“You know, Maggie’s really concerned about you, Kathleen.”
She stared at her, but the blue eyes were strong, unflinching, no longer playing or maybe just very good at lying.
“She’s so angry with me,” Kathleen found herself saying without really meaning to.
“Just because we get angry with people we love, it doesn’t mean we want them gone forever.”
“She doesn’t love me.” She said this with almost a laugh, as if letting this Racine woman know that she could see through her lies.
“You are her mother. How could she not love you?”
“I’ve made it very easy. Believe me.”
“Okay, so she’s angry with you.”
“It’s more than that.”
“Okay, sometimes she doesn’t even like you very much. Right?”
Now Kathleen did laugh and nodded.
Julia Racine remained serious and said, “It doesn’t mean she wants you gone forever.”
When it looked like that sentimental stuff wouldn’t work, the young woman smiled and added, “Look, Mrs. O’Dell, I’m already in a shitload of trouble with your daughter. How ’bout giving me a break?”
CHAPTER 75
Tully almost stumbled over a jacket.
Jesus! He had already started.
Darkness had just begun to take over, and up here in the trees, it was hard to see. He waited. He tried to slow down his pulse. He needed to give his eyes a chance to adjust. The moon cast some light, but it also added an eerie blue tint to shadows.
Tully held his breath. He got down on his knees. He couldn’t hear with all the noise from below. Did that mean anyone up here couldn’t hear him, either? He couldn’t take any chances. He heard the other agents checking in, whispering their positions into his ear, but he couldn’t answer them. He had to ignore them. But they knew that, and they were still getting into position. It was so quiet. What if he was already too late?
He pulled out his gun and started crawling on hands and knees. That’s when he saw them, only twenty feet away. He saw them on the ground, scuffling. He was on top. She was fighting, struggling.
But it looked like they were alone. Tully carefully looked around, examining the surroundings. There was no one else. No other young men, waiting or guarding the area. No Reverend Everett. Or did that come later? Did the good reverend wait until the struggle was over? And could Tully wait? Jesus! He was ripping her clothes. There was a slap, a whimper, more wrestling. Did he dare wait for Everett to show himself? Could he risk it?
He thought he heard a belt buckle, maybe a zipper. Another whimper. He thought of Emma. This girl wasn’t much older. His eyes searched the trees. Movement on the right. One of the agents moving in. But no Everett.
Damn it!
He couldn’t see any glowing clothesline. No handcuffs. Maybe all that stuff was Everett’s job. If he interrupted now?
This time she cried out and Brandon slapped her again.
“Shut the fuck up and hold still,” he hissed at her.
Without hesitation, Tully was on his feet. In just a few rushed steps he had the barrel of his Glock pressed at the base of Brandon’s head even before the boy had a chance to flinch.
“No, you shut the fuck up, you bastard,” Tully yelled into his ear, so he wouldn’t miss a word. “Game’s over.”
CHAPTER 76
Washington, D.C.
Maggie drove down several unfamiliar streets but found the old building easily. It was an unsavory neighborhood where she’d probably need to worry about her little red Toyota. Three teenage boys watched her the entire time she parked her car and walked to the front door. It made her want to flash her holstered Smith amp; Wesson nestled under her jacket. Instead, she did the next best thing-she ignored them.
She wasn’t sure why she was here, except that she was tired of waiting. She needed to do something, anything. She was just so tired of those old memories taunting her, making her feel guilty, that she was somehow responsible-once again-for her mother being in harm’s way. She knew she wasn’t responsible. Of course she knew that, but what she knew and what she felt were two entirely separate things.
The inside of the old building surprised Maggie. It was clean, better than clean, with the scent of Murphy’s Oil. As she climbed the wooden staircase, she noticed the walls had been freshly painted and the second-floor landing’s carpet, though threadbare, showed not a spot of dirt. On the third level, however, she could smell something like a disinfectant, and the odor grew as she progressed down the hall. It seemed to be coming from number five, Ben Garrison’s apartment.
She knocked and waited, though she didn’t expect him to be here. He’d still be in Cleveland, only hopefully this time he hadn’t gotten to the crime scene before everyone else. Tully and Racine had probably already arrested Everett and his accomplice, Brandon. They had DNA to prove Everett’s guilt, eyewitnesses and photos to put Brandon with two of the victims minutes before their deaths. Case closed. So what was still nagging her? Maybe she simply hated that Garrison-that the “invisible cameraman”-had gotten away with screwing up crime scenes. Maybe she was curious about his apparent obsession with death, his voyeurism. Perhaps she simply needed to keep her mind preoccupied.
Maggie glanced down the hallway and knocked again. This time she heard scuffles on the staircase. A little gray-haired lady appeared on the landing, staring up at her through thick glasses.
“I think he’s out of town,” she told Maggie. But before Maggie could respond, she asked, “Are you from the health department? I don’t have anything to do with those roaches. I want you to know, it was his doing.”
Maggie’s suit must have looked official. She didn’t say a word, and yet the woman was scooting in front of her to unlock Garrison’s door.
“I try to keep the place clean, but some of these tenants…Well, you just can’t trust people these days.” She opened the door and waved a hand at Maggie as she headed back to the staircase.
“Just close up when you’re finished.”
Maggie hesitated. What would it hurt to take a look?
The first thing to catch her eyes were the African death masks, three of them, on the wall over the cracked vinyl sofa. They had been carved from wood with paint-smeared tribal symbols across the forehead and cheeks and under the eyeholes. On the opposite wall were several black-and-white photographs, labeled portraits: Zulu, Three-Hill Tribe, Aborigine, Basuto, Andamanese. Garrison seemed obsessed with his subjects’ eyes, sometimes cropping the forehead and chin in order to draw more focus to the eyes. A bottom photo, labeled: Tepehuane, showed what looked like the back of his subject’s head, perhaps a defiant stance, a denial. One meaningful enough for Garrison to keep.
Maggie shook her head. She didn’t have time to psychoanalyze Garrison, nor was she certain she would if she had the time. There was something odd about a man who could be so fascinated by ancient cultures and their people and yet stand back and watch young women be attacked in a public park. Or did Garrison consider everyone to be simply a photographic subject and nothing more?
At the police station, when she questioned him about the incident in Boston Common, he had said something strange about her having no idea what it took to stop or to make news happen. Yet, wasn’t that exactly what he had been doing with Everett? His photos had broken the story about the church’s members and their possible connection to the murder of the senator’s daughter and the murder in Boston. But it went further than that. It was his photographs that caused Everett to initially even become a suspect. In a sense Garrison’s photos had led them directly to Everett. He had made news happen.