Authors: Alison Gaylin
Hutchins trained his gaze on him. “If there’s some vigilante out there, killing scum that should have been behind bars in the first place, then what’s it to you, Detective Morasco?”
“Carol Wentz shouldn’t have been behind bars.”
“We both know Carol’s husband killed her,” he said. “He confessed in his suicide note.”
Morasco’s back stiffened. “I need to know, Chief Hutchins,” he said, “if you have called Meade off of his most recent assignment.”
Wright blurted, “OrangePineapple . . . I didn’t know who that was. I didn’t know it was Carol Wentz. I thought it was some stranger, some . . . extortionist.”
“Careful,” Hutchins said.
“I called you for help, Lane. I wanted you to find out who it was. I didn’t want that person killed. I didn’t want . . . God, Lydia’s ex-husband . . . I didn’t want any of that. I only wanted to protect my family.”
Hutchins laughed—laughed hard with dead eyes, the laughter as forced and posed as everything else about him. He looked at Morasco. “He knew. He just didn’t
want
to know.”
“
Where is Meade?
”
“That little girl you spoke to, Nick,” he said. “The one who saw the blue car. That was the best lead we had in Iris Neff’s disappearance.”
“Please don’t,” Wright said.
“Best fucking lead we had, but Griffin demotes you for it. He thought he was just covering up a love affair, but we know better, don’t we, Roger?”
“My God, Lane.”
“I’d like to make that up to you, Nick. Give you the promotion and the raise you deserve. I’d like to give you a position here, whereby the force could truly benefit from your expertise.” He glared at Wright. “And your honesty.”
Morasco stared at Hutchins, his muscles tightening. And then his hand slid under his coat. It went for his .33, as if that hand were some separate thing working for him, a machine built from his rage. The hand was pulling the .33 out of his shoulder holster. It was leading him around the desk and behind Hutchins, the other arm pressing against his neck as the hand, his machine, held the gun to the chief’s temple, Wright wide-eyed across the desk, the chief gasping like a child. “No . . .”
“Call Meade now,” Morasco said. “Tell him his assignment is over. Tell him to meet you here, at the station.”
“I can’t.”
Morasco tightened his grip around the neck. “I swear to Christ I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
“Please . . .”
“Call him.”
“I can’t because—”
“Call him now.”
“
I can’t because the place he’s gone to, it doesn’t have cell phone service
.”
“Oh my God,” Wright said, his eyes tearing up, his face moist and reddening, a vein popping out on his forehead, as if all the tears, blood, and sweat within him, everything that was human, was rushing to the surface, making itself known. “Oh my God, no, please. Please not Lydia.”
B
renna moved through the great room as if she were navigating her way through thick water, her whole mind focused on the drawing in her hands. She found a smaller room off it, the walls lined with bookshelves. An older black man sat in a chair, reading, with a heavyset blonde woman sitting next to him, both wearing robes. “I need to see Lydia Neff,” Brenna said. Her voice echoed.
They both gaped at her, saying nothing.
Goddamn vow of silence
. “If you can lead me to her,” Brenna said. “Please. It’s urgent. It concerns her daughter.”
Finally, the man nodded. He stood up, and Brenna followed him out of the small room, past the fountain, around the building and up another winding path through a series of small cabins, bracing a good-sized woods with hiking trails snaking through them. He took Brenna to the one at the very back, the one closest to the woods. It was marked 323. He knocked softly on the door and left.
There was no answer at first. Brenna pounded on the door, more insistent than the man, and when there was still no answer, she shouted Lydia’s name, her voice shattering the still air until finally, the door opened, and Brenna saw the face—the face from the life coaching Web site, only even duller now. Grayer, sadder, worn beyond its years. Brenna pulled the drawing out of her bag and unfolded it, her hands shaking. She showed it to Lydia. Her face went white. And that was all Brenna needed to confirm her thoughts.
“It’s a map,” Brenna said.
Lydia started to close the door, but Brenna was stronger. She leaned against it and then she was inside the cottage—a dark, sparsely furnished space—the door closing behind her. “The stick figure is Iris. Your daughter is buried in the Waterside Condominiums, where the fountain used to be. You weren’t meditating by the fountain. You were visiting your daughter’s grave.”
