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CHAPTER 1
Jersey
The blonde caught in the sights of the Leupold Vari-X III 1.5-5 x 20mm Matte Duplex Illuminated Reticle scope didn't seem to fear for her life. At the moment, in fact, she was doing her hair. Now she had out a black compact and was checking her lipstick, a light, pearly pink. Jersey adjusted the Leupold scope as the reporter pursed her lips for her own reflection and practiced an alluring pout. Next to her, her cameraman let his heavy video equipment fall from his shoulder to the ground and rolled his eyes. Apparently, he recognized this drill and knew it would be a while.
Ten feet away from the blonde, another reporter, this one male--WNAC-TV, home of the Fox Futurecast, because heaven forbid anyone call it a forecast anymore--was meticulously picking pieces of lint off of his mud-brown suit. His cameraman sat in the grass, sipping Dunkin' Donuts coffee and blinking sleepily. On the other side of the stone pillar that dominated the sprawling World War Memorial Park, a dozen other reporters were scattered about, double-checking their copy, double-checking their appearance, yawning tiredly, then double-checking the street.
Eight-oh-one a.m., Monday morning. At least twenty-nine minutes until the blue van from Adult Correctional Institutions (ACI) was due to arrive at the Licht Judicial Complex in downtown Providence and everyone was bored. Hell, Jersey was bored. He'd been camped out on the roof of the sprawling brick courthouse since midnight last night. And damn, it got cold at night this early in May. Three Army blankets, a black coverall, and black leather Bob Allen shooting gloves and he still shivered until the sun came up. That was a little before six, meaning he'd had two and a half more hours to kill and not even the chance to stand up and stretch without giving his position away.
Jersey had spent the night--and now the morning--hunkered behind a two-foot-high decorative-brick trim piece that lined this section of the courthouse's roof. The faux railing afforded him just enough cover to remain invisible to people in the courtyard below, and more importantly, to the reporters camped in the grassy memorial park across the street. The railing also offered the perfect rifle stand, for when the moment came.
Sometime between 8:30 and 9:00 a.m., the blue ACI van would pull up. The eight-foot-high wrought-iron gate that surrounded the inner courtyard of the judicial complex would open up. The van would pull in. The gate would swing shut. The van doors would open. And then . . .
Jersey's finger twitched on the trigger of the heavy barrel AR15. He caught himself, then eased his grip on the assault rifle, slightly surprised by his antsiness. It wasn't like him to rush. Calm and controlled, he told himself. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn't done before. Nothing here he couldn't handle.
Jersey had been hunting since the time he could walk, the scent of gunpowder as reassuring to him as talcum. Following in his father's footsteps, he'd joined the Army at the age of eighteen, then spent eight years honing his abilities with an M16. Not to brag, but Jersey could take out targets at five hundred yards most guys couldn't hit at one hundred. He was also a member of the Quarter Inch Club--at two hundred yards, he could cluster three shots within a quarter-inch triangulation of one another. His father had been an American sniper in 'Nam, so Jersey figured that shooting was in his genes.
Five years ago, seeking a better lifestyle than the Army could afford him, he'd opened shop. He used a double-blind policy. The clients never knew his name, he never knew theirs. A first middleman contacted a second middleman who contacted Jersey. Money was wired to appropriate accounts. Dossiers bearing pertinent information were sent to temporary P.O. boxes opened at various MAIL BOXES ETC. stores under various aliases. Jersey had a rule about not hitting women or children. Some days he thought that made him a good person. Other days he thought that made him worse, because he used that policy to try to prove to himself that he did have a conscience when the bottom line was, well, you know--he killed people for money.
If his father knew, he definitely wouldn't approve.
This gig had come along five months ago. Jersey had been instantly intrigued. For one thing, the target was a genuine, bona fide rapist, so Jersey didn't have to worry about his conscience. For another thing, the job was in Providence, and Jersey had always wanted to visit the Ocean State. He'd made four separate trips to the city to scope out the job, and thus far, he liked what he saw.
