“How would she know where her father was at two in the morning?”
“They sleep in the same bed-the whole family does.”
I shook my head and pointed at the last entry, not crossed out. “What’s ‘Peter Moore’s people’ mean?”
“That’s the hottest one we have so far. Didn’t Sammie tell you about him? Peter Moore runs Krystal Kleer-the people who put in Gail’s windows last year. I guess Gail didn’t know their names, but Harry Murchison’s the one we’re interested in.”
The phone had rung during this conversation, and a patrolman now held it up in the air and pointed at me with an inquiring look on his face. I leaned over Ron’s table, picked up his phone, and punched the one blinking button.
“Gunther.”
“Hi. It’s me.” Gail’s voice-soft, sounding a hundred miles away-warmed me like a fire on a cold winter night, giving me all the comfort I was yearning to give her. “Could you come over?”
“I’m on my way,” was all I said.
6
The circle of houses on Chestnut Hill was somber and quiet, the only signs of life a glimmer here and there from a crack in some curtain. They looked chilly and withdrawn, buttoned up against a second night of near-zero temperatures. The reservoir around which they clustered was as much a bottomless hole of cold air as a slab of opaque water.
I parked opposite Susan Raffner’s home and got out, pausing a little, the vapor from my breathing dissipating the glow from the porch light. Raffner’s parting words last time still echoing in my head, I had mixed feelings being here, knowing I would have to watch myself with utmost care. The Gail I’d come to visit was not someone I felt I knew-she was frail, fractured, and struggling to recover, and I had no time-tested, familiar protocol to fall back on if things got emotionally complicated.
Susan opened the front door before I could ring the bell, smiling and ushering me in as a friend-a comforting change due, I thought, to her misunderstanding about why I’d been at the newspaper office so close on her heels. “She’s upstairs, Joe, waiting.”
I nodded and headed for the stairs.
“Joe?”
I looked back at her, surprised by the gentle tone of her voice. “Thanks for helping Mary out this evening. I know she could’ve gotten into a lot of trouble.”
I smiled at her. “Thank Ryan’s vanity.”
Gail was in a different chair this time, close to the now-rumpled bed, and lit by a single soft shaded light that gave her face a gentle glow. Still, she looked exhausted, her eyes weary and drooping, her cheeks gaunt. She sat as if she’d been dropped from a great height and was utterly incapable of movement.
But she did move. She saw me against the gloom of the hallway, smiled tiredly, and extended her hand to me.
I crossed the room and took it in my own, noticing its coolness and frailty, and I sat on the bed next to her, resting both our hands on my knee. “How’re you getting along?”
“I don’t know,” she said simply. “I wish I knew what to do.”
She squeezed my hand then and smiled again. “You’re doing fine. I’m sorry for what I’m putting you through.”
“You’re sorry?” I burst out. “You had nothing to do with all this. My only problem’s been not knowing how to act. Last time I was here, Susan told me to put a cork in it and concentrate on helping you.”
She actually laughed briefly. “The head lioness.” She paused and then looked me straight in the eyes. “Susan gave me your message. Releasing my name to the paper wasn’t easy. Your support meant a lot.”
Feeling guilty by now, I kept quiet.
Gail didn’t notice. “I feel like half of me’s looking in, and the other half ’s looking out. I’ve spent so much time with rape victims, working with Women for Women, guiding them through all the emotional stages… It’s strange being on the other side. I have all these feelings, and halfway into them I start thinking, ‘Oh, right-that’s the guilt kicking in-typical.’ Or, ‘Why aren’t I mad yet? Oh, yeah-that comes later.’ It gets pretty confusing.”
I knew some of those stages myself. “I saw the list you sent-that’s a good sign, isn’t it? Fighting back, regaining control?”
A look of pain crossed her face and I worried I’d overstepped somehow. “God, I’m a long way from there… And putting a list together of all the people you think could have… There were so many of them.”
Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. “I can’t stop asking, ‘Why?’ I’m not a bad person. I’ve had disagreements with people, but I’ve never wished them harm. What did I do?”
I let go of her hand and rubbed her back gently in a slow, circular motion. “You didn’t do anything, Gail. You were a target.”
Her anguish intensified. “But he planned it, right? He spent a long time thinking about it. He didn’t just wander by.”
I wondered if telling her more would help-not that I had much to tell. “He planned it, but he wasn’t as careful as he thought. He made a few mistakes, and those’ll lead us to him. The point to remember is that he attacked what you are, not who you are.”
She passed her hand across her forehead. “I wish I could remember more about him-something that would help.”
“You have… ”
A dog barked outside, once and not loudly, but Gail started as if stuck with a pin.
“You okay?” I asked in alarm, remembering a similar response when Todd Lefevre had snapped off his tape recorder early that morning.
She sat back in her chair and rested her head against its high pillow, her gaze on the opposite wall. The light hit her face directly that way and made it look like a marble mask. “I can’t relax-little sounds set me off. I’m so hyper they actually hurt.”
I glanced at the rumpled bed. “Have you tried to sleep?”
She rubbed her forehead and smiled, embarrassed. “I remember how peaceful I felt when you left me last night… I’m scared to fall asleep, Joe. I try to rationalize it, but I’m scared of everything-noises, sleep, going back home. I’m scared going down the hall to the bathroom, for God’s sake.”
I heard the hollowness of my own words: “It’s going to take time.”
A crease appeared between her eyes, and her voice darkened. “Yes, Susan comes by every once in a while and drops off one-liners like that.”
I began to rethink my approach, remembering what she’d just said before the dog barked. “You want to talk about the case? I hadn’t been planning on it, but there are questions you could answer. Maybe it would help.”
After a slight hesitation, she nodded. I tried to organize all the details running around my head into some kind of order. “Let’s start with something minor. J.P. was wondering if you still had your Swiss Army knife.”
A mix of expressions crossed her face-bafflement first, as she wondered why J.P. would care, followed by a frown as she figured it out for herself. “Yes, I do,” she answered in a near whisper.
“Okay. Another easy one: Do you have a wool shirt or piece of clothing that has red in it, other than the red-and-black check in your closet?”
She thought about that one for quite a while, the reason for it totally eluding her. “No. That’s it, as far as I can remember. I have other red things, but not wool.”
“Do you remember me wearing red wool in your bedroom in the last year?” Her eyes widened slightly. “He left a strand of red wool behind?” I nodded. “We think so, unless you can place anyone else in that room wearing something like that.”
She shook her head emphatically, obviously heartened. “No, I can’t.”
“Good. Harder question now. Can you remember anything else about the attack that you might not have mentioned this morning? I’m thinking specifically about those few seconds just before he put the pillowcase over your head-you called it a blur.”
She sighed and closed her eyes briefly. “I need to do this-get it out.”
It was a statement to herself, not a question, but it still stimulated an answer from me: “Not if you don’t want to.”