Tears sprang into Lydia’s eyes. She started shaking her head, again and again.
“Give up your vow of silence, Lydia. Being quiet about this isn’t going to help you. It isn’t going to change the truth.”
Lydia kept shaking her head. It wasn’t until she began backing away that Brenna realized how small the cottage really was, and that she and Lydia weren’t alone. Adam Meade was sitting ten feet away from them, on Lydia’s neatly made cot, holding his .45.
M
eade had the drawing now. He’d folded it up and placed it in his pocket after holding the gun to Lydia’s head and forcing her to tie Brenna’s hands behind her back with duct tape. That completed, he set about tying Lydia’s hands and marching them both out of the house, first Lydia, then Brenna directly behind her, the barrel of the gun firm at the base of Brenna’s skull, aimed in such a way so that one shot would kill them both.
Brenna stared at Lydia as she walked—the broad back in the orange robe, the shoulders heaving. Sobbing, she knew, only without sound—something the mother of a dead child might do a lot of during a two-year vow of silence. They walked through the trees, most of them still thick and just turning, despite encroaching fall. “Roger isn’t going to like this,” Brenna said.
“Shut up,” said Meade.
The air was cold, the barrel icy against her neck. “Roger loves her.”
Lydia breathed in sharply, her whole body tensing with the breath.
Brenna said, “He will not forgive you, Adam.”
They were reaching the end of the trail. Ahead of them, beyond the trees stretched a meadow, leading to the steep escarpment Brenna had seen on the Web page. A five-hundred-foot drop, the Hudson River below . . .
Breathtaking views . . .
They came close to the edge. Scrubby plants clung to sharp rocks—a straight drop, nothing to hang on to, nothing to brace a fall. Brenna’s knees weakened. She stared at the river below and that’s what her blood felt like—cold, rushing water.
“Get on your knees,” Meade said to Lydia. She obeyed. Her eyes were closed, tears trickling down her cheeks. She almost looked as if she was praying—
meditating
—save for the tightness of her mouth, the red of her skin. The terror. The robe billowed around her in the wind and Brenna wondered how Lydia could do it, with that much fear coursing through her.
How can you stay silent?
Meade stared at Lydia. “You came here,” he said to Brenna, “because you wanted to find out what happened to her daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Brenna’s throat was tight. “Because . . . I cared about Iris.”
Meade paused for a moment. He seemed to consider. The barrel of the .45 moved from Brenna’s head to between her shoulder blades. “Some fires happen for a reason,” he said.
“What?”
With the other hand, he ripped the duct tape from Brenna’s wrists. “Take her tape off,” he said. Brenna complied, her mind whirring as she pulled the duct tape from Lydia’s hands. She contemplated a sudden movement, maybe an elbow to his gut, but he was prepared for that. He grabbed her by the throat and yanked her to him and then the gun was back at the base of her ear. “Tell her,” he said. He was speaking to Lydia.
Lydia stared up at Brenna, the black eyes bright with tears. She shook her head.
“
Tell her what happened to your daughter
.”
Lydia’s voice came then, for the first time in two years, the voice sneaking out of her, a croaking whisper. “She walked in on us.”
“Iris.”
“Yes. Iris.” Lydia swallowed hard. Meade clicked and unclicked the safety—a warning. Lydia kept her eyes on Brenna’s face.
“Talk,” Meade said.
“Iris was supposed to be at the Koppelsons—an overnight playdate, but she came home and found Roger and me in bed. She screamed. I followed her, trying to explain. I told her Roger would be her new daddy. I told her Roger and I were in love.”
Brenna’s mouth went dry.
“She kept screaming. She kept yelling. Yelling about Santa. Santa hurting me. I . . . I took her by the arms. I just wanted to calm her.”
“But she wouldn’t shut up,” Meade said.
“I was trying to . . . to make her quiet . . .”
“Talk.”
“I was holding her and she was screaming and I . . . I said, ‘Stop,’ and I pushed her. I pushed too hard and she fell down the stairs.” She looked at Brenna, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I wanted to confess, but I was too frightened. Roger said it would ruin him, ruin his family. He promised to protect me always. I was so scared . . .”
Brenna stared at her, the fear and pity inside her dissolving, replaced by a hollow feeling.
She killed her own child and hid
. She heard herself say, “Santa took Iris away in a blue car.”
