"They're on their way."
"I'll be right there."
* * *
Mary disconnected and quickly slipped into some clothes. She was heading out the bedroom door when Blythe met her in the hallway. "What's wrong?" With a white-knuckled hand, she clutched her robe together at her throat. "Is it Gillian?"
"Gillian's fine," Mary reassured her. "But Gavin Hitchcock overdosed. Gillian's at his house waiting for the ambulance, and she needs somebody there with her."
"I'll come too. Let me throw on some clothes." Blythe had started to turn back to her bedroom when Mary stopped her.
"Mom, stay here. You don't want to see this." Mary experienced a sudden, sweet ache that was the love of a daughter for her mother. Such things came at the strangest of times. She smiled softly. "You don't always have to be the mom."
Blythe's arms dropped to her sides. "You're right," she said in relief. "I'll wait here. Call me when you know something."
Mary kept the speedometer between seventy and seventy-five the entire way. She took 35W to 94, then 94 to Snelling, quickly cutting over to Midway. She reached Gavin's house just as the paramedics were wheeling him out the door, Gillian following.
Mary ran across the lawn. "Is he still alive?"
One of the attendants held an IV drip while two others loaded him into the back of the ambulance.
"Barely," Gillian said. "They gave him an injection of naloxone. I told them about his epilepsy, but that's the least of their concerns at the moment." She pressed a hand to her mouth. "It's my fault. I know it's my fault."
Mary wasn't going to stand there and watch Gillian flog herself. "Do you have to take responsibility for every idiot who comes along? This is nobody's fault but Gavin's."
Gillian wouldn't listen. She shook her head, saying, "You don't understand."
The ambulance was ready to leave. "What hospital?" Mary shouted at the attendant.
"Holy Cross."
"We'll meet you there."
The ambulance took off.
"I have to get my coat and phone."
Mary was waiting in the yard when she heard a high-pitched scream come from deep within the house. She pulled her gun and ran into the building, almost colliding with Gillian, who stood in the living room, her fuzzy teenybopper coat held limply in one hand, her gaze directed down the dark hallway.
"Did you scream?" Mary asked.
"Please. I haven't screamed since I was twelve." Gillian pointed. "It came from back there." She dropped her coat and hurried down the hall. Mary followed. At the bathroom door, Gillian paused and looked inside. Empty. She continued to the bedroom, coming to a halt in the open doorway.
"Oh my God."
Mary looked over her sister's shoulder.
In the muted light cast by a gauze-covered lamp, she was able to make out the nude body of a young girl tied to the bed by her wrists. Scattered across her body and the stained, sheetless mattress were red rose petals.
As soon as the girl saw them standing in the doorway, she began screaming and flailing against her bonds.
"Get me out of here!" she shrieked. "That madman did this! He tied me up and raped me! He's crazy! Get me out of here!"
Gillian seemed frozen to the floor. Mary slid her gun back into the shoulder holster and pushed her sister forward. Gillian took a few halting steps, then stopped again.
"Find a knife," Mary told her. "Scissors, anything to cut her loose."
Gillian nodded and left the room.
Mary pulled out her mobile phone and punched number one on her speed dial. Anthony answered and she quickly explained the situation, asking him to call Wakefield and Elliot Senatra. Then she hung up to concentrate on the victim.
Gillian reappeared with a steak knife. "This is all I could find."
"I wish we had latex gloves," Mary said. "This is a crime scene, and the less we mess it up the better."
"Get me out of here!" The girl was hysterical.
"I'm an FBI agent," Mary explained calmly. "And this is Officer Cantrell, from the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. We're going to free you, but we have to be careful not to destroy any evidence."
"Evidence? Why do you need evidence? I know who did this to me!"
"We'll still need evidence to back up your story. You want him to pay for this, don't you? You don't want him to get away with it, do you?"
"Fuck no!"
"Hold still, and when you're free, try not to touch anything."
"I want my clothes!"
"I'll get them," Gillian said, handing Mary the knife.
She'd been bound with clothesline cord. Mary cut through the bindings and the girl came shooting off the bed, grabbing her clothes from Gillian. Now that she was on her feet, it quickly became evident that she was drunk.
"I wanna cab," she said, staggering around, trying to get into her clothes, giving up on the panties, which she tossed on the floor along with her top.
"We have to wait for the police to come and take your statement," Mary explained, picking up the top and turning the triangle of fabric this way and that, trying to figure out what was what. "Then you're going to have to go to the emergency room so you can be processed with a rape kit."
"No."
The girl had managed to get into her shorts—tiny little things that her butt hung out of. Mary helped her with the crop top, tying it in back with strings as big around as pieces of spaghetti.
"Don't you want to see this guy convicted?" Mary asked.
"They'll check my blood alcohol. I'm under twenty- one. My parents'll kill me."
"Let's get out of here. We should wait where there's no risk of evidence contamination. Is there a room you haven't been in?"
"The kitchen."
Mary wanted to question her, but knew it would be best to wait for the police so the information wouldn't become diluted by repetition.
Everybody showed up at the same time. The police. Anthony. Elliot.
"I met him at a bar," said the girl, whose name turned out to be Cammie Curtis. "He asked me if I wanted to ride around and I said, Yeah, sure. Why not? He brought me here instead. I'm not the kind of girl who has sex with a guy she's just met, so he got mad and raped me. He tied me up!" She began to cry, and one of the female officers put an arm around her.
"We're going to have to ask you to come to the hospital so we can run some tests," she said quietly.
