Kill Switch (19 page)

Authors: Neal Baer

BOOK: Kill Switch

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C
HAPTER
20

Y
ou could tell a thunderstorm was close. The air was thick with humidity, the clouds approaching from Lake Ontario an angry gray.

Just like the day Amy disappeared.

Claire's mind raced as she hurried down Burt Street with the large cup of coffee she'd bought at Clancy's Diner around the corner on Park Avenue. The red banquettes and waitress uniforms hadn't changed since Claire was a child, but that only made her feel uneasy.

Nothing's changed around here,
she thought, racing to reach her parents' house before the downpour began. The same house where she and Amy had been playing outside that day her best friend was abducted. There was no easing into a summer storm in Rochester. The first raindrops were always big ones, and they always fell hard.

They were just starting to fall as Claire turned the key in the front door of the stately colonial on Burt Street and scurried through, barely inside when a lightning bolt lit up the sky. A deafening clap of thunder shook the house, and the deluge struck.

It was the middle of the day, and both her parents were at work. Her mother taught high school biology, which is where Claire thought she got her interest in medicine. Her father was a physicist, doing research on fiber optics. But he was religious, too, attending church every Sunday at All Souls Episcopal. He'd told Claire since she was a child that science had made him a believer in God because some questions could only be answered on faith.

Who made the world, Daddy
? she'd asked him many times growing up. He always told her he didn't know.

As Claire made her way into the living room, she couldn't help but think that, save for the somehow soothing din of the rain, the house was beautifully quiet.

She let herself fall into the deep, comfortable sofa, sipping her coffee as she watched the rain cascade down the front picture window. The waterfall blurred everything outside, as if nothing existed beyond the walls of this place, her childhood home. She pulled a nearby comforter over her. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she was wrapped in a cocoon, protected from the world.

And more than anything else right now, Claire needed to feel protected. From what she wasn't sure, except for a quiet anxiety that still surfaced, especially at night, when she was alone with her dreams. Something unexplained, a feeling that haunted the edges of her consciousness.

After all, wasn't it her right to feel safe? She'd made it through the emotional upheaval of packing up the apartment she'd shared with Ian, of donating his clothes to charity and putting the rest of their belongings into storage for when she returned to New York and Curtin's fellowship program.

If I ever go back,
she thought.

Ian's funeral had been hard on Claire. Curtin and Fairborn were both there, along with all the fellows from the program. Their words were soothing, especially Curtin's, who, in a private moment, reiterated his promise that her place in the program was secure whenever she wanted to come back. But coming back, at the time, was the last thing on Claire's mind. The desire to run as far away from her life as she could nearly overpowered her. Her parents offered to pay for any trip she wanted to take, to do anything that might help erase the horror of the previous few weeks.

In the end, Claire realized there was only one place where she'd feel truly safe. And that's where she was right now.

In the week she'd been home, her parents had done their best. Both had taken a few days off from their busy jobs to dote on her. Now back at work, they were coming home as early for dinner as their schedules would allow so their child wouldn't be alone all the time. Claire's older sister, Diane, who worked in London as an architect, had also offered to come home. But Claire told her not to. Diane was five years older and they had never been close, and Claire wasn't up to repeating to her all the details of the last terrible weeks.

Claire couldn't help but think that her parents were doing more for her now than they'd done when she was growing up. It was ironic, she thought, that it took seven murders and a near breakdown for them to wake up.

Better late than never.

For the first time in her life, Claire wasn't hiding in plain sight. For the first time, she didn't feel invisible.

Boom! Boom!
A succession of powerful thunderclaps jolted the house and shook her brain.

In a sudden panic, Claire bolted from the couch and ran to the front door. She fumbled with the quirky dead bolt, yanking it open ...

... just in time to see Mr. Winslow carrying Amy to his car.

“Mommy, Mommy, come out here! Please ...”

Claire looked back into the house. Her mother wasn't coming. Where was she?

“Mommy! The man took Amy away!”

She ran to the stairs, screaming, getting no answer. She was crying, almost sobbing as she ran back out the door, knowing what awaited her.

Thunder. Claire could see Amy, in tears, peering at her through the window of Mr. Winslow's BMW. Somehow knowing they would never see each other again.

She stood there, as she had all those years ago, letting the pouring rain soak through her clothes, barely keeping up with the tears flowing from her eyes.

Will I ever feel safe again? Anywhere?

Claire turned, leaned against the house, and sobbed like never before. Because this time, she was crying for everything she'd lost.

All her advanced degrees, all the research into neurotransmitters and their effects on human behavior, all the fellowships in the world would never be enough to erase the one emotion she'd felt since that day Amy was taken from her:

Helplessness.

She knew she had to make herself whole. Even if it consumed the rest of her life.

