Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (18 page)

“How is
mia ragazza
?” she asks.

I give a shrug, and she hugs me tighter. She presses her lips together and nods. “Be strong,
mia cara
. You are your mother's daughter. You cannot give up. I know she is out there. She is like her mama and her nana. She is strong. She is a survivor. Just like you and your mother.”

She pulls away and is about to leave when I call her back.

“Nana? Can I talk to you?”

My grandmother has always been my confidante. I have always found comfort in running my worries by her. She sits down in a gold and burgundy upholstered chair and holds my hand as I tell her about my dream.

“Do you think I'm crazy?” I ask when I'm done. Although Donovan later apologized, his comment about a psych eval has been bothering me.

“No,
mia cara
.” Her eyes are sparkling, and I can't stop staring at them. “You are
benedetta
.”

Blessed.

“We always have some in our family, like my aunt Paola, she was
benedetta
and
veggente
—­could see things. Things that had not happened yet. When someone in the family died, there would be a
battere
on her headboard.”

“A
battere
?” I don't know this Italian word.

My grandmother's forehead crinkles as she tries to think of the English word. “Yes, a ticktickticka,” she says, standing and making her way over to the doorway. There she makes her tiny hand into a fist and bangs on the wooden door frame to the den.

“A knock?”

“Yes. Knock, knock, knock.”

“Really?” I feel strangely better. I'm not crazy.

“And my cousin Paciono, he always saw the dead in our photographs. In our pictures, he could see others, spirits. I never could see them, but my younger brother, Albert, sometimes could. Many in our
famiglia
are like this.”

I hug her for a long time. When I draw back, she smiles at me.

“To see, to be
veggente,
it is a gift,
mia cara
. A
benedizione
.”

A blessing.

It sure doesn't feel like a blessing to me right now. It feels like a curse.

Someone calls my grandmother and she turns away.

Thank God for my grandmother. She thinks I'm blessed and that the women in our family are survivors. A small lump rises in my throat. At least one female member of our family wasn't a survivor. Caterina.

Survivor. Is that what I am? I sure as hell don't feel like one.

A
ROUND SIX, THERE
is a knock on the door, then one of the kids brings in a giant pot of flowers, and then there is another and another. Three kids file in with the potted flowered plants.

“It's for you,
Nonna Maria,
” they chime in excitedly. At the end of the line, little four-­year-­old Lucia is carrying a card. She hands it to my mother, and we all wait.

My mother's hands are trembling as she opens the card. A small pink flush spreads across her cheeks as she reads, and then she tucks the card into a big pocket on her cardigan.

“Well, Christ's sakes, Ma, who's it from?” Dante asks, scowling.

“Vincenzo,” she says and quickly turns away. “He is wishing me good health now that I'm out of the hospital.”

Marco gives me a look and I raise an eyebrow. It hasn't gone unnoticed that my mother has suddenly taken to calling The Saint by his first name.

The sun is setting when we finally leave. The hugs are extra long, and even the uncles' eyes are glistening as they kiss my cheeks.

The door closes behind us, and the twilight is before us.

I made it through Easter without Grace.

In the car, I turn to Donovan.

He gives me a haunted look.

“I want to die,” I say, searching his eyes.

He lights a cigarette and nods before turning the key in the ignition.

 

Chapter 36

I
'VE MISSED A
call from The Saint. It looks like he called when we were hugging and saying our good-­byes.

I realize it at the same moment that Donovan tells me he missed a call from Noah West at the FBI. We both dial our phones at the same time as he pulls onto the entrance to the freeway.

“Giovanni.” I don't bother with niceties. I see out of the corner of my eye that Donovan is scribbling an address on one of my reporter's notebooks. I lean over.

“I'm texting you a photo,” Santangelo says. “The son. Anders Frank. I will also text you an address. Benicia. We are on our way. We will meet you there.”

For a split second, I am filled with disappointment. We no longer need to find Anders now that we know his dad is dead, but then the photo comes across my phone and I gasp. I shoot a glance at the address Donovan is writing down.

“Is it 2574 Long Lake Road in Benicia?” I say to The Saint. “FBI just got the same address and are sending in the troops.”

“We will be there, but you will not know,” The Saint says. “We have some, uh, issues with the FBI right now, and I have to stay out of the limelight. I will still help you. I promise you.”

“Okay,” I say and disconnect. Issues with the FBI? Not my problem. As long as he still helps me find Grace.

Donovan is still talking to Noah West when I hold up the picture of Anders to show Donovan, who gives me a sideways glance and a furious nod.

Now I see the resemblance. Frank Anderson had a buzz cut and dark, deep-­set eyes. His son, Anders Frank, has arctic eyes and a dirty-­blond bowl haircut like a little boy. But they both have that same defined Superman jaw.

“Motherfucker,” Donovan says after glancing at the picture. “It's him. It's the guy we saw on the beach.”

Frank Anderson's son has Grace.

W
HEN WE ARRIVE
on Long Lake Road, my heart is racing in my throat.

