried a finger-worn Polaroid of a man in a plaid shirt overlooking a cornfield. It had been protected by a frayed white napkin into which she now spit her gum. She tossed the napkin into a trash can, held the photo against her chest, climbed the steps of the cathedral, and slipped inside.
Compared to the hubbub on the avenue, the church was sedate; a welcome sanctuary. She walked down the center aisle, searching left and right for the man she had typed “hello” to eight months ago in a MySpace chat room. They had become virtual lovers, disclosing a mutual predilection for oddity and postpubescent teens. It was now time to meet and gratify their sexual longings together.
Her heartthrob was nowhere in sight. Where could he be? She checked her watch. It was nearing 8:10. They were supposed to meet at 8:02, the time they first met over the Internet. Could her Timex be running fast?
In the second row her gaze fell upon a gentleman who smiled at her as though he had known her all her life.
“My God, it’s you!”
The man stood and moved toward her. “I was beginning to think you had changed your mind.”
“I was standing outside trying to get up the courage to come in. I still can’t believe we’re going through with this. Oh, Alex, I do love you so.”
“And I you,” he murmured. “But I have a confession to make.”
Puzzled eyes looked back at him.
“Tara, I think I’ve committed a sin. And of all days to commit it!”