After Mass, friends and neighbours stopped to shake his hand. Some pulled him aside and asked how he was doing. Do you need anything, Jonathan? We're here for you.
Father Avery also wanted a private word with him.
'It's good to have you back, Jonathan. Your daughter was a very special young lady. I miss her terribly – the whole community does. The church's fundraising committee was thinking of doing something special to honour Emma's memory. Maybe you'd like to talk to them?'
What Father Avery wanted was access to his list of friends and business associates who would come out for a good cause. By using Emma's name, the church would most likely double if not triple last year's charity contributions. Tragedy always made people reach deep into their wallets.
'I'll be more than glad to help out,' Hale said. 'Thank you so much for thinking of me, Father.'
Hale pulled onto his street and saw a young woman with pale skin and shockingly dark red hair leaning against a black Mustang parked a few feet from the main gate. Hale pulled the Bentley up next to her and rolled down his window.
Up close and in the sunlight, Darby McCormick's green eyes were striking. She didn't seem that much older than Emma.
'May I talk to you for a moment, Mr Hale?'
'Of course,' Hale said. 'I'll drive you up to the house.'
'Let's talk out here. I'm enjoying the weather.'
Hale stepped out of the car but left it running.
Dr McCormick's face was friendly when she said, 'I want to talk to you about Malcolm Fletcher.'
'The former FBI profiler.'
'You know who he is.' It wasn't a question.
'It's been all over the news. He killed Detective Bryson and now they're saying he abducted Walter Smith.' Hale placed his hands in his jacket pockets. 'Did that man kill my daughter?'
'I think you already know the answer to that question.'
'I'm sorry?'
The young woman turned her attention to the house, to the limo and vintage cars parked in the driveway. The maintenance staff, taking advantage of the warm weather, were cleaning and waxing the vehicles.
Hale remembered the day of Emma's high-school graduation. He had given her a car, a convertible BMW, as a gift. A big red bow was affixed to the car roof. He could remember her breathless gasp when she saw it, the sound of her laugh. He remembered lots of things now.
'Someone I know decided to take the law into his hands,' Darby McCormick said. 'This person believed, deep in his heart, he was doing the right thing. At first, this person felt good about having his revenge, but over time, the guilt of what he did ate him alive.
'Mr Hale, what you've done or whatever it is you're doing, I know it feels right. Now. But this feeling of peace or justice or whatever you're calling it, it will turn on you. Time won't wash it away, and you can't pay someone to remove it for you. It will be with you forever. It's a heavy burden to carry, that guilt. You're not equipped to live with it. It will eat you alive.'
The dream from this morning came back to him and he saw Emma's face clearly in his mind's eye. He felt her hand gripped in his.
The young woman's next words were startling.
'If you tell me where Walter Smith is, I'll blame it on Fletcher,' Darby said. 'I'll say he called me again and told me where to find Walter's body. This conversation stays strictly between you and me. I give you my word.'
'With all due respect, Miss McCormick, you've overstepped your bounds.'
'I'm trying to save you from making a terrible mistake, sir. This is a one-time offer. When I leave, it's off the table.'
'I can't help you.'
'So you don't know where Walter Smith is?'
'No.'
'For your sake, Mr Hale, I hope you're telling the truth. The FBI will be paying you a visit. I hope you have a good lawyer.'
'Enjoy the rest of your day.'
'Before you go, I wanted to give you this.' She handed him some folded papers. 'It's Emma's diary. We found it at Walter's home. I made you a copy.' Hale took the folded pages and held them gently in his hands.
'Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Mr Hale?'
'Please let me know when you find Walter Smith. I'd like to speak to him. Thank you for this.' Hale held up the pages as he opened the car door.
Hale went to his office and shut the door.
After he finished reading, he sat in the chair, staring out the back windows. He sat for a long time, thinking.
He stood slowly, using the chair for support, lit a fire and filled a glass with bourbon. He drank the first glass empty and poured himself another.
He was on his third glass when he took out the cell phone and dialled the number he had called inside the limo.
The line rang once. The phone on the other end picked up.
'I'm sorry,' Walter Smith said. His voice was raw from screaming.
The thing's cell phone could only receive calls. It couldn't call out for help.
'I loved Emma. I loved her so much.' It was sobbing again. 'Do you know what that feels like? To love someone so much you can't breathe? Like your heart is about to burst?'
I do, Hale thought.
'I want to see my mother.'
Looking at the back lawn, at the patches of wilted grass peeking out from the melting snow, Hale saw Emma chasing after a ball – she was two, her legs wobbly, uncertain. She wore a beautiful pink dress. The expression on her face was pure joy.
I wish I could reach down and pick you up, Emma. I wish I could hold you in my arms and hold you and kiss you and tell you how much I love you just one more time, just one more time, one last, final time. I wish…
'Please, Mr Hale, please let me see my mother.'
'I suggest you pray to God. He's the only one who can help you now.'
Jonathan Hale disconnected the call. He removed the cell phone battery, threw it in the trash, and then tossed the phone into the fire. He opened the balcony doors to get rid of the unpleasant odour.
86
Bill Jordan called as Darby was pulling onto the Mass Pike. Darby explained what she needed.
'You're in luck,' he said. 'The panic button is transmitting. The GPS signal is about a quarter of a mile north of number eight Old Post Road in Sherborn.'
The town, located south of Boston, was less than a half-hour's drive from Weston.
'That's all I can tell you right now,' Jordan said. 'When I get closer I can lock onto the signal and we'll walk right up to him – or whatever's left of him.'
'Where are you?'
'I'm already on the road. I should be there in Sherborn in forty minutes.'
'I'll meet you there.' Darby pulled over to enter the address into her car's GPS unit.
'I don't think we have to rush,' Jordan said. 'The signal hasn't moved in fifteen minutes.'
Like Weston, the small town of Sherborn was another high-end suburb of cold McMansions and renovated antique farmhouses separated by miles of trees and dense woods to give owners the illusion of privacy.
Old Post Road was long and steep, bordered by rolling fields of melting snow. Darby drove ten miles and passed two homes.
The mailbox for number 8 was still standing, but the home at the end of the driveway had been demolished to make way for a new foundation. An excavator, backhoe and two dump trucks sat in a wide open field across from a pair of horse barns, the wood grey and rotting.
Standing under the warm afternoon sun, listening to the tick of her car engine, Darby shielded her eyes and stared into the distance at the woods. Jordan said the GPS signal was a quarter of a mile away from here, but which route had Fletcher taken?
Walter Smith was too heavy to carry. Did Fletcher drive him somewhere into these woods? A car couldn't drive out here, not with all this snow, but a truck might work.
Darby walked into the open field. Tyre tracks left by a heavy piece of machinery were in the snow. The tracks led back to an excavator. The ignition had been hotwired.