The sun has dipped closer to the horizon, and the neighborhood is bathed in a surreal golden light. Small, bungalows have tidy yards and flowerbeds. We pull up in front of one house, which has a hummingbird feeder hanging from the front porch and two turquoise retro metal chairs set at an angle on the lawn. A white doily curtain in the front window swings shut when I glance over.

Sergeant Jackson and Special Agent West meet our car. Jackson is wearing khakis and a Hawaiian button-­down shirt, the first time I haven't seen him in a tie and blazer. He must have come straight from Easter dinner. The SWAT team will arrive in a few minutes, as they had to be scrambled from family celebrations, West says. In the back of my mind, I wonder if some will be drunk or tipsy. We are staging about two blocks away and around the corner from Anders Frank's house.

I glance around to see if I can spot anyone from Santangelo's crew in cars, but I don't see a soul.

Donovan pulls a Kel-­Tec P-­11 semiautomatic pistol from his glove compartment and hands it to me. It's just like the one he has at home. He's already packing two guns himself—­one in his shoulder harness and one strapped to his ankle. Glancing over at the white doily curtains, I quickly tuck the P-­11 in my deep jacket pocket. My hands are shaking. I don't trust myself not to accidentally shoot someone besides Frank. God forbid he uses Grace as a hostage. Because she has to still be alive. He has to follow his pattern—­keep the victims alive and then kill them on the sixth day.

I'm about to jump out of my skin with nervousness, when my phone rings. It's Lopez.

“Hey, man, just wanted you to know I was thinking of you guys.”

“Thanks, C-­Lo, but I'm in the middle of something. It might be Grace.” I almost weep saying those words.

“Man, I'll let you go, I was calling 'cause I just was out at a slumper you might want to know about.”

A dead body in a car
.

“It was that kid from the weekly. Throat slit from ear to ear. Been there a day or two.”

I can feel the blood drain from my face. “Michael Dillman?”

“Yeah, one from the fire. Seemed like he was a nice kid, so I wanted to let you know. I didn't want to bother you right now, but didn't want you to read it in the paper in case you guys were friends.”

“Thanks.” I whisper it and hang up.

His editor said he was following a lead about Grace's abduction. He must have found something—­something that led to his murder.

Donovan glances over at me with a frown.

“The kid from the weekly who told me about Anderson's grave was murdered.”

Before he can respond, a van pulls up and six men in riot gear tumble out.

Seeing them sends a spurt of fear racing through me. I know they are here to save Grace, but I'm so worried something could go wrong. One guy adjusting his belt meets my eyes. He gives a slight nod.

Sergeant Jackson and another man call the men in riot gear over in a circle for a brief meeting. As soon as the circle breaks up, the men disperse in groups of two, and Jackson heads our way.

“We've got some flash bangs and tear gas. We're going in the front and back of the building simultaneously. At the same time, we've got the sheriff's department helicopter on standby right over that ridge. As soon as the signal is given, the helicopter will be over the house with its infrared. Nobody is going to leave that house without us knowing about it.”

I press my lips tightly together and nod. I realize that I've grabbed Donovan's hand and am squeezing it so hard that my fingernails are digging into his palm. I let up the pressure, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze.

“I want to be closer,” I say, not blinking.

“Can't do that,” Jackson says.

“Yes, I can.” We stare at each other for a few seconds.

“Okay. Come with me.”

The three of us cram into the front seat of his unmarked Ford sedan. I grab Donovan's hand again. It's not as obvious as a detective's unmarked rig—­more like the unassuming sedans the FBI rents at the airport when they come to town.

Instead of taking the curve around Long Lake Road where the house apparently sits, Jackson turns at the first road.

“This will take us the back way.”

My mouth is dry, and my heart is pounding in my ears. My palms are clammy. I let go of Donovan's hands and wipe them on my jeans. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the muscle in his jaw throbbing like a drum. Every inch of his body is tense. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, saying a quick prayer.
Mother Mary, never have you refused someone who comes to you in prayer. I pray you return my daughter, Grace, to me safely
.

When the car stops, I slowly open my eyes. A few seconds later, a van races past us and skids to a stop by a plain yellow house. Jackson guns the motor and we park behind it, perpendicular, blocking the way as the back doors of the van fly open and four men race into the backyard of the house in a blur. Donovan flies out the door behind them, gun drawn. Jackson shouts, but I don't hear it because I'm right on Donovan's heels, the gun in my pocket thumping against my thigh as I chase him.

There is a deafening boom and glass shattering and crashing and shouting all at once. The bone-­rattling thud of a helicopter overhead sends a chill through my body. As I get to the backyard of the house butting up to Frank's house, I only catch the tail end of the tactical team bursting through the door of the yellow house. Donovan holds up a hand to stop me, and we wait in the back of the yard, catching our breath. The adrenaline is shooting through me, and I feel like my knees are going to collapse. At the same time I can barely stop myself from rushing into that house.

I hear shouting inside, but it doesn't sound frantic, only routine. The three of us wait for what seems like an eternity but can only be a few seconds. Then I can make out one word—­“Clear”—­shouted a few times from inside the house. The helicopter hovers for a few seconds, then zips off.