Providence was a small city, bisected by the Providence River, where no kidding, they ran gondola rides on select Friday and Saturday nights. The slick black boats looked straight out of Venice, and the mayor even had a bunch of good ol' Italian boys manning the vessels in black-striped shirts and red-banded strawhats. Then there was this thing called WaterFire, where they lit bonfires in the middle of the river. You could sit out at your favorite restaurant and watch the river burn while tourists bounced around the flames in gondolas. Jersey had been secretly hoping someone would catch on fire, but hey, that was just him.
The city was pretty. This courthouse, on the east side of the river, was an impressive red-brick structure with a soaring white clock tower that dominated an entire city block. Old world colonial meets new world grandeur. The front of the courthouse sat on Benefit Street, which seemed to be a mile-long advertisement for old money--huge historical homes featuring everything from Victorian turrets to Gothic stone, interspersed with green lawns and neatly constructed brick walls. The back of the courthouse, where Jersey was, overlooked the sprawling memorial park, the grassy expanse littered with dignified bronze sculptures of soldiers and significantly less dignified pieces of modern art. The modern art carried over to the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD), with its urban campus stretching alongside the courthouse.
Rhode Island didn't have much in the way of violent crime. Thirty homicides a year, something like that. Of course, that would change today. The state was better known for its long history of financial crimes, Mafia connections and political corruption. As the locals liked to say, in Rhode Island it isn't what you know, but who you know. And in all honesty, everyone did seem to know one another in this state. Frankly, it freaked Jersey out.
Jersey started to yawn again, caught it this time, and forced himself to snap to attention. Eight twenty-one a.m. now. Not much longer. On the grass across the street, the various news teams were beginning to stir.
Last night, before coming to the courthouse, Jersey had sat in his hotel room and flipped back and forth between all the local news shows, trying to learn the various media personalities. He didn't recognize the pretty blonde down below, though her cameraman's shirt indicated that they were with WJAR, News Team 10, the local NBC affiliate. Network news. That was respectable. Jersey was happy for her.
Then he wondered if the woman had any idea just how big her morning was about to become. His target, Eddie Como, aka the College Hill Rapist, was major news in the Ocean State. Everyone was here to cover the start of the trial. Everyone was here to capture shots of slightly built, hunch-shouldered Eddie, or maybe get a glimpse of one of his three beautiful victims.
These reporters didn't know anything yet. About Jersey. About his client. About what was really going to happen this sunny Monday morning in May. It made Jersey feel benevolent toward all the bored, overhyped, overgroomed individuals gathered on the grass below. He had a treat for them. He was about to make one of them, some of them, very special.
Take this pretty little blonde with the pearly pink lips. She was up first thing this morning, armed with canned copy and thinking that at best, she'd get a shot of the blue ACI van for the morning news at her station. Of course, the other twenty reporters would shoot the same visual with pretty much the same copy, nobody being any better than anyone, and nobody being any worse. Just another day on the job, covering what needed to be covered for all the enquiring minds that wanted to know.
Except that someone down in that park, sitting on the grass, surrounded by war memorials and freakish exhibits of modern art, was going to get a scoop this morning. Someone, maybe that pretty little blonde, was going to show up to get a routine clip of a blue ACI van, and come away with a picture of a hired gun instead.
There was no way around it. The only time Jersey would have access to Eddie Como was when the alleged rapist was moved from the ACI to the Licht Judicial Complex on the opening day of his trial. And the only time Jersey would have access at the Licht Judicial Complex was when Eddie was unloaded from the ACI van within a fenced-off drop-off roughly the size of a two-car garage. And the only way Jersey could shoot into a drop-off zone enclosed by an eight-foot-high fence was to shoot down at the target.
The massive red-brick courthouse took up an entire city block. Soaring up to sixteen stories high with swooping red-brick wings, it towered above its fellow buildings and zealously protected its back courtyard and the all-important drop-off zone. So Jersey's options had been clear from the beginning. He would have to access the courthouse itself, easily done in the cover of night once he learned the routine of the Capital Security guards.
