Say Goodbye (31 page)

Mac leaned forward, tested the knob, found that it turned.

“Open,” he mouthed.

Sal arched a brow at that piece of luck, then shrugged. “All right, let’s do it.”

Mac had just twisted the knob when they heard a booming scream, followed immediately by a gunshot.

Sal had his radio out, rattling off the address. “Shots fired, shots fired. Requesting immediate backup. All units to assist…”

Then he and Mac ducked low and rushed into the parlor.

“This is the police. Drop your weapons!”

Kimberly was just leaning forward to adjust the radio volume when a knock at her window jerked her upright. She was already reaching for her shoulder harness when her eyes registered the curler-capped face outside the car window. It was the neighbor woman from last night, or maybe that was this morning. The one she and Sal had talked to while watching Dinchara’s house burn.

Kimberly popped open the door, got out.

“You’re the police, right?” the woman was asking, clearly agitated.

“Can I help you?”

“Something’s wrong at the house next door. I just happened to look out my bedroom window and notice the light on in the attic. Someone had taped something to one of the windows. It looks like nine-one-one.”

Kimberly jerked her head toward the structure in question. “You mean that house, where the girl lives?”

The neighbor frowned at her. “Girl? Rita’s no girl. Hell, she’s ninety if she’s a day. Her family has owned that house for generations.”

Kimberly’s turn to be confused. “I thought you meant the house next door, the one with the big, wraparound covered patio…”

“That’s the one.”

“No girl lives there?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Does…does a girl visit sometimes?”

“No. Least not that I’ve seen. Though a man showed up about twenty minutes ago. Wearing a red baseball cap.”

The man felt pain first. That surprised him. It had been so long since he had felt anything connected with his own body, he had assumed his nerve endings were done, used up, burnt out. His skin was nothing more than an exoskeleton and he liked it that way.

But his side felt like it had caught on fire. He grabbed at it, startled to feel more pain, then encountered the shocking wetness of his own blood.

He turned to the boy. The kid pulled the trigger again.

This bullet caught him up high, in the shoulder. He twisted back, still standing, and heard another
boom,
felt another searing pain, and then heard another
boom
and another one.

His legs buckled. He slowly sank to the ground, staring at the gray pall of the ceiling. Was it his imagination, or were the shadows moving up there? He thought he saw the Burgerman’s face, and he whimpered.

The girl was screaming. Why was the stupid girl screaming if he was the one who’d been shot? He wished she would shut up. He wanted everyone to shut up. The girl, the gun, the terrible violence seeping into his brain.

And then he heard fresh yells, this time deep and authoritative. “Police, police. Hands up. Drop your weapon.”

The girl was screaming again, the old woman telling the boy, “Put it down, child. It’s okay, just put it down.”

He could feel his blood seeping out of him, into the floor. He could feel himself dying and he ought to know, as he’d seen it enough times. The way that first boy’s body had sagged, then collapsed all those years ago. And the girls, one by one, their blood running from their veins down the bathtub drain as he watched excitedly, until the last drop was gone and they became nothing more than limp dolls, and he suddenly went from feeling so powerful to being nothing but an overgrown kid, playing with oversize toys. Until he kidnapped the next one, of course. And the one after that.

The girl had the gun now. He knew because the police were yelling at her, and the old woman was telling the boy to duck, duck, duck. The girl was trouble. He’d always known that. It was why he could never quite bring himself to kill her. Because she was trouble and the thrill was always bigger when he could force her into line.

Maybe she would shoot him, too. She would like that.

He wondered about the baby. His? Aaron’s? Another man’s? And he thought, in these last few seconds he had left, that he was glad he was dying. Before he ever saw the baby. Before he ruined its life.

Then a window suddenly shattered in the back of the kitchen. From the corner of his eye, he saw the girl turn to counter this fresh attack. A shape flew across the space, caught the girl at the knees, and crashed her to the ground.

A moment later, a bloodstained detective rose from the floor, the Colt in his hand.

“Brother,” the man whispered.

And Sal finally looked him in the eyes.

Kimberly couldn’t climb through the window. Instead, she had to wait until Mac moved the armoire and opened the back door. She had raced around the house, seeing the lone beam of flashlight on the kitchen, and had heard enough to understand what was going on. She’d aimed the rock in Ginny’s direction and prayed the distraction would be enough for Sal and Mac to seize control.

