The Survivors Club (2 page)

From world-class sniper to just one more guy in a suit in five minutes or less.

Jersey pulled open the rooftop door. He’d jammed the lock with wire last night so it would be ready for him. Moments later, he was down the stairs and joining the main traffic flow, just another harried lawyer too busy to look anyone in the eye.

Capital Security guards and state marshals rushed by. People inside the courthouse were looking around, becoming increasingly aware that something had happened but not sure what. Jersey, following their example, pasted a slightly puzzled expression on his face as he journeyed forth.

Another gray-clad marshal sprinted by him, voices screaming from the radio at the man’s waist. He hit Jersey’s shoulder, knocking him back. Jersey spluttered, “Excuse me!” The state marshal kept running for the stairs leading to the roof.

“What happened?” a lady walking next to Jersey asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Must be something bad.”

They exchanged vigorous nods. And thirty-two seconds later, Jersey was out the front door, taking a left and heading back down steeply pitched College Street toward the memorial park. He resumed humming now, in the homestretch. Even if some police officer stopped him, what would the officer find? Jersey had no weapons, no trace of gunpowder on his hands or clothes. He was just a businessman, and he always carried valid ID.

The screech of sirens abruptly split the air. The city wasn’t big and the Providence Police had their headquarters downtown. Cops would be streaming in from all over, roadblocks just a matter of time. Jersey picked up his step but remained calm. His thoughtful client, no doubt familiar with the parking crunch in downtown Providence, had sent Jersey a RISD visitor’s pass for the parking lot just across the street. The cops would be here in two minutes. Jersey would be gone in one.

The sirens roared closer. Jersey arrived at the tiny college parking lot at the base of College Street and South Main. Found his key for the blue rental car. Unlocked the doors, threw in his briefcase, slid into the seat.

Calm and controlled. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn’t done before. Nothing here he couldn’t handle.

Jersey turned the key in the ignition. And then, he heard the
click
.

One frozen instant in time. His eyes widening, his bewilderment honest. But, but, the double-blind policy. Nobody knew his name. He never knew theirs. How could, how could . . .

And then his eyes went to the red visitor’s parking pass hanging from his rental-car mirror, the lone visitor’s pass in a minuscule city parking lot of only twenty vehicles.

His client’s thoughtfulness . . .

Calm and controlled, Jersey thought helplessly. Easy does it. Nothing here he hadn’t done before. Nothing here he couldn’t handle . . .

The current from the car’s starter box hit the electrical ignition switch of the custom-made bomb, and Jersey’s rental car exploded into the bright morning sky.

A dozen city blocks away, on Hope Street, the well-groomed patrons of the trendy restaurant rue de l’espoir—made even trendier by its all-lowercase name—looked up from their decadent business breakfasts of eggs Benedict and inch-thick slices of French toast. Sitting in comfy booths, they now gazed around the rich, earthy interior where the walls were the same color as aged copper pots and the booths were decorated in hues of red, green, brown and eggplant. The tremor, though slight, had been unmistakable. Even the waitresses had stopped in their tracks.

“Did you feel that?” one of the servers asked.

The people in the chic little restaurant looked at each other. They had just started to shrug away the minor disturbance when the harsh sound of screaming sirens cut the air. Two cop cars went flying down the street. An ambulance roared by in their wake.

“Something must have happened,” someone said.

“Something big,” another patron echoed.

Sitting at a small table tucked alone in the far corner, three women finally looked up from their oversized mugs of spiced chai. Two were older, one was younger. All three had caused a minor stir when they had walked through the door. Now the women looked at one another. Then, simultaneously, they looked away.

“I wonder,” said one.

“Don’t,” said another.

And that was all they said.

Until the cops came.

CHAPTER 2

Griffin

A
T
8:31
A
.
M
.
M
ONDAY MORNING,
R
HODE
I
SLAND
S
TATE
Police Detective Sergeant Roan Griffin was already late for his 8:30 briefing. This was not a good thing. It was his first day back on the job in eighteen months. He should probably be on time. Hell, he should probably be early. Show up at headquarters at 8:15
A
.
M
., pumped up, sharply pressed, crisply saluting.
Here I am, I am ready.

And then . . . ?

“Welcome back,” they would greet him.
(Hopefully.)

“Thanks,” he would say.
(Probably.)

“How are you feeling?” they’d ask.
(Suspiciously.)

“Good,” he’d reply.
(Too easily.)

Ah, shit. Good
was
a stupid answer. Too often said to be often believed. He’d say good, and they’d stare at him harder, trying to read between the lines. Good like you’re ready to crack open a case file, or good like we can trust you with a loaded firearm? It was an interesting question.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and tried again.

“Welcome back,” they’d say.

“It’s good to be back,” he’d say.

“How are you doing?” they’d ask.

“My anxiety is operating within normal parameters,” he’d reply.

No. Absolutely not. That kind of psychobabble made even him want to whoop his ass. Forget it. He should’ve gone with his father’s recommendation and walked in wearing a T-shirt that read “You’re only Jealous Because the Voices are Talking to
Me
.”

At least they all could’ve had a good laugh.

Griffin had joined the Rhode Island State Police force sixteen years ago. He’d started with four months in a rigorous boot camp, learning everything from evasive driving maneuvers to engaging in hand-to-hand combat after being stung with pepper spray. (You want to know pain? Having pepper spray in your eyes is pain. You want to know self-control? Standing there willingly to be sprayed for the
second
time, that is self-control.) Following boot camp, Griffin had spent eight years in uniform. He’d boosted the state coffers writing his share of speeding tickets. He’d helped motorists change tires. He’d attended dozens of motor vehicle accidents, including way too many involving children. Then he’d joined the Detective Bureau, starting in Intelligence, where he’d earned a stellar reputation for his efforts on a major FBI case. Following that, he worked some money laundering, gunrunning, art forgery, homicide. Rhode Island may not have a large quantity of crime, but as the detectives liked to say, they got quality crime.

Griffin had been a good detective. Bright. Hardheaded. Stubborn. