The Secret Friend

'That wasn't here this afternoon,' Reed said. 'I'll swear on a stack of bibles.'

Darby's attention was on the windowsill. Standing above the photograph was a statue of the Virgin Mary – the same statue that had been sewn inside Emma Hale and Judith Chen's pockets.

She turned to Bryson, who was staring at the statue, mesmerized.

'Do you know this woman?'

Bryson shook his head.

Darby examined the picture. It was printed on thick, glossy paper. There was no writing on the back, no date or time-stamp anywhere on the paper. Darby wondered if this picture had been printed on a computer. Every photography and drug store had kiosks where you could slip in a memory card and print out digital pictures in a matter of minutes.

'Mr Reed, would you excuse us for a moment?'

The caretaker nodded. He stepped away from the cell and joined the other men who were wandering around the vast room, beams of light crisscrossing over one another as they searched the cells on the two floors. Darby turned to Bryson.

'I've got evidence bags in the trunk, along with a spare kit. I can process this room myself, and you can be the witness to anything we find. It will be quicker than having to get people from the lab in here.'

'What about a camera?'

'I've got a Polaroid and a digital.'

Darby's cell phone vibrated against her hip.

'What do you think of Sinclair?' Malcolm Fletcher asked. 'It's like walking through purgatory, isn't it?'

31

'I wouldn't know,' Darby said, motioning to Bryson. 'I've never been to purgatory.'

'Haven't you read Dante?' Fletcher asked. 'Or don't they teach that in class any more?'

'I've read Paradiso.'

'Yes. The good Catholic girls always learn about heaven first, don't they?'

Fletcher laughed. Bryson stood behind Darby. She held the phone an inch from her ear so Bryson could listen.

'The nuns should have made you read Purgatorio,' Fletcher said. 'It's where Dante describes purgatory as a place where suffering has a real purpose that can lead you to redemption, if you're willing to go the distance. Are you willing to go the distance?'

'I found the room with the photograph.'

'Do you recognize the woman?'

'No. Who is she?'

'What do you think of the Virgin Mary statue?'

'Is it supposed to have some sort of meaning?'

'Now is not the time to be coy, Darby. The moment of revelation is at hand.'

'Let's talk about the woman in the photograph. Why did you leave it here?'

'I'd be more inclined to answer your question if you answer one of mine,' Fletcher said. 'Is the statue on the windowsill the same one you found on Emma Hale and Judith Chen?'

Darby wasn't about to give the former profiler any specifics about the case. 'Why did you place it here?' she asked. 'Why did you want me to find it?'

'Tell me about the statues and I'll give you the name of the woman in the photograph.'

Bryson shook his head.

'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about,' Darby said.

'Why don't you ask Detective Bryson? Or would you rather put him on the phone?'

How did Fletcher know Bryson was in the room?

He must be watching.

Bryson moved away, drawing his weapon, and ushered Reed inside the cell. Darby covered the phone's mouthpiece.

'Don't tell him a goddamn thing,' Bryson said, and then signalled his men.

Darby's gloved hand gripped the SIG and slid it from the shoulder holster. She looked past the door, into the dark, decaying room cut with blades of light and steaming breath, wondering where the former profiler was hiding.

Darby pressed the phone back to her ear. 'Tell me about the woman in the photograph.'

'You can't find this woman alone,' Malcolm Fletcher said. 'But if you're willing to take the journey, I'll be your guide.'

If this was some sort of trap, why would Fletcher stage it in an abandoned mental hospital with a room full of cops? It was too elaborate a setup. Could the man possibly be telling her the truth?

'I think you need to explain your agenda,' Darby said.

'There's no reason to fear me. We're both after the same goal.'

'Which is?'

'The truth,' Fletcher said. 'I'll lead you to the woman in the photograph, but once you open Pandora's Box, there's no turning back. You may want to give that some thought.'

'And you're going to guide me to her out of the goodness of your heart.'

'Think of me as the boatman Charon guiding you across the river of hate.'

'Where is she?'

'She's waiting for you downstairs.'

Darby's breath caught. It took her a moment to regroup.

'She's here,' she said.

'Yes. Are you ready to meet her?'

There was no menace in Fletcher's voice, none of that jovial taunting from the previous conversations. What Darby heard was a cool, neutral tone that conjured a memory from her childhood – ten years old and taking a shortcut through the Belham woods and seeing three boys from her class. They had found a dead coyote. One of the boys, Ricky something, the fat one with the mean eyes, asked her if she wanted to see it. Darby said no. They called her a chicken, a frightened little girl.

To prove them wrong, she marched down the embankment, tripped and fell. She came to a hard stop, dimly aware of the buzzing sound of flies behind the boys' laughter, and when she pushed herself up, she felt something hot and alive squirming between her fingers. Maggots, hundreds of them, roiled inside the carcass. Darby screamed and the boys laughed harder. When she started to cry, the fat one, laughing, said, 'Hey, don't get mad at us. You're the one who decided to go down there.'

The memory vanished when Fletcher said, 'I don't mean to be rude, but I'm pressed for time. I need your answer now.'

Why was Fletcher doing this? Was this a ruse in order for him to try to get information about the case? Or did the former profiler actually know something?

Darby's attention shifted to the Virgin Mary statue on the windowsill. Where the hell did you get it?

Don't tell him a goddamn thing, Bryson had said.

Stay or go? Call it.

'Call me when you're ready to share,' Darby said and hung up. She turned to Reed, who appeared visibly shaken. 'How many floors are below us?'

The old caretaker took off his glove and wiped his face with a liver-spotted hand. 'Four,' he said, 'and that's not including the basement level.'

'Have you been down there recently?'

'Nobody's been down there in years.'

'We may need to search the hospital. I'll need you and your men to help us.'

'You want us to help you search the entire hospital? I can't allow that, Miss McCormick. There are too many areas that are unstable. It's not safe.'

Darby was staring at the photograph of the young woman. Was she somewhere inside the hospital? Was she alive? Was she hurt or injured?

'Please stay inside this room, Mr Reed, until I come back.'

Darby, her pistol drawn, stuck close to the walls. Above her and across the room, Bryson's men slammed back cell doors, searching for Malcolm Fletcher. She doubted they would find him. The former federal agent was too skilled at hiding. He had eluded capture for decades.

Tim Bryson stood at the end of the hallway, breath steaming in the cold air above the beam of the tactical flashlight mounted underneath his handgun, a 9mm Beretta. She got Bryson's attention and nodded to an empty room. The window had bars on it, the broken glass protected by a mesh grille. Snow had collected on the sill.

'I think we need to organize a search party,' Darby told Bryson.

'You think the woman in the picture is waiting for us somewhere in here?'

'He wanted to lead us downstairs. I think we need to take a look.'

Bryson thought it over for a moment. He was sweating.

'You may be right,' he said. 'I'll organize the search. Process the room, and get back to the lab. I want to know what the son of a bitch is up to.'