“Yes.”
“Roger Wright carried Iris’s body outside. He loaded it into his company car, the one he used specifically to see you. He drove your child’s body to his construction site and buried it under that mound and then he had his men put a fountain there, same spot.” That’s what Maggie Schuler had seen out her window. Roger Wright, disposing of her friend’s body. “Then he drew you a map.”
Lydia looked at Meade, then back at Brenna, her eyes bigger now, imploring.
“She deserves to die,” Meade said.
And Brenna thought,
Maybe she does.
“Push her. Now,” said Meade.
“You’ll kill me, too,” Brenna said. “Throw me over the side. It will look like an accident. I tried to talk to her, chased her here. We both fell.”
“Not necessarily,” he said. “I have the drawing, after all. And if you do as I say . . . if you kill her . . . you’ll have realized your true potential.”
Brenna stared at the trembling woman. “Carol and Nelson Wentz are dead.”
“No,” Lydia whispered. “No . . . you’re lying . . .”
“Your ex-husband, Timothy. Critical condition.”
“Please, I don’t—”
“Your friend, Chief Griffin.”
“An . . . an accident.”
“No it wasn’t,” said Meade.
Lydia shook her head, back and forth, back and forth like something mechanical. “No, no, no . . .”
“All of them dead because of you,” Brenna said, feeling the rage building within her as the gun moved away from her back. “All of them . . . because you were
too scared to tell the truth
.”
“No, no please . . .”
“Push her,” Meade said.
Lydia closed her eyes and turned to face the river.
Brenna stepped forward, then spun around and socked Meade in the solar plexus. He stumbled back. He came at her, but she punched him again, this time in the stomach. He doubled over, then the gun went off. “Fuck!” he breathed, and Brenna knew why. He’d left ballistic evidence. He’d never wanted to leave it before—not one of his victims had died of a gunshot wound. For a few seconds, Brenna recalled Meade at Pelham Bay after the gun had discharged, his gaze darting all over the pavement, searching for a bullet . . . But now all bets were off, weren’t they?
Brenna balled her hand into a fist, and lunged at him, panting. The knife wound tore at her abdomen. She cried out and her knees collapsed and her feet went out from under her, cool grass smacking into her face. She tasted dirt and blood, her forehead wet from dewy grass. She was dimly aware of Lydia on her feet and screaming, of voices in the woods . . . Brenna struggled up to her knees, and her mind played it out in slow motion, what she was seeing . . . Meade lifting the gun, aiming it at her head, grasping it with both hands, and the voice inside her, slow as well:
Close your eyes. Good-bye . . .
And then Lydia, shrieking and charging . . . Lydia throwing herself on Meade, Meade stumbling back. Lydia throwing herself on the gun . . . The gun discharged, and still it all moved so slowly: Lydia’s head falling back, Lydia’s blood spreading like bright dye through her orange robe, Lydia dropping to the ground, toppling onto her back, and Meade staring at her, stock-still, something on his face that looked like shock . . .
And then time sped up and Meade was rushing at Brenna. She tried to stand but she couldn’t. He was right at her now. She could see into the barrel of the gun, could see the black space within . . . Brenna closed her eyes. The shot was deafening.
Brenna opened her eyes to Meade rolling on the ground, clutching his leg, moaning. At the edge of the trees, she saw five or six uniforms, rushing toward Meade, with Morasco at the center, holding his gun. She pushed herself to her feet as they reached her, two of the uniforms cuffing Meade. Another radioing for medical attention. Morasco said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “And . . . glad to see you.”
Morasco smiled a little. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank God for my great sense of timing.”
As the uniforms read Meade his rights and the paramedics arrived, Morasco spoke to Brenna in a calm voice, telling her about Hutchins and Meade, their decade-old connection, all that blood they’d shed for Tarry Ridge, for Wright. “Hutchins is under arrest.”
“How did that happen?” Brenna asked.
“I had a little chat with him about it all. He more or less confessed.”
“And Internal Affairs believed you?”
“It helped I had my cell phone in my pocket, with the DA’s office on the line the entire time.”
“What about Roger Wright?”
“Arrested, too,” Morasco said. “He confessed to the killing of Iris Neff.”
Brenna looked at him. “Wright confessed?”