He would have to take up position on the sixth-story roofline immediately overlooking the drop off point to have a clean shot down into the fenced-off area. He would have to line up the shot in the cover of darkness. And then, when the van finally arrived sometime between 8:30 and 9:00 a.m., he would have five seconds to stand, blow off the top of Eddie Como's head, and start running.
Because while the state marshals who escorted the inmates probably wouldn't be able to see him--the angle would be too steep--and while the prisoners themselves wouldn't be able to see him--they would probably be too busy screaming at all the brains now sprayed in their hair--the reporters, every single greedy, desperate-for-a-scoop reporter camped across the street--they would have a clear view of Jersey standing six stories up. Jersey firing a rifle six stories up. Jersey running across the vast roofline, six stories up.
The shot itself was going to be easy. A mere seventy feet. Straight down. Hell, Jersey should forget the assault rifle and drop an anvil on the guy's head. Yeah, the shot itself was downright boring. But the moments afterward . . . The moments afterward were going to be really entertaining.
A disturbance down the street. Jersey flicked back to the pretty blonde in time to see her drop her lipstick and scramble forward. Showtime.
He glanced at his watch. Eight thirty-five a.m. Apparently, the state marshals didn't want to keep the reporters waiting.
Jersey brought his rifle back down against him. He adjusted the scope to 1.5, all he would need for a seventy-foot headshot. He checked the twenty-cartridge magazine, then chambered the first round. He was using Winchester's .223 Remington, a 55-grain soft point bullet, which according to the box was best for shooting prairie dogs, coyotes and woodchucks.
And now, the College Hill Rapist.
Jersey got on his knees. He positioned the rifle along the top of the rail, then placed his eye against the scope. He could just make out the street through the stone archways lining the outer courtyard. He heard, more than saw, the black wrought-iron fence of the inner courtyard swing open. Calm and controlled. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn't done before. Nothing here he couldn't handle.
He flexed his fingers. He listened to the reassuring crinkle of his black leather shooting gloves . . .
The prisoners would be shackled together like a chain gang. Most would be in khaki or blue prison overalls. But Eddie Como would be different. Facing the first day of trial, Eddie Como would arrive in a suit.
Jersey waited for the barking sound of a state marshal ordering the unloading of the van. He felt the first prick of sweat. But he didn't pop up. He still didn't squeeze the trigger.
Twenty reporters and cameramen across the street. Twenty journalists just waiting for his or her big break . . .
"Courtyard secure! Door open!"
Jersey heard the rasp of metal as the van door slid back. He heard the slap of the first rubber-soled shoe hitting the flagstone patio . . .
One, two, three, four, five . . .
Jersey rocketed up from his knees and angled the AR15 twenty-two degrees from vertical. Searching, searching . . .
The dark head of Eddie Como emerged from the van. He was gazing forward, looking at the door of the courthouse. His shoulders were down. He took three shuffling steps forward--
And Jersey blew off the top of his head. One moment Eddie Como was standing shackled between two guys. The next he was folding up silently and plummeting to the hard, slate-covered ground.
Jersey let the black-market rifle fall to the roof. Then he began to run.
He was aware of so many things at once. The feel of the sun on his face. The smell of cordite in the air. The noise of a city about to start a busy work week, cars roaring, cars screeching. And then, almost as an afterthought, people beginning to scream.
"Gun, gun, gun!"
"Get down, get down!"
"Look! Up there. On the roof!"
Jersey was smiling. Jersey was feeling good. He clambered across the courthouse roof, the gummy soles of his rock-climbing shoes finding perfect traction. He turned the corner and rounded the center clock tower, which rose another several stories. Now you see me. Now you don't.
Shots fired. Some overpumped state marshals shooting their wad at an enemy they couldn't see.
