The bandstand where concert VIPS would sit stood in the southeast section of the Common, so Holly entered the park from the corner of Charles and Boylston Streets, a route she hadn’t taken before. An old cemetery ran along Boylston. Holly peered through the iron fence, past the grassy bank and the ditch edging a long line of flat-roofed tombs joined together like a modern condo. She wondered who had built such a thing and why it was set below ground level. Then she realized ground level was lower centuries ago. Time built up the surrounding land, leaving the dead behind. Something about the grass on the tomb roofs seemed familiar…
…and the emotions of her dream—terror, helplessness—swept over her. Her breath caught; her hands gripped the fence. Were the kidnapped kids in some dank, underground place, desperate for rescue, smothering in blackness? Were they—oh, God, no!—in actual graves with just an air hose and no room to move? Were they dead?
Holly backed away from the crypts until her feet felt the smooth walking path. She headed toward the tennis court and the bandstand—toward
life—
sucking in
air as though she’d just been freed from prison. She remembered Dan saying the ransom email had a picture of Kyle Blake holding the day’s paper. Maybe, just maybe, Kyle would be all right.
Dan. He didn’t know she’d been fired, and Holly was in no hurry to tell him. At only age twenty-six, there he was, already a big-city cop bucking for detective while she couldn’t even hang onto a job as bodyguard to a teenage girl.
Some people
have it; some don’t
, Holly thought bitterly. Dan’s success made her failure feel worse.
Shake it off
. Her path connected with one of the brick walkways radiating from the Parkman Bandstand like spokes of a wheel. The structure was a lot more impressive than Holly imagined. It wasn’t one of the cutesy, white, wooden structures crowning New England’s village squares. Marble columns and a domed roof made Holly think of a temple.
The thick stone base stood above her head, requiring curved stairs along one part of the circle for people to reach floor level. Twelve marble columns rose up twenty or more feet, and iron railings spanned the gaps between columns. Holly guessed at a diameter of thirty feet. With so much space inside, she wondered why spectators instead of performers would use the bandstand, but then she remembered Catherine’s prediction of rain on Friday. The open-sided bandstand wouldn’t shelter electrical equipment.
So where would the performers be? Looking north, Holly saw the answer. A big semi was parked a hundred yards away just before a stand of trees. Graphics on the truck’s trailer showed a mobile stage with an overhead awning, side curtains and even aprons where performers could strut their stuff.
While people watched Tripl Thret perform, there’d be a ransom drop. A crowd could provide cover for the kidnapper, but where would the drop be made? Not in the large, metal-mesh waste cans. Knocking one over to rummage inside would surely alert officers stationed nearby. So, where…?
Holly eyed the broad, open lawns around her and pursed her lips. Outwitting the kidnapper wasn’t her problem. All she had to do was make sure Liv was safe.
Approaching the Smallwood home, Holly felt uncomfortable because she didn’t belong there anymore. She couldn’t picture herself in the family room or kitchen, lounging as though she were a welcome guest. She’d have to hang out in her room all day with workmen pounding the deck overhead and others tearing up the flagstones outside.
Holly pulled out her key to open the ground-floor door, but it wasn’t locked. It opened easily with a push, letting her into the corridor leading to her room. Lumber, stone and electric cords blocked the end of the passage. She heard the whine of a power saw and sharp explosions from a nail gun—way too much noise to endure inside her room. Holly touched her key to the inner house door, only to find it wasn’t locked, either. Odd. Jen was so careful about keeping the house buttoned up.
In the kitchen, Teddy’s pen was empty. Holly called Jen’s name but got no response. She decided the housekeeper must have taken the dog for a walk, so only she and Catherine were in the house. Maybe this was right time to talk with Catherine, to beg for a second chance. Holly went searching for her almost-former employer.
Catherine wasn’t on the first floor or the second. Her purse sat on the desk in her study, so she hadn’t left the house.
On the way up to the third floor, Holly saw Liv’s door open, her sheets and blankets sprawled over the side of the four-poster bed. The frilly coverlet lay wadded under the bed skirt. It wasn’t like Liv to leave her room a mess; far as Holly could tell, she’d inherited the Smallwood gene for neatness. Was she waging a protest, making a statement?