Seemingly subdued by the appearance of officers in uniform, Cammie sniffled and nodded. "Okay."
"After that, we'll take you down to police headquarters to get a more in-depth statement."
Again, the girl nodded.
Cammie lived in Wisconsin and was attending school at the U of M. "You're going to have to stay in town," Mary said, willing to play unpopular again. "At least for a couple more days." She knew Cammie's instinct would be to run for home and security.
"Fax us a copy of everything, will you?" Elliot asked.
The female officer nodded, then led Cammie from the house to the patrol car. Two officers remained to secure the scene and wait for the crime lab. Another officer took Mary and Gillian's statements.
When the crime technicians arrived, it was almost five o'clock.
Cammie had said that the first assault took place in the living room. Then he moved her to the bedroom to rape her a second time. The technicians went over everything inch by inch, bagging up fibers, body secretions, hairs. They dusted for fingerprints, coming up with what looked to be three sets—a small number of prints to find in one person's house, but then Gavin didn't know many people.
A butcher knife was found on the floor near the couch.
At that point, Mary realized she hadn't seen Gillian in a while. She searched the house and finally found her sitting outside on the front steps. The sky was beginning to lighten.
"I can't believe it," Gillian said, elbow on her knee, forehead to her palm. "He must have really killed Fiona."
Mary sat down beside her. She could feel the cold of the cement through her jeans. She put her arm around her sister and gave her a gentle shake. "Don't feel bad about trusting him." Mary had spent years trying to convince Gillian that Gavin was bad news, but now she experienced no satisfaction in knowing that her sister finally saw him for what he was. Instead, Mary felt incredibly sorry for Gillian. "There's nothing wrong with having faith in people."
Gillian lifted both hands as if cupping a huge bowl. "But he was right there in front of me the whole time. I'm supposed to be a cop. How could I have been so blind?" She grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged at it—something she used to do years ago when she was frustrated.
"I came to visit him the other day," Gillian said. "I wanted him to know I wasn't going to be around for a while. . . ."
Mary waited, but Gillian stopped in midsentence, swallowing her next words.
"What happened when you came to see him?" Mary prodded.
Gillian seemed to change her mind, as if she immediately regretted mentioning her visit. "Nothing. Not really. You know Gavin." She let out a tense, false laugh and motioned toward the inside of the house and the evidence of what had recently taken place in there. "You know how weird he can be."
The door slammed behind them as Anthony stepped outside. "There's one more person we need to talk to," he said. "If he's still alive."
Nobody had to ask who he was talking about.
Gillian had been staring at her hands. Now she looked up. Mary couldn't recall ever seeing that expression on her sister's face—a mixture of fear and revulsion. What had happened between her and Gavin? What had he done to her?
"There's no reason for you to go," Mary said. "You don't have to see him."
Gillian got to her feet. "I'm going. I know him better than anybody else. He'll talk to me. I may be the only one who's able to get a confession out of him."
Chapter 21
"He's breathing on his own."
The emergency room doctor made the announcement to the group of police and agents in the waiting room. Then he succinctly filled them in on details. "The patient rated a fourteen on the Glasgow Coma Scale. He was lucky—at twelve we usually intubate. Unfortunately, we had to give him another injection of naloxone, which has been associated with seizures. With Mr. Hitchcock's history of epilepsy, we'll have to monitor him closely for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
"Can we speak with him?" Anthony asked.
"Two people for not more than ten minutes. And I mean speak to him. No interrogation."
It was decided that Gillian and Detective Wakefield would conduct the brief interview, even though Mary offered to go in Gillian's place. They followed the doctor down a long hallway with mint green walls and a cracked linoleum floor that had turned yellow. The fluorescent lights were unnaturally bright, and no one cast a shadow.
Gavin had been put in a private room. Outside, two policemen, a man and woman, stood guard.
Gavin was lying on a gurney, an IV drip in his arm and oxygen tubes in his nostrils. A heart monitor beeped near his head. His eyes were closed, and his lips were still blue.
Gillian slowly approached the bed. She felt a wave of heat wash over her. Her ears started to ring. She was angry. Angry with herself for not seeing Gavin for what he was, angry with Gavin for tricking her for so many years.
Be professional, she told herself. Be a cop.
Wakefield moved to the opposite side of the bed, facing the door. He nodded at her to proceed.
"Gavin?" Gillian said.
Gavin heard Gillian's voice and relief washed over him. After a bleary struggle, he opened his eyes.
"Gillian? . . ." He lifted a hand to reach for her. She remained beyond his grasp.
"C-mere," he said thickly.
She didn't move any closer. "Gavin, this is Detective Wakefield of the Minneapolis Police Department. We're here to ask you some questions."
The curt tone of her voice made him retreat. "Sleep," he mumbled. "Wanna sleep." His eyes drifted shut.
"You can sleep later. We want to talk to you now."
He opened his eyes again.
The detective turned on a microcassette recorder and spoke into it, listing stuff like the date and time, location. Then he started with the questions, asking Gavin where he'd been last night.
Gavin wouldn't have answered—he was so fucking tired and his head hurt like hell—but Gillian was there, watching him. He wanted to be good for her. He'd always wanted to be good for her. So he told the guy about his evening, about how he'd ended up running into the chick they were asking him about. Guess he finally knew her name. Cammie.
"Where did you meet Cammie Curtis?" Wakefield asked.
"A bar. A bar on the U campus."
"Did you approach her, or did she approach you?"
"D-don't remember."