Jersey's smile grew. He hummed now as he stripped off his gloves and cast them behind him. Almost at the rooftop door. He grabbed the front of his black coveralls with his left hand and popped open the snaps. Three seconds later, the black coveralls joined his discarded rifle and gloves on the rooftop. Five seconds after that, Jersey had replaced his rock climber's shoes with highly polished Italian loafers. Then it was a simple matter of reclaiming the black leather briefcase he'd left by the rooftop door. Last night, the briefcase had contained the dismantled parts of an AR15. This morning, it held only business papers.
CHAPTER 2
At 8:31 a.m. Monday morning, Rhode Island state Police Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin was already late for his 8:30 briefing. This was not a good thing. It was his first day back on the job in eighteen months. He should probably be on time. Hell, he should probably be early. Show up at headquarters at 8:15 A.M., pumped up, sharply pressed, crisply saluting. Here I am, I am ready.
And then…?
"Welcome back," they would greet him. (Hopefully.)
"Thanks," he would say. (Probably.)
"How are you feeling?" they'd ask. (Suspiciously.)
"Good," he'd reply. (Too easily.)
Ah, shit Good was a stupid answer. Too often said to be often believed. He'd say good, and they'd stare at him harder, trying to read between the lines. Good like you're ready to crack open a case file, or good like we can trust you with a loaded firearm? It was an interesting question.
He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tried again.
"Welcome back," they'd say.
"It's good to be back," he'd say.
"How are you doing?" they'd ask.
"My anxiety is operating within normal parameters," he'd reply.
No. Absolutely not. That kind of psychobabble made even him want to whoop his ass. Forget it. He should've gone with his father's recommendation and walked in wearing a T-shirt that read "You're only Jealous Because the Voices are Talking to Me."
At least they all could've had a good laugh.
Griffin had joined the Rhode Island State Police force sixteen years ago. He'd started with four months in a rigorous boot camp, learning everything from evasive driving maneuvers to engaging in hand-to-hand combat after being stung with pepper spray. (You want to know pain? Having pepper spray in your eyes is pain. You want to know self-control? Standing there willingly to be sprayed for the second time, that is self-control.) Following boot camp, Griffin had spent eight years in uniform. He'd boosted the state coffers writing his share of speeding tickets. He'd helped motorists change tires. He'd attended dozens of motor vehicle accidents, including way too many involving children. Then he'd joined the Detective Bureau, starting in Intelligence, where he'd earned a stellar reputation for his efforts on a major FBI case. Following that, he worked some money laundering, gunrunning, art forgery, homicide. Rhode Island may not have a large quantity of crime, but as the detectives liked to say, they got quality crime.
Griffin had been a good detective. Bright. Hardheaded. Stubborn. Ferocious at times. Funny at others. This stuff was in his blood. His grandfather had been a beat cop in New York. His father had served as sheriff in North Kingstown. Two of his brothers were now state marshals. Years ago, when Griffin had first met Cindy on a hiking trip in New Hampshire, first looked into her eyes and felt he smile like a thunderbolt in his chest, he'd blurted out, be-
fore his name, before even hello, "I'm a cop:' Fortunately for him, Cindy had understood.
Griffin had been a good detective. Guys liked working with him. The brass liked giving him cases, The media liked following his career. He went on the Dave Letterman show when the Rhode Island State Police won a nationwide award for best uniform. He led Operation Pinto, which shut down a major auto-theft ring in a blaze of front-page Providence Journal headlines. He even got appointed to the governor's task force on community policing, probably because the little old ladies had been asking for him since he'd strutted across Letterman's sound stage. (Officer Blue Eyes, the ProJo had dubbed him. Oh yeah, his fellow detectives had definitely had that made into a T-shirt.)
Two and a half years ago, when the third kid vanished from Wakefield and the pattern of a locally operating child predator became clear, there had never been any doubt that Griffin would head the investigation. He remembered being excited when he'd walked out of that briefing. He remembered the thrum of adrenaline in his veins, the flex of his muscles, the heady sense that he had once again begun a chase.
Two days before Cindy went for a routine checkup. Six months before everything went from bad to worse. Eleven months before he learned the true nature of the black abyss.