Now, as Mac flipped on the overhead light, she spied an old woman, hunched, panting in pain, confined to a kitchen chair, while a young boy with a blank expression kneeled at her feet. Ginny Jones was on her stomach five feet away, hands cuffed, feet bound.

And Sal was bent over the body of a man sprawled in blood on the floor.

“Vincent,” Sal murmured. “Vinny.”

He touched the man’s face, his fingers so gentle it hurt to watch.

“I’m sorry,” Sal whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Saw you…that day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Wanted…to see Mom. Come…home. Saw you.”

“Shhh…shhh…shhh.”

“Good…son. In your uniform. Not me. You were right…about the Burgerman…Grinding naughty boys to dust.”

“Shhh…shhh…shhh.”

“Not strong…not like you. Hurt. Tired. Very tired.”

“It’s all right now. I’m here, Vinny, I’m here.”

“Azalea bush. Must find…azalea bush.”

“It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I wish,” the man gasped. “I wish.”

The man died. Sal cradled his brother’s body in his arms, and wept.

EPILOGUE

IT TOOK EIGHT DAYS TO REMOVE ALL THE BODIES from Blood Mountain. Each corpse was carefully lowered onto a clean sheet, then wrapped up and carted down the mountain in a specially prepared litter. A team of forensic anthropologists came in to handle the load, setting up shop in the county morgue, where they could murmur at the wonderful condition of the mummified remains. Not many bodies were found after long-term exposure hanging in the woods. The potential for case studies was staggering.

Family members of missing girls were notified of the proper process for submitting DNA samples to match against the remains. A database was built. Testing began. People could expect to wait six to nine months for results.

Ginny Jones submitted DNA, claiming to want to identify her mother’s remains. Kimberly wasn’t sure the girl would. How much had Ginny cared about her mother’s death? It certainly hadn’t stopped her from forming a twisted alliance with a twisted man.

The state prosecutor charged Ginny with six counts of accessory to felony murder. He contended that Ginny had knowingly lured fellow prostitutes to their death, while also aiding and abetting in the abduction of a seven-year-old boy, Joshua Ferris, aka Scott.

Ginny had countered with the victim card. She had been kidnapped by Dinchara, raped, brutalized, tortured. At a certain point, she had to help him, it was the only way she could survive. Just listen to the tapes, the endless tapes of all that he had done, including to her mother.

Interestingly enough, the only recording that survived was the one Kimberly had made from Aaron’s first anonymous phone call. Everything else appeared to have been destroyed in the fire at Dinchara’s residence. But the bodies remained, the thin, mummified forms testifying louder than words to just what one man had been able to do.

Sal had taken a leave of absence from work. Kimberly had called him twice. He never returned those calls. She heard through the grapevine that he was spending a great deal of time with his mother. The initial public outcry had been so great, with sensational details of the murder spree screaming across every headline, he and his mother had had to go into seclusion.

According to the rumor mill, Sal had filed papers requiring DNA testing of Ginny’s baby. If the child was Dinchara’s, Sal and his mother planned on asking for sole custody.

Kimberly wondered if it would be enough for them, or if they would simply lie awake, night after night, waiting for something terrible to happen down the hall.

Life went on. Harold recovered from his wound, returned to work with a medal from the governor and enormous fanfare. When Kimberly’s ERT presented him with his very own pair of custom-fit Limmer boots, he blushed like a schoolboy. And Rachel hugged him so hard the betting pool was already taking odds on a wedding date.

While Kimberly grew fat. Enormously, couldn’t-see-her-toes fat. True to her prediction, Mac had to tie her shoes for her. Which didn’t happen so much anymore, as she was officially on a leave of absence. With two weeks until her due date, she had to set up a nursery in their apartment in Savannah while Mac worked long hours in his new position, trying to get up to speed before the baby was born.

So Kimberly fussed over gingham ruffles and teddy bear stencils and all the stuff a woman like her had once sworn was foolish, but now had become the center of her entire being. She ironed curtains, dusted the ceiling fans, and washed the top of the refrigerator. Then she purchased a medicine cabinet and demanded Mac install it that very night, because there was no way she was giving birth with their minor collection of pharmaceuticals still housed in a baby-accessible bathroom drawer.

