Authors: Chris Mooney
81
The front door had a thick pane of glass covered with lace curtains. Someone was home. A light was on inside the kitchen, and Darby could see a round table and a wool jacket lying over the back of a chair.
Darby was about to lean on the doorbell again when she heard a man screaming.
She reached one hand inside her coat, the other gripping the doorknob, turning and finding it locked. She kicked the window with the heel of her boot. The glass splintered and she kicked it again and it shattered – a woman was screaming for help.
Oh Jesus, Hannah Givens is in there and she’s screaming.
Darby crawled through the pane, jagged pieces of glass cutting her coat and cheek, and stepped into the foyer. SIG gripped in her hand, she moved down the hall and stared down the target sight, ready to shoot, the screaming growing louder as she spun into the kitchen and checked her left side, her blind spot – clear. To her right, a well-lit hallway of checked green and white linoleum stretching down to an opened door with stairs leading into the dark garage. At the end of the hallway and to the left, another opened door, the light inside blazing. Shadows moved across the hallway wall and Darby moved fast.
Get ready to
shoot. Keep shooting until he falls.
Mouth dry and adrenaline pumping, she crouched low and turned the corner.
A man with a mangled face smeared with makeup had one arm wrapped around Hannah Givens’ throat, squeezing, pressing her close to him. Darby couldn’t fire. Hannah’s head was too close to the man’s face – the man was Walter Smith, there was no question; the man Darby had seen in the hospital photographs, the face with slabs of scarred meat stitched back together and smeared with the same shade of makeup found on Judith Chen’s sweatshirt.
Hannah’s nose was broken. Blood poured down her face and a blindfold of black cloth covered her eyes. Walter Smith stood behind her, his head partially shielded behind Hannah’s, his bloody hand coming out of the sink holding a revolver.
He’s going to kill her, you can’t risk a shot. Do something.
An idea came and she had to try it, roll the dice and pray.
‘The Virgin Mary sent me here to help you,’ Darby said. ‘She’s in danger.’
A single, lidless eye stared at her.
‘Mary called for me, Walter. She told me to go to Sinclair and help her.’
‘You talked to Mary?’ Walter didn’t lower the gun, kept it aimed at her, but the caged, desperate glare in his good eye disappeared, replaced by confusion, maybe even hope.
Use it.
‘Yes,’ Darby said. ‘I spoke to her. She told me what happened. She told me to come here and help you.’
‘Why do you have a gun?’
‘I had to protect Mary.’
‘Are you an angel?’
‘Yes.’ Darby didn’t want to lower the gun. If she lowered the gun, she’d expose herself. Walter might panic and start shooting. Keep talking. ‘The Blessed Mother was in great danger, but I saved her. She told me to come here to help you. Your hand is bleeding. Are you hurt?’
‘They have her.’ Walter was crying. ‘They’re going to hurt my Blessed Mother.’
‘They can’t hurt her. I took care of them.’
‘What did you do?’
‘They’re gone. They can’t hurt you. Mary’s safe but she needs your help. We have to move our Blessed Mother to a safe location.’
‘Mary said I had to do this.’ Walter moved the gun to Hannah’s head.
‘Mary wants you to give Hannah to me. Do not disobey her.’
‘Mary told me what to do. She told me but I can’t… I can’t do the other thing. I can’t kill myself, I’m too scared.’
‘You don’t have to be afraid any more. I’m here to help you. Mary sent me here to help you, but first, you need to help her.’
‘I love her.’
‘She loves you too, Walter. That’s why she sent me here.’
‘I love her so much.’
‘I know you do.’
Get him to put down the gun.
‘I can’t live without her,’ Walter said.
‘Mary has given us both so much and now it’s our turn to help her.’
‘Where are we going to take her?’
‘I don’t know. Mary said she would tell me when I brought you back to the chapel. Let Hannah go and I’ll take you to Mary.’
Walter eased Hannah into a sitting position on the tub’s side and then collapsed to his knees, sobbing, hands in his hair. The gun slid from his fingers and dropped to the floor covered with shards of broken glass.
‘I love her,’ Walter said.
‘I know.’ Darby kicked the gun away, grabbed Walter by the hair and smashed his face against the floor.
Walter cried out in surprise, his muscles tensing, ready to fight. She pressed a knee into the base of his spine, grabbed the back of his collared shirt and dug the muzzle of her gun against his neck.
‘Move and I’ll kill you.’ Darby could taste it on the back of her throat, that burning satisfaction of killing the monster that lived beneath his human skin.