Jackson is at our side and shakes his head at us. “No hits from the infrared.”

As he says this, the men pile out the back door. The first guy out shakes his head emphatically. No.

Nobody rushes out with Grace in his arms. Nobody says a word. The helicopter has left. The men look down at their feet instead of meeting my eyes. The man who shook his head is now before us and I stop breathing, preparing for the worst.

“Grace?” It comes out in a hoarse whisper.

“Sorry, ma'am. No sign of her.”

Grace isn't here. But neither is her body.

Relief and disappointment surge through me.

I start to push past the men. “Let me see inside the house.” I'm hoping to find some sign of her. Some stray strand of hair. A handprint on a window. A message scrawled in the dust. Anything. Any little sign that she was here. And alive.

A few of the men in tactical gear move to stop me, but after seeing something over my shoulder, they step back and let me through.

I step into the back door and am in a small kitchen. The sink and counters are empty. The room smells faintly of bleach and pine scent. Not even a coffeepot rests on the scratched and stained green Formica countertop. Using my sleeve so I don't leave fingerprints, I pull open the refrigerator door. It is empty and scrubbed clean.

But still I search the rest of the house.

Two bedrooms. Each has twin beds, neatly made with threadbare bedspreads. One set brown. One gold. The closets are empty. The bathroom is cleared out, its counter coated with a thin layer of dust. Nobody has lived here for a long time.

In the living room, a man is crouched near the front door, dusting the doorknob for fingerprints. A detective I vaguely recognize is beside him. They both nod as I enter the room.

“Did he leave any fingerprints anywhere?”

The man crouched with gloves on shakes his head slowly. “I think whoever lived here last was a neat freak. Everything is scrubbed clean.”

“We'll keep looking,” the detective says. “We've only begun to process the house.”

If Anders Frank lived here, he was meticulous about clearing out all personal effects when he left and wiping down all surfaces. He's the one who killed those women. He was sending me a message. Just what is it, though?

Casting one last glance around the living room, bare except for a couch, coffee table, and ancient TV, I'm pretty sure about two things—­Anders Frank knew we would find this home, and he's not planning on ever coming back.

“C
AN
I
LOOK
in the garage?” I ask Sergeant Jackson.

He meets eyes with another cop and there is a slight shrug.

“Hold on.” He shuffles off around the corner.

A loud crack echoes down the alley. I hear some voices, and a few seconds later, he returns.

“Be my guest.”

Donovan gives me a look and we round the corner to the entrance to the garage.

The lock on the door is broken, and a tactical team member with a battering ram stands nearby. When we approach, another two men in camouflage come out from the open doorway and nod at us.

“It's clear. Go on ahead.”

The men move off to the side.

Donovan gestures for me to go first.

With a trembling hand, I push the door with its chipped and peeling green paint.

Enough light from a band of windows on either side of the garage shows it is empty. There isn't even a candy wrapper or scrap of trash on the floor. I step across the concrete floor dotted with dark blobs from oil stains.

Light filters in from the windows to the west, casting long beams of light that illuminate long shafts of swirling dust. I stare. I catch the faint whiff of something, some type of cleanser that smells familiar, but I'm not sure what it is.

“Ready?” Donovan stands in the open doorway, a dark silhouette, one foot out the door, one in. He's ready to leave.

I shake my head no.

There is something here that is nagging at me, but I'm not sure what I'm supposed to see. But I know I'm missing something.

I turn slowly in a circle, looking in all directions, then up at the ceiling and down at the floor. What is it?

Then I recognize the smell—­glass cleaner. That's when I see it. All eight of the windows—­four on each side—­are coated in dust. Except one. It is sparkling clean. Gleaming. Light shines through brighter than the others. A golden beam of sunlight stands out from the other columns of dust.

I look at the floor of the garage where the beam lands, but it is bare. Drawn closer, mesmerized by this anomaly, I take a step. Slowly. Then another. Until I'm right in front of the window.

Why is this one window clean? Why would someone clean one window only? The wooden wall underneath the window is dirty, but I think I can make out something there.

Rushing over to the garage door opener on the wall beside the small door, I punch it, and it opens with a loud screech. Donovan and the police pop in the open garage door.

The screechy door grumbles and opens, filling the dark garage space with even more light.

I'm crouched underneath the window. I was right. In small black writing, smaller than someone would normally write, there are tiny letters printed.

“Your iniquities have separated her from you. She will not hear you. Repent at the city of souls and then go where the three points will lead you.”

The first part is a paraphrase of the fourth Bible verse Frank Anderson sent me. Somehow Anders knows all the e-­mails his father sent me. What is he trying to say? The fourth message is about Grace. But it's also a clue.

Finding the message sends a thrill of hope laced with fear through me. He wouldn't do all this if there wasn't a chance of saving Grace, would he?

But in the deepest depths of my heart, I know he would. All the other Bible verses were only found after the murders. He might want me to think there is hope when there isn't. I know that for some reason he would fuck with me just for his own sick pleasure.