Sometimes, when she was not nesting with the frantic compulsiveness of a nine-months-pregnant woman, random thoughts would pop into her head. She might discover a garden spider and spend the next hour thinking of Dinchara, the boy he had once been and the man he had become. And she would remember Aaron and that last look on his face before he pulled the trigger.

Aaron turned out to be Randy Cooper. He had been kidnapped walking home from school in Decatur ten years earlier. His family had claimed his body, his twenty-two-year-old sister, Sarah, now at Harvard Law, returning for the funeral. Sarah had thanked the small gathering of neighbors and law enforcement officers on behalf of her family. They were grateful for the closure the funeral allowed. They understood they were fortunate to have this moment, as so many families didn’t. And they would choose today, and all days, to remember Randy as the laughing, happy boy they had known, and not the victim he had become.

Kimberly wondered if Sal was struggling to make the same choice. Each day, every day. How best to know his brother.

Kimberly installed additional locks on every bedroom window. She ordered a home security system complete with a panic alarm. She purchased a video baby monitor so she could see at all times what was happening in her baby’s room.

And maybe it was panicky and neurotic. But maybe this was what a woman who worked in crime and had already buried two members of her family needed to do. Mac didn’t question her. He let her do what she did, and when she could bring herself to speak, of both her consuming fear and her tentative hope, he made the time to listen.

One week before her due date, Kimberly went into labor. With Mac by her side, and Rainie and Quincy flying in, she gave birth to a little girl, Elizabeth Amanda McCormack.

Three days later, she and Mac brought their little girl home. Mac took a couple of weeks off from work and they happily spent their time changing impossibly small diapers and marveling over ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. After much debate, they determined that little Eliza had Mac’s dark hair, but Kimberly’s pointed face. Obviously she possessed her mother’s intelligence, as well as her father’s strength. As for the temper tantrums, they both considered the other one guilty of providing that DNA.

Mac returned to work. Kimberly stayed at home and discovered…she was okay. Nursing and tending and fussing was not the death sentence she had feared, but rather a new set of challenges to explore. She could handle it for a bit. Six months, she thought. Maybe a year. That sounded about right.

So she took her time. She held her daughter close. She took her for walks to the park. She got up every three hours and rocked her baby girl in the middle of the night.

And during those months, little Eliza snuggled against her breast, Kimberly thought that while life may not be perfect, at least it offered moments that were perfect enough.

“I love you, Eliza,” she promised and smiled as she listened to her infant daughter snore.

Strawberry is my favorite flavor of ice cream.

My mom told me as she dished it up for me the first night I came home. I nodded as if I remembered, then ate the whole bowl, wishing it were chocolate.

Life will return to normal. That’s what everyone says. I’m lucky. I’m a survivor. Something bad happened, but now, Life Will Return to Normal.

I’m like Pinocchio, waiting to wake up one morning and discover I’m a real boy.

In the meantime, I pretend to sleep on top of my bed, instead of huddled underneath, where I can see people enter my room without anyone seeing me. I pretend I don’t notice that my parents never leave me alone with my little sister. I pretend I don’t hear my mother crying every night down the hall.

Life Will Return to Normal.

But I don’t think
I
ever will.

Some days, when it’s really bad, my dad drives me the two hours to Rita’s house. I chop wood, pull weeds, mow her lawn. She can’t move too well due to her hip, so she can always use the help. Better yet, she never asks me anything. She gives me chores, barks at me to move. Rita is always Rita and maybe she isn’t normal, either, and I like that.

Sometimes, when I’m whacking away at dandelions, I find that I am talking, things are pouring out. So I work harder and talk faster and Rita hands me more lemonade and it’s okay when Rita’s there. When Rita’s there, I feel safe.

Sometimes, my dad returns while I’m still ranting. So he’ll chop wood and pull weeds and paint spindles and I daresay Rita has the best-looking house on the block. It’s the least she deserves, you know. I wish I could stay with her always.

But sooner or later, gotta go home. Life Will Return to Normal.

I don’t sleep. I see things behind my closed eyelids I don’t think other boys see. I know things I don’t think other boys know. Can’t imagine going to school. Can’t imagine hanging out with my old friends.

I play dolls with my baby sister. I do whatever she tells me to do. I think of it as practice. Sooner or later, I’ll know how to be a six-year-old girl. Seems a lot better idea than being me.

My mom takes me to a therapist. I draw pictures of rainbows and flowers and he gazes at me with deep disappointment. So I draw birdies and kittycats. Goldfish and unicorns. I tell Rita about it later and she laughs, but I can tell she’s concerned.

