She didn’t hate him and she didn’t wish he was dead. Jesus! How could he have said such appalling things? Yes, after Dan’s murder, she had wanted to pack up and move. Michael had put up a fight, but even if he had wanted to move, it wouldn’t have mattered. The house couldn’t be sold. She had called a number of real estate agents. They were interested until they recognized the address.
But you don’t like me. You feel something… it’s like you can’t stand being around me – and don’t say you don’t because you and I both know it’s true…
Michael had never been a touchy-feely kid, not even as a baby. He had rejected her breast, preferring the bottle. He screamed after he finished eating, wanting to get away from her. Michael didn’t cry when Dan fed him. They had a special connection, Michael and Dan, the two sharing a bond and a secret language spoken mainly through gestures, nods and grunts. And now Dan was gone, leaving Michael marooned in some strange wilderness without a guide or compass.
Jamie needed to be busy. She took Ben’s mobile phone from her pocket, wanting to reconnect the battery and take a closer look at what was stored on it. Maybe there would be something –
A knock on her window startled her.
She whipped her head around and saw a tall, lanky man with short white hair and thick-framed glasses. Her 68-year-old parish priest, Father James Humphrey.
She rolled down the window. ‘What… ah… why… ah… you here?’
‘I help out with the sports programme.’ His soft voice still carried traces of his Irish brogue. His grandparents had come over on the boat, and all the Humphrey children – nine brothers scattered across the north-east – had kept the accent alive.
He seemed to be waiting for her to say something – or maybe he didn’t know where to start. She hadn’t seen him or gone to church since Dan’s murder.
‘I… ah… can’t talk… ah… now. Got… ah… busy day.’
‘What happened to your face?’
‘Accident,’ she said. ‘Fell.’
‘Against a man’s fist?’
Her face flushed.
‘My brother Colm, God rest his soul, was a boxer. I recognize a shiner when I see one.’ Humphrey’s kind and gentle eyes were free of judgement. ‘What happened, love? Who hit you?’
‘Accident,’ she said again. ‘I have… ah… go. Appointment.’
He nodded and shifted his gaze to Carter’s car seat. ‘Are you still seeing the therapist?’
‘Yes.’ Humphrey had given her the name of a therapist who specialized in helping victims of trauma. The woman, Dr Wakefield, agreed to work pro bono. Jamie had visited the woman for a month and then stopped going.
Humphrey looked back at her.
He knows, she thought. He knows I’ve lied to him, I can see it written all over his face.
‘Have to… ah… go. Goodbye… ah… Father Jim.’ Jamie put the minivan in gear and drove away.
17
Darby placed last night’s security tapes on the passenger seat of her car. There had been no need for a warrant. Hospital officials were glad to cooperate.
On her way out, she had checked on Sean’s condition. The neurologist, Dr Goldstein, had gone back to Boston, so she spoke to one of the ICU nurses, a heavy older woman with silver hair.
‘He’s brain dead,’ the nurse said, with great sympathy. Then she touched the small, plain gold cross on the chain resting against her white shirt and added, ‘When you find a family member, I suggest you tell them to make funeral arrangements.’
Darby pulled out of the car park’s south exit, away from the crowd of reporters huddled around the main doors hoping to find a doctor or nurse willing to talk about Sean’s condition.
Driving through the streets on the way back to the city, she kept checking her rear-view mirror for the brown van with the dented front bumper.
Ten minutes later, at a busy downtown intersection, she spotted it six cars behind her. She had first noticed it on her way out of Boston. The van never got too close. It didn’t need to. Her car, a forest-green 1974 Ford Falcon GT Coupe, stood out in the busy traffic and was easy to follow.
Darby glanced at the dashboard clock. Quarter to twelve. The woman’s autopsy was scheduled today at three. Forty minutes to get back to Boston. That gave her a little over two hours to examine the body for evidence. Plenty of time to go to the Belham house and drive back to the city.
Walton Street was blocked off with news vans. She took the next left, on to Boynton, and drove slowly with her attention locked on her rear-view mirror. The van didn’t follow. It whisked straight past Boynton.
She pulled on to Marshall and parked in the driveway. Belham PD had brought in more sawhorses to corral the swelling number of reporters.
The patrolman guarding the front door had a sunburned face. After she showed him her ID, he put down his coffee cup and wrote her name on a clipboard.
‘Have any Feds been inside?’ Darby asked.
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Any Feds asked to go in? Have you seen any around the house?’
‘No one’s asked to go in. As for your question about them poking around, I can’t say that I’ve seen anyone. I’ve been here since six.’
‘Can I see your clipboard?’
‘Sure.’
She scanned the list of names. Boston Lab personnel and Belham detectives. She handed the clipboard back, thanked him and entered the house.
Lab techs stood in the foyer dusting surfaces for prints. Bagged evidence lined the stairs. She moved around them and made her way to the master bedroom. Fingerprint powder covered the walls.
Her kit was right where she had left it when Coop summoned her to the hospitaclass="underline" next to the leather club chair. She removed her camera and made her way back downstairs.
Techs dressed in bunny suits soaked through with sweat were busy collecting evidence from the chairs. Coop had tagged them – a reminder to personnel that the chairs were to be transported to the lab. Walking through the kitchen of drying blood, she was glad to see everyone using the new digital SLR cameras to document everything.
She found Coop in the living room. He had set up a fuming tent around the leather cushions.
He pulled the mask down and said, ‘Lots of smooth glove prints. We –’
‘You still keep those binoculars in your kit?’
‘I do.’ He tapped it with his foot. ‘What do you need them for?’
‘I’m going to do some sightseeing. I’ll be back in a few.’
‘Come see me when you’re done.’
Darby jogged through the woods. When she reached the top of the second incline, she stopped running and examined the trees. Here was a tall, dead pine, the upper trunk split by lightning.
Coop’s binoculars had a leather strap. She fitted it around her neck, then placed the binoculars against the small of her back. She did the same thing with the camera.
She jumped, grabbing the overhead limb with both hands and pulling her feet up, the leather straps pressed against her throat. Wrapping her legs around the limb, she hoisted herself up and straddled the limb. After a moment of wrangling with the straps, she stood and made her way to the trunk.
Climbing, she tested the weight of each limb. An occasional car whooshed by on the Blakely Road and in the distance she could hear branches snapping, Mark Alves’s deep voice shouting something to Randy Scott. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. She stopped climbing when she had a clear view of the neighbourhood.
Binoculars in hand, she searched the areas where the van would be able to see her car. She was surprised to find it parked on the corner of Walton and Cranmore, far away from the house and far from the news vans with their satellite feeds.