A shot to the head was too kind. She wanted him to suffer.
Then do it. Make him suffer.
Walter’s muscles went limp. He collapsed back against the floor.
He didn’t fight her when she yanked his hands behind his back and cuffed them. If he had tried to put up a fight, she could have shot him. She could have done anything. Darby felt a curious disappointment seeping through her limbs as she reholstered the SIG.
She rifled through his pockets for the handcuff key.
‘You’re safe, Hannah, he can’t hurt you.’ The college student was lying sideways inside the tub, shaking and crying. ‘I’ll have those cuffs off in just a moment.’
Walter lay motionless on his stomach, eyes blank as he stared off into space mumbling what sounded like a prayer.
Darby found the handcuff key. She reached inside her jean pocket for the phone. She felt it along with the small panic button Tim Bryson had given her.
Behind her, the sound of a heavy footstep crunching over glass and then the feeling of two cold metal prongs pressed against her neck.
‘I’d prefer not to use the Taser,’ Malcolm Fletcher said, ‘so please sit still.’
82
The SIG was tucked inside her shoulder holster. There was no way Darby could reach it.
‘Special Agent Fletcher,’ Darby said, gripping the panic button between her fingers. ‘I thought you’d left town.’
‘I missed you so much I decided to come back.’ Fletcher stood behind her. ‘Please put your hands behind your back.’
Darby pressed the button, felt the seal break. ‘May I stand?’
‘If you wish,’ Fletcher said. ‘But please, no sudden movements.’
Darby slowly removed her hand from her pocket. Leaning forward, she placed both hands on Walter’s lower back, tucked the panic button in his back jean pocket and stood. The Taser’s metal prongs never left her neck.
‘Nice job deleting the patient file from the Shriners computer system,’ Darby said, placing her hands behind her back. ‘Did Jonathan Hale pay you extra for that?’
Malcolm Fletcher wrapped a pair of Flexicuffs around her wrists and motioned to the hallway. ‘After you,’ he said.
‘I’d like to stay here with Hannah.’
‘Miss Givens will be joining you in the living room momentarily.’ He gripped Darby’s forearm gently and whispered against her ear. ‘Don’t be scared. I won’t harm you.’
Darby wasn’t afraid. For some reason, she believed him.
Malcolm Fletcher, murderer of Tim Bryson and two federal agents, escorted her into a living room with shabby grey carpeting. A framed oil painting of the Virgin Mary hung on the wall above the fireplace.
‘Tell me about Sam Dingle,’ Darby said.
Fletcher brought her to an armoire holding a TV, turned her around and asked her to sit on the floor.
‘Did Dingle kill Jennifer Sanders?’ Darby said.
‘You’ll have to ask him yourself when you find him.’
‘You promised me the truth.’
‘Sit on the floor,’ Fletcher said. ‘I’m not going to ask you again.’
‘Can’t keep Mr Hale waiting, can we?’ Darby sat.
‘Sammy raped and strangled Jennifer Sanders,’ Fletcher said, looping another pair of Flexicuffs inside the ones fastened around her wrist. ‘He also strangled the two women from Saugus.’
‘Is that Jennifer’s voice on the audio tape?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you get it?’
Fletcher tied a second pair of cuffs around the armoire’s legs. ‘I found the cassette and many more inside Sammy’s home.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘No.’
‘Then what did you do to him? Where is he?’
Malcolm Fletcher left the room without answering.
Darby sat on the floor with her arms behind her, wrists cuffed and fastened to the armoire’s leg. Fletcher was talking to Hannah. He was speaking too softly. Darby couldn’t hear what he was saying.
On the fireplace mantel was a small clock. Darby watched the time, hoping Bill Jordan or someone from his team had noticed she had set off the panic button. Driving from Danvers to Rowley would take an hour. Jordan wouldn’t wait; he would call the locals. Had he already placed the call? How long would it take Rowley PD to arrive? She would have to try and stall Fletcher.
Ten minutes later Fletcher came back into the room carrying Hannah Givens in his arms. She was still blindfolded and handcuffed. He gently placed her on the couch, then grabbed an old afghan from a chair and draped it over her. He turned to Darby.
‘You won’t be here long. I’ll call nine-one-one from the road.’
‘Why don’t you just kill Walter now?’ Darby said. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘Why didn’t you kill him? Isn’t that what you wanted?’