The carton was in the far corner of the attic, behind an old bed frame, right where Claire remembered putting it many years ago.

It hadn't been opened in so long that the packer's tape holding it closed was cracked and powdery. Just before leaving home for her freshman year in college, Claire had consigned the box to what she thought might be its final resting place. At the time, to her parents' chagrin, she'd purged as many of her belongings as she could stand to, emptying even her own bedroom as if she were never coming back.

She'd been tempted to throw out the carton. But something back then had stopped her, an unseen hand holding her back, an unknown voice telling her she'd regret it. Instead, she hid it where she knew no one would see it, far from any of her parents' stored belongings.

Claire dragged the box across the floor of the attic, raising a storm of dust that burned her eyes and triggered a fit of sneezing. Her spasms subsided as she reached the trapdoor and steadied herself on the folding stairs, thinking with some satisfaction that she was making the right decision.

It wasn't until the carton was planted on the dining room table that second thoughts began to creep in. Did she actually have the strength to open this box and unleash the memories stored inside? No more than a few seconds passed before she decided.

I have no choice.

She ripped the lone piece of tape off the top, opened the flaps, and without looking, reached inside and pulled out the first item her hand came to.

It was a large, unmarked photo album. Claire stared down at the white vinyl cover, its inviting, nonthreatening design hardly indicative of what lay within.

If there's any way to face my fears, this is it.

She took a deep breath and opened the cover. Staring her in the face was a clipping from the
Democrat and Chronicle
, Rochester's daily newspaper, dated July 18, 1989, the headline proclaiming the past she had tried so hard to bury:

POLICE SEEK KIDNAPPED GIRL

Accompanying the article was a large, black-and-white photo of Amy, wearing the same T-shirt she had on the day she disappeared.

It's okay,
she heard Amy say to her
. Mr. Winslow works with my dad.

Claire started to read the story she knew so well, the initial pain dissipating as the words soaked into her brain. Maybe it was like removing a Band-Aid, she thought. It hurts less when you rip it off quickly.

She left the scrapbook open as she took the remainder of the contents from the box: two more photo album/scrapbooks, numerous pictures of her and Amy together. Jumping rope. Playing hopscotch. On the carousel at Seabreeze Amusement Park near Lake Ontario. Mugging in front of the elephants at the Seneca Park Zoo. With every photo, the memories Claire had worked her whole life to forget came rushing back into her head. Without knowing it, she started to giggle, remembering how much she loved Amy and what fun they'd had together.

The bang of the brass knocker on the front door brought her out of her near trance. She looked at the mess on the table, knowing her parents would be upset if they saw what she was doing.

She glanced at her watchâ1:25 in the afternoon. Way too early for either of them to be home, and she wasn't expecting anyone.

Claire peeked out the front window. The rain had died down, the torrent of water cascading down the glass having given way to just a few drips. There was a Toyota Camry parked at the curb, one she hadn't seen before. So it wasn't a delivery.

Hesitantly, she crept up to the front door. Her parents had never put a peephole in, not wanting to ruin the integrity of the beautiful oak finish.

“Who is it?” Claire asked.

“Police,” came the reply, muffled by the pouring rain.

The car parked out front was hardly a police car. Her parents had mentioned a rash of midday burglaries plaguing the neighborhood. Was this someone looking to see if the house was empty?

Though there was no peephole, the door did have a row of glass panes at the top, too high for Claire or anyone else to see over. But Claire thought she could put it to good use. She reached her hand up as if to indicate.

“Put your badge and ID card up against the glass,” she shouted. She heard the light tap of metal against the glass. Claire looked up. And her eyes went wide.

The badge she saw wasn't that of a Rochester police officer. It was the gold shield of a New York City police detective. Claire had seen the number enough times to know whose it was. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Nick Lawler stood uncomfortably before her.

“You changed your hair back,” he said.

Claire unconsciously twirled a snippet of hair, which she had indeed dyed back to its natural color. “Astute observation, Detective Lawler,” Claire replied.

They looked at each other for an awkward moment. Claire wasn't sure whether she was glad to see him or horrified at the prospect of why he might be there.

“You're a little out of your jurisdiction, aren't you?” she asked, breaking the silence.

“I need to talk.”

“About the case?”

“The case is over.”

“How did you find me?”

“I'm a detective.” He brushed a drop of water from his nose. “It's kinda wet out here.”

Claire's face flushed with embarrassment. “I'm sorry,” she said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Nick entered, closing the door behind him. He took his raincoat off, revealing jeans and a maroon golf shirt underneath.

“That what cops wear when they travel?” Claire asked.

“Not when they travel on official business,” Nick replied.

“So this isn't official business.”

“Not exactly,” he said, squinting to adjust his eyes to the low level of light.