One dainty foot in a pink-satin slipper protruded from under the footboard. Holly had seen those slippers before. She breathed, “Catherine?” and then shouted, “Catherine!” as she rushed into the room. Tugging at coverlet, Holly pulled the trapped woman’s upper half out from under the bed and then worked the folds away from her head. Blonde hair spilled out; she was lying on her face. When Holly rolled her over, she found Catherine’s eyes open. The pupils constricted from the sudden shift in light. Holly touched her face; it was warm, and she felt slow, steady breaths on her hand.
Catherine was having a seizure. Eyes open, the woman’s mind was awake while her body slept. Holly wanted to comfort her, but there were things she had to do first. “Hold on, Catherine,” Holly urged.
She rushed into the suite’s bathroom to make sure no one was hiding there, then locked the bedroom door. A dozen choices ran through her mind: Search the house? No, guard Catherine. What if Jen came home to face an attacker? Jen had the dog; Teddy would be some protection. Holly called 911, and then tended to Catherine. Stripping away the bedding, she found her hand and held it, giving it gentle squeezes, asking her to wake, to come back.
A minutes passed before Catherine blinked. Her whole body shuddered. She said, “I…I—” but couldn’t get out anything else until she licked her dry lips and swallowed.
“You’re safe. I’m here. Are you hurt?”
Catherine’s head lolled to the side. Holly wasn’t sure what she meant until Catherine’s chin lifted and her eyes peered toward the door. “Man. Man.”
“What man? What happened here?”
Before Catherine could answer, a man’s bloody face rose up from the far side of the bed. “Help!” he croaked.
Fifteen minutes later, Police Officers Fiero and McGinty arrived. They gathered the workmen together in the Smallwood family room. Fiero interviewed the injured man privately in the pantry behind the kitchen. McGinty stayed with the others, listening to their comments, taking stock of them, Holly guessed. When Jen came back with Teddy, she found a houseful of people.
The man in Liv’s room turned out to be a security system installer; the blood came from his nose. Now cleaned up, Ryan Sykes, a young, fit-looking guy not much older than Holly, finished his time with Fiero and returned to the family room. He seemed eager to talk about his experience.
Sykes was wiring Liv’s window when his eyes “wobbled. Honestly, it was like my eyeballs were vibrating. Then I thought I’d heave. I felt sick to my stomach, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I kept trying to pull in air, but my chest was heavy as lead. Freaky,” he added, shaking his head. “And scary, too. It’s really scary when you can’t breathe.”
That was the last thing he remembered before coming to on Liv’s floor. “I must have hit my nose when I passed out and fell,” Sykes said. The police sent him to the hospital.
Catherine’s interview came next. She insisted Holly accompany her to the pantry. “I need you to confirm I wasn’t drunk or drugged. People just don’t understand cataplexy.”
She spoke normally, bolstered by a dose of medicine she’d neglected to take earlier. “I was in my room and heard a thump above my head, like something heavy fell. I went to see what happened. When I opened Olivia’s door, someone shoved me down on the floor and wrapped me in the bedcover. I was terrified. My cataplexy kicked in.” She explained what that meant before she went on. “I was face-down, afraid I’d suffocate, trapped for I don’t know how long before Holly found me.”
Catherine hadn’t seen her assailant, but knew it was a man. “He was strong. A woman couldn’t move me around so easily.”
Holly waited with her in the living room through the other private interviews. McGinty asked the group if anyone left the premises during the morning.
“Yeah,” a carpenter said. “There was a tall guy who’s not here now.”
“Did he have a knit hat? Frizzy, brown hair? Beard and mustache?” Holly asked.
“No hat, no beard.” The workman scratched his head. “Clean shaven and real short hair—a buzz cut maybe. I’d fiddled with the camera, and he kind of gave me a dirty look, so I figured he was a security guy.”
“What camera?” Catherine asked.
“The one on the wall.”
The other security installer—Ryan Sykes’ partner—spoke up. “We didn’t put a camera there. Must be from an earlier system.”
“There was no earlier system,” Catherine said.
McGinty went to the deck where he inspected the camera, peering through new lattice fence toward the brick wall. Everyone else trailed out onto the terrace below to watch the carpenter take the camera from the wall. “Looks new.” He handed a round button cam to the cop. “Not even dusty. It reflected the sunlight. That’s why I saw it.”