For the record, he'd nailed that son of a bitch. For the record.
Griffin made the left-hand fork on Route 6, headed into North Scituate. Five minutes from headquarters now. He drove by the giant reservoir as the landscape opened up to reveal a vast expanse of water on his right and rolling green hills on his left. Soon he'd see joggers, guys grabbing a morning run. Then would come the state police compound. First, the flat, ugly 1960s brown building that housed Investigative Support Services. Then, the huge old gray barn in the back, a remnant of what the property used to be. Finally, the beautiful old white semimansion that now served as state police headquarters, complete with a gracefully curving staircase and bay windows overlooking more rolling green hills. The White House, the rookies called it. Where the big boys lived.
Damn, he'd missed this place. Damn.
"Welcome back, Griffin," they'd say.
"Thanks," he'd say.
"How are you feeling?" they'd ask
And he'd answer-
In the left-hand lane, a blue Ford Taurus roared past, red lights flashing behind the grille. Then came two more unmarked police cars, sirens also screaming. What the hell?
Griffin turned into the parking lot of state police headquarters just in time to see detectives pour out of ISSB and race for their state steels. He recognized two guys from the Criminal Identification Unit (CIU), Jack Cappelli and Jack Needham, ales Jack-n-Jack, climbing into the big gray crime-scene-investigation van. Then they had flipped on the lights and were peeling out of the lot.
Griffin swung in front of the 155 building. He hadn't even cut the motor before Lieutenant Marcey Morelli of Major Crimes was banging on his window.
"Lieutenant." He started to salute. Morelli cut him off.
"Providence just called in reports of rifle fire and a major explosion at the Licht Judicial Complex. ATF and the state fire marshal get the explosion. We get the shooting. All units respond."
"A shooting at the courthouse?" His eyebrows shot up No friggin' way.
"You been following the Como case? Sounds like somebody got tired of waiting for the trial. Better yet, the media's already there, catching the before and the after. Can you say 'Film at eleven'?"
"Somebody up there hates you, Lieutenant:'
"No kidding. Look, whatever just happened, we know it's going to be big. I've already asked the detective commander for additional resources, plus I want all of Major Crimes down there ASAP. The uniforms can handle the canvassing, but I want you guys on initial interviews. Find out when, where, why, how, radio it to every uniform in the area so they can be on the lookout for the shooter, and hey, catch this guy yesterday. You know the drill:' Morelli paused long enough to take a breath, then narrowed her eyes as, for the first time, she truly saw his seated form. "Jesus Christ, Griffin, I thought you'd spent the time fishing or something like that:'
"Well yeah. And some weights." He shrugged modestly.
"Uh huh."
"And some running."
"Uh huh."
"Okay, boxing, too:'
The lieutenant rolled her eyes. Griffin had spent the last year of his eighteen-month medical leave mastering the art of sublimation-funneling nonproductive tension into a productive outlet. He'd gotten pretty good at it. He could sustain a five-minute mile for nearly ten miles. He could box sixteen rounds. He could bench-press a Volvo.
His body was good. His face was still a little too harsh--man not sleeping well at night. But physically...Griffin was a lean, mean machine.
The lieutenant straightened. "Well," she said briskly, "The Boss is on his way. So get moving, Sergeant. And remember, there are only a hundred cameras about to document every step we take:'
Lieutenant Morelli resumed running. Griffin sat there for one more moment, honestly a little dazed. My anxiety is operating within normal parameters, he thought stupidly. Ah fuck it. Back is back. He flipped on his lights and joined his fellow officers, roaring toward Providence.
CHAPTER 3
Jillian
She is driving to her sister's apartment work has held her up, she is running an hour late. Traffic is miserable, of course. Another accident on 195, when isn't there an accident? She is thinking about all the things she still has to get done. Cash-flow analysis of the first six months. Cash-flow projection of the next six months. Storyboards for Roger Copy proofs for Claire.
Thppi called her at work to say that Libby was having a bad day. Please don't stay out too late.