Sometimes, on the really bad days, we simply rock on the front porch and she holds my hand.

“You are strong, child,” she tells me. “You’re tough and smart and capable. Don’t let him take that from you. Don’t give him that.”

I promise Rita I won’t and we both forgive the lie.

Rita lived to be ninety-five years old. She died in January. I came over that Saturday and found her sitting in the front parlor, one arm in her mother’s old coat. Joseph was sitting beside her. It was the first time I ever saw him. Moment I opened the door, he looked up at me, smiled, and disappeared.

I didn’t cry at the funeral. Rita’s was a good death. Peaceful. It gave me my first glimmer of hope. Someday, I want to die like that, sitting on my sofa, just waiting to get out the door.

I like to think Rita is running around with Joseph now, looping around the old apple tree. I like to think she’s watching over me.

I didn’t make it in public school. I tried to be a real boy, but you know, I’m not. ’Nother kid started picking on me. Called me a faggot. Told everyone I liked sucking dick. Then made slurping sounds every time I walked down the halls.

Kid was big and brawny. I’m too small to take on someone his size and he knew it.

I told my father about it. He raised holy hell. The kid was suspended. That bought me five days of peace from one kid, and a pack of trouble from a whole lot more. Soon the entire school was making sucking sounds every time I entered the cafeteria.

Kids don’t like me. I know that. They look at me, they wonder what happened. They wonder if it will happen to them.

I frighten them and no adult is ever gonna change that.

I go to a private school now. Small class size. Lots of authority figures around to keep us all in line. I don’t bother to make friends. I just get through the day. That’s the one thing I’m good at, getting through.

My sister loves me. She’s the only person in the world who hugs me without pausing first, wondering if she should. She throws her arms right around me. “Joshi,” she’ll cry, “Joshi’s home,” and some days, I think I survived everything just to hear her say that.

I get moments. Not a lot of them, but still. There are times it’s almost okay to be me. So I cling to that, ’cause I gotta cling to something. I gotta try to
be
something, or Rita’s right: He’s won. Even from beyond the grave, he’s taken me from me. I won’t have that. I won’t.

I killed him once. I’ll be damned if he doesn’t stay dead.

Then one night, I had a revelation. I couldn’t sleep. My head was crazy with blood. I hated my clothes, my room, the feel of carpet against my skin. I hated the walls of the house and the window that stared at me like a blind eye.

I hated my mom and my dad, who kept studying me and studying me like at any time now, I oughtta be fixed, when if they’d done their job right I never would’ve gotten broken.

So I went to the kitchen for matches. Except halfway there, in the middle of the living room, I saw it. The computer.

I remembered things. Things I’d never told the police.

I took a seat.

It didn’t take long for me to find them. Or really, to make them think they had found me. I sat at the keyboard for three hours, walking the walk, talking the talk. I know how these men think.

At five a.m., I heard my father get up to pee, so I turned off the computer, crept back to my room, and crashed on top of my bed. When I woke up again, I knew what I was going to do.

I took a couple of classes. Did a little research and that took care of the rest.

I go on three nights a week now, always after midnight.

And I go hunting.

Special Agent Salvatore Martignetti. He’s back with the GBI now, working some drug task force. I can find quotes of him discussing latest arrests, moments of triumph. I can find his picture, dark face, sunken eyes. Sometimes, if the pose is just right, he looks so much like Dinchara, I want to put my fist through the computer screen. But I don’t.

Special Agent Kimberly Quincy. She’s back to work, though her assignments are harder to track, the FBI being savvier about these things. So I found her daughter instead. Little Eliza Quincy McCormack, enrolled in the local Montessori preschool. The entire school roster is available online. The page is marked
parents only,
but it only took me three tries to guess the password—the initials of the head schoolmistress. Amazing how many organizations think they’re being “safe” when really they’re just amusing guys like me.

Ginny Jones. She’s at the state prison, serving the last of her twelve-year sentence. Jurors are suckers for young, pregnant victims and only found her guilty on accessory to kidnapping. I don’t know where the baby went, but give me some time, I’ll figure it out. In the meantime, Ginny’s been sleeping with enough prison guards to earn herself computer privileges. So I set myself up as her latest e-mail buddy. She can’t wait to meet me one day. Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.