Holly thought about the intruder Mike chased off on Sunday. She reminded the officers about him. They told Catherine detectives would call on her.
After the police left, Catherine sent the workers home. Tomorrow, she told them, would be soon enough to get on with the jobs. When Jen went to re-check the rest of the house, Holly was alone with Catherine.
“I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me,” Catherine said. “I was really in a pickle.”
Holly smiled at the old-time phrase, but she thought this was the moment to ask for her job back. “Would you reconsider keeping me on as Liv’s bodyguard?”
Catherine eyed Holly, sighed, and then said, “I still believe I need a person with more experience. I’m sorry.”
Holly exhaled her despair. She was out—and that was that.
Day 11—Tuesday
Stealth felt the wood paneling of his home’s elevator pressing against his back. He opened his eyes, and saw the scissor gate next to him reflected in the back wall mirror. The elevator was moving upward.
Another lapse
. Another gap in his memory. They were coming more often and lasting longer. How much time passed? What had Brandon done with their body?
Brandon giggled. You’ll see. Take a look.
Stealth stepped toward the elevator’s mirror. For the first time since Brandon died, he saw his twin exactly as he looked on the last day of his life.
Even in the cool, blue light from the sconces, Brandon’s cheeks were flushed from cold. There was a red spot on his chin where Stealth hit him with a snowball during the walk to school. Brandon’s jaw line and nose were shorter, more rounded than Stealth remembered. His cheekbones had no hollows; there was barely a hint of fuzz on his upper lip. Brandon’s hair was a cap of tight, nappy curls.
He looked so young. Had they both been
that
young?
Stealth pictured the January morning. He got dressed for school in an agony of doubt and anticipation. Would he see Drew? Would they talk? Would a special look pass between them?
No. If they met in the hall, he’d ignore Drew. Like a chick still growing inside an egg, Stealth wasn’t ready to come out yet. He needed his shell for protection.
Brandon ripped the shell apart. Teasing, shouting, he tossed out Stealth’s secret to any passing Sidley.
Eleven years later, Stealth felt the terror and fury again. He clenched his fists and glared at Brandon’s face in the mirror. “Stealth hated you that day.”
I know. You’ll hate me today, too.
Stealth blinked. Brandon’s image disappeared, replaced by a face like a boiled, peeled egg—hair so short it looked army cut, skin by the mouth too white. He wore a Tripl Thret tee shirt. Who…?
It’s us, bro! Brandon crowed. We’re in disguise.
Stealth’s felt his stubbly head, his naked upper lip and chin. He pinched himself, yelped, and knew he wasn’t dreaming. Too shocked to shout or swear, he moaned, “Why?”
The elevator stopped. They were on the fourth floor. Stealth tore himself away from the awful face in the mirror to heave open the gate.
He stormed into their bedroom, slammed the door, and glowered at the wall above Brandon’s bed. Posters of girls with big boobs and wide asses smiled coyly over their shoulders or lolled on beach sand. “And what’s
that
?” Stealth howled.
New stuff. Stuff I wanted. Got you one, too. Turn around.
Stealth faced his side of the room. He found a poster of a male model in a waterfall pool, rivulets glazing his chest. Stealth stared, strode to the picture, and ripped it in half.
Hey! Brandon complained. You’re not tearing them all down.
He was. Stealth attacked the other posters while Brandon swore inside his head. About to crumple the paper in his hands, he realized the posters came from some grimy store. He dropped them to crush under his heel.
Stealth wasn’t done yet. Picking up a desk chair, he went the elevator, shoved back the gate, and swung the chair at the mirror. As glass rained down, Stealth felt relief. He returned to the bedroom, seated himself on his bed and crossed his arms. “Now,” he said, “let’s hear it.”
I went out. Had to. A guy found the camera I’d put up at Olivia’s house. I couldn’t leave it that way. So I got this idea of slaving the webcam of the computer in her bedroom. I knew it was there. She sent a picture of her room to her mother. The picture was still in her phone. I mean how cool is it to watch her whenever I want?
Stealth didn’t answer. There were no words.
Couldn’t work out how to get in the house until I saw guys fixing things. Easy to sneak in and act like I had a job to do, but what if I ran into the redhead? She knows the beardo look, which is fugly anyway, so I shaved it all off.