She is driving to her sister's apartment, but she is not thinking about her sister. She is not looking forward to dinner with Trish. It has become one more thing to do on a long list of things to do, and pan of her suspects that this is bad. She has lost perspective. She has let her life getaway from her. The rest of her is too busy to care.
She has her responsibilities. She is the responsible one.
Trisha is off to college. Trisha has her first apartment, tiny, cramped, but beautiful because it is all hers. Trisha has new friends, new life, new goals. She wants to be a playwright, she told Jillian excitedly last week Before that she had wanted to study communications. Before that it had been English. Trish is young beautiful, bright the world is her oyster; and Jillian does not doubt that Trish will become exactly who she wants to become, doing exactly what she wants to do.
And this pains her in a way she doesn't understand. Lifts her up, pushes her down. She is the surrogate mother, proud of her child's accomplishments. She is the tired older sister; feeling a nagging twinge of jealousy when she has nothing to be jealous of. Yes, her path was harder. No, she was never nineteen and carefree. No, she has never gotten to live on her own, not even now. But she went to college, earned a business degree. At thirty-six she runs a successful ad agency, calling all the shots. She didn't sacrifice everything for her mother and sister. She carved out her own life, too.
And yet...
Visiting Trish is hard for her these days. She does not do it nearly as often as she should.
Now, she drives around Thayer Street, looking for a place to park. The third week in May, the sun is just starting to set and the sidewalks are crowded with Brown University summer students, milling outside of Starbucks, the Gap store, Abercrombie & Fitch. Jillian still gets a twinge of unease over Trisha living in the city. Especially after the recent reports of two rapes, the second of which was only two weeks ago. One was over at Providence College, however;: and the other was some woman in her home.
Trisha knows about the attacks. They even talked about it last week. Some of the girls have started carrying pepper spray. Trish bought a canister as well. Plus she inspected the locks on her apartment. Her apartment is really very secure. A little basement studio, with only tiny windows set high in the wall and not big enough for a grown man to crawl through. Trisha had also installed a bolt lock when she signed her lease last spring. It's a key in, key out kind of lock; supposedly one of the best money can buy.
"I'll be fine," Trish told Jillian in that exasperated way only a teenager can manage. "For heaven's sake, I've taken two courses in self-defense!"
Jillian finally finds a parking spot deep down on Angell Street. She has a bit of a hike now to Trisha's apartment, but that's not unusual given the state of Providence 's parking Plus, it's a balmy, dusky evening and she could use the exercise.
Jillian doesn't have pepper spray. She contemplates this as she locks the door of her gold Lexus. She does what she's seen on TV-she carries her car keys in her fist, with the biggest key sticking out between two fingers like a weapon. She also keeps her head up and her footsteps brisk Of course, this comes naturally to her. She has never been the shrinking violet type. She likes to think that Trish got her independent spirit from her.
Trisha lives at the edge of the Brown campus. Generally, they meet at her apartment, then walk to Thayer Street with its host of ethnic restaurants and upscale coffee shops. Jillian could go for some Pad Thai. Or maybe grilled lamb.
For the first time, her footsteps pick up. Thayer Street has such great restaurants; it's nice to be out and about on College Hilt with its youth and vitality. And the night is lovely, not too hot, not too cold. After dinner they can go for some ice cream. Trisha can tell her all about her summer internship at Trinity Theater; whether the set guy-Joe, Josh, Jon-has asked her out yet. There would be fresh gossip on her group of friends, of course, The Girls. Tales of adventure from their recent trip to Providence Place Mall ladies 'night out in Newport, etc., etc.
Jillian could relax, sit back and let Trisha go. Tell me about every hour, minute, day. Tell me everything.
For this is where the proud surrogate mother and tired older sister come together: they both love to listen to Trish. They love her enthusiasm. They cherish her excitement They marvel at her wonder, a nineteen-year-old woman-girl, still learning about the world, still convinced she can make it a better place.