‘You don’t have the right –’
‘I watched you in the bathroom. You
wanted
Walter to suffer, Darby. Were you hoping to turn him into a paraplegic? Or did you want to kill him because, deep down, you know he’s beyond redemption?’
Fletcher knelt on one knee, his strange black eyes hovering in front of her face. Behind them was infinite darkness.
‘That appetite, you’ll soon discover, is hard to suppress.’
‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’
‘We’ll have to discuss the matter another time.’ Fletcher’s eyes roamed over her face and body. ‘Maybe one day we can talk about it. Privately.’
‘Let’s talk about it now.’
Fletcher stood. ‘When you think back to that moment inside the bathroom, you’ll wish you’d pulled the trigger.’
‘Where are you taking Walter?’
‘I’m going to give him what he truly wants,’ Fletcher said, tossing the handcuff keys on the table. ‘I’m going to deliver him to his mother.’
‘I’ll find you.’
‘Better men have tried, mate. Goodbye, Darby.’
83
Walter was trapped in pitch-black darkness. There was no floor beneath his feet, and he didn’t feel anything as he waved his hands around in the air – it was like he was floating in outer space, without stars, without sound.
He had been to this place, whatever this place was, once years ago, after the fire. At first he thought he was trapped in hell and then a woman’s voice, soft and reassuring, had called out from somewhere in the darkness and told him not to be scared. He wouldn’t be here for long. Great and wonderful miracles were about to happen.
Walter didn’t know the voice belonged to Mary. It was only when the Virgin Mother of Jesus revealed herself inside the chapel had he realized that the voice belonged to Mary, his Blessed Mother.
Walter came to his senses as he was dragged out of the bathroom. His feet bounced down the steps and then he was lifted into the trunk of a car. His body was stiff with terror.
A devil with black eyes and pale skin looked down on him before the trunk shut, plunging him into darkness.
Mary was calling for him. Walter shut his eyes and, curling himself into a ball, recited his special prayer, waiting for Mary to save him.
Darby talked to Hannah Givens, encouraging her to get off the couch and grab the handcuff keys from the coffee table, but the young woman refused to move. Either she was in shock or Fletcher had said something to scare her.
Eventually, Darby heard sirens and saw flashing lights. Rowley police had arrived. She called to them as they ran up the front steps.
The patrolman who cut off her cuffs said a 911 call had been placed by an unidentified male who stated that Hannah Givens and a member of the Boston Crime Lab were being held inside the home of Walter Smith. The caller gave the address and hung up.
Hannah Givens sat on the couch, sobbing into the chest of a female officer. Darby tried speaking to Hannah, wanting to know what Fletcher had said inside the bathroom, but the young woman refused to speak.
Darby’s first call was to Bill Jordan. When he didn’t answer his phone, she left a message, telling him it was an emergency and to call her back.
Neil Joseph answered his cell phone. Darby explained what she needed and asked him to drive to Danvers to find Jordan.
Hannah’s father called as the ambulance pulled away. He spoke in a strangled voice.
‘Detective Joseph just left. I told him about your partner, but he wanted me to call and tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Your partner called me about an hour ago and said you found Hannah. He said that she was okay and told me not to worry. I asked to speak to Hannah and he apologized and said he had to get off the phone and help you. He hung up and forgot to give me your number. Detective Joseph gave it to me. Can you put Hannah on the phone, Miss McCormick? I just need to hear my baby’s voice, just for a moment, please. My wife and I have been sitting here worried sick.’
‘Your daughter’s on her way to the hospital.’ Darby had to keep reassuring Hannah’s father that his daughter was alive.
‘This man said one other thing before he hung up,’ Mr Givens said. ‘He told me not to worry, that justice was going to be done. That’s what he said. What’s your partner’s name? Tracey and I would like to thank him.’
In the basement, mounted inside a wall, was a rolling food carrier and next to it, a door locked by a magnetic keycard unit.
Darby helped Rowley police search the rooms. When a keycard wasn’t found, the fire department was called to dismantle the door.
She gave her statement to two Rowley detectives. Phone calls were made. Forensic investigators from the state lab were called but wouldn’t arrive for a few hours. In the interest of saving time, Rowley PD agreed to let lab technicians from Boston help process the crime scene. Everyone agreed to share.
Word of what happened to Hannah Givens had reached the media, and by 2 a.m., the small, quiet street was filled with news vans and reporters hoping to get an exclusive, behind-the-scenes interview. Darby watched them from the bedroom window, wondering if Walter Smith was still alive.