Jillian arrives at Trisha 's apartment complex. Once, it was a grand old home. Now, the building is subdivided into eight units for the college crowd. As the basement renter; Trisha has her own entrance around back
Jillian rounds the house as the sun sinks lower on the horizon and casts the narrow alleyway into gloom. Trisha has a powerful outdoor spotlight above the back door. Jillian is slightly surprised, given the rapidly falling night, that Trish has not turned it on. She'll mention it to her.
At the door; Jillian raises her hand, she lets her knuckles fall. And then she catches her breath as the door soundlessly swings in to reveal the darkened stairs.
"Trisha? Trish?'
Jillian moves cautiously down the steps, having to use the handrail to guide her way. Had Trisha grown tired of waiting for her? Maybe she'd decided to start her laundry and had run down the street to the Laundromat. That had happened once before.
At the bottom of the stairs is another door, this one wooden, simple. An inside bedroom door Jillian puts her hand on the shiny brass-colored knob. She turns. The door sweeps open and Jillian is face-to-face with a deep-shadowed mom.
"Trisha?"
She takes three steps in. She glances at the tiny kitchenette. She turns toward the bed, and-
A force slams into her from behind. She cries out, her hands popping open, her car keys flying across the room, as she goes down hard. She catches herself with her left palm and promptly hears something crack
"Trish?" Her voice high-pitched, reedy, not at all like herself. The bed, the bed, that poor woman on the bed.
"Goddamn bitch!"
A weight is pressing against her back Rough hands tangle in her hair. Her head is jerked back She gasps for air. Then her head is slammed against the floor.
Stars. She sees stars, and her scattered senses by to understand what is happening It's not a cartoon. There is no Coyote or Road Runner. This is her, in her sister's apartment, and oh my God, she is under attack That is not a store mannequin tied naked and spread-eagled to the bed. Trish, Trish, Trish!
All of a sudden, Jillian is pissed off.
"No!" she cries.
"Fucking, fucking, fucking," the man says. He has her hair again. Her head goes up. Her head goes down. Her nose explodes and blood and tears pour down her face. She whimpers, but then her rage grows even hotter. She must get this man! She must hurt this man! Because even in pain, even in shock, she has a deeper; instinctive understanding of what has just happened here. Of what this man just did to her sister.
Her hands come out from beneath her flailing wildly, trying to whack at the weight on her back But her arms don't bend that way, and he's still beating her face and the world is now starting to spin. Her head goes back, her head goes forward. Her head goes back, her head goes forward
He is sliding down her back He is rubbing against her and there is no mistaking his arousal "I'm going to fuck you good," the man says. He laughs and laughs and laughs.
.Jillian finally twists beneath his body. She beats at his thighs. She knits together the fingers on her right hand and fries to jab them into his ribs. And he whips her head from side to side to side until she can no longer feel the sting. She is in a dark black place with a weight crushing her body and a voice stuck in her head and he is going to fuck her good.
His left hand curls around her throat. It starts to squeeze. She fries to claw at his wrist, but encounters only latex.
Oh no. Trish. Oh no.
She must get him off. She can't get him off. Her lungs are burning. She wants to fight She wants to save her sister Oh please stop, please.
Somebody. Help us.
The lights grow brighter behind her eyes. Her body slowly, surely, goes limp. The man finally loosens the grip his legs have on her ribs. His weight comes up off her body slightly.
And she jabs her hand forward as hard as she can and nails him between the legs.
The man howls. Rolls to the side. Clutches his balls.
Jillian twists her shoulders, grabs at the floor and tries to find something to pull herself free.
And then the weight is completely gone. The man is gone. He is curled up on the floor and she's gotta move. Phone, phone, phone. The kitchen counter. It's on the kitchen counter. If she can just get to the phone, dial 911.
Jillian pulls herself across the hardwood floor Gotta move, gotta move. Trisha needs her. She needs her
Come on, Jillian. -
And then, before she even feels him, she hears him corning again.
"No," she whimpers, but she's already too late.
"Goddamn, fucking bitch! I'm gonna KILL you! I'm gonna SNAP your goddamn neck, I'm gonna pop out your fucking eyes. Goddamn…"
He slams down upon her back and grabs her throat with his steely hands. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Can't swallow. Can 't breathe.
Her chest, growing so tight Her hands, plucking at his gloved hands. No, no, no.
Come on, Jillian. Come on, Jillian.
But he is too strong. She realizes this as the world begins to spin and her lungs start to burst She is proud. She is smart. She is a woman who believes she controls her own life.
But he is brute strength. And she is no match for him.
She is sinking down. She wants to say something. She wants to reach out to her sister. She is so sorry. Oh Trish, oh Trish, oh Trish.
And then, all of a sudden, the hands are gone.
'Fuck!" Fast footsteps run across the mom. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. A distant boom as the external door bursts open.
Jillian draws a ragged, gasping breath of air. Like a drowning victim bursting free from water; she bolts upright, desperately dragging more oxygen into her lungs.
He's gone. He just.. . gone.
The room is empty. It is over. She's alive, she's alive. She is not stronger. She is not more capable. But she is lucky.
Jillian pulls herself unsteadily to her fret She staggers across the room. She falls onto the bed next to her sister's form.
"Trish!" she cries out
And then, in the unending silence of the mom, she realizes that she is not lucky at all.
Seven A.M. Monday morning, Jillian Hayes remained prostrate on her bed. She stared up at the ceiling. She listened to the sound of her mother's muffled snoring down the hall, then the faint beep, beep, beep of Toppi's alarm clock going off for the first time. The adult-care specialist hit snooze right away. It would take three or four more alarms before Toppi actually got out of bed.
Jillian finally turned her head. She looked out the window of her East Greenwich home, where the sun was shining bright. Then she looked at her dresser, where the manila envelope still lay in plain sight
Seven A.M. Monday morning. The Monday morning.
The phone next to her bed bleated shrilly. Jillian immediately froze. It might be another reporter demanding a quote. Worse, it might be him. He probably hadn't even started the ride to the courthouse yet. What did he wake up thinking about on a day like today?
The phone rang again, loud and demanding. Jillian had no choice but to snatch it up; she didn't want it to disturb her mother.
"Did I wake you?" Carol asked in her eat
Jillian started breathing again. Of course it was Carol.
Good ol' Dan was probably up and out already. Heaven forbid that even on a day as important as this day, he stay at home with his wife. Jillian said, "No."
"I couldn't sleep," Carol said.
"I now know every pattern on my ceiling?'
"It's funny. I feel so nervous. My stomach is tied in knots, my hands are shaking. I haven't felt like this since, well"-Carol's laugh was brittle-"I haven't felt like this since my wedding day."
"It will be over soon," Jillian said quietly. "Do you think we should call Meg?"
"She knows about breakfast."
"All right."
"What are you going to wear?"
"A camel-colored pantsuit with a white linen vest. I laid it out last night"
"I went shopping. Nothing in my closet felt right. Then again, what do you wear for this sort of thing? I don't know. I found this butter-yellow Chanel suit at Nordstrom. It was nine hundred dollars. I'm going to burn it when the day is done."
Jillian thought about her camel suit, then the coming day. "I'll join you," the said.
Carol's voice grew soft. "What did you do with the clothes you were wearing that day?"
"When the police finally gave them back, I took them to the dry cleaners. And I've never I've never picked them up."
"We'll be thinking about Trisha today."
Jillian's throat grew a little tight. "Carol…Thank you."
And then, of course, the most important question, the question the whole phone call had been about.
"Do you know…Do you know what will happen?" Carol asked.
Jillian's gaze went back to the manila envelope on top of her dresser. Then she glanced at the clock. Seven-ten AM. At least one hour to go.
"No," she said honestly. "But I guess we're about to find out.
Excerpted from THE SURVIVORS CLUB © Copyright 2003 by Lisa Gardner. Reprinted with permission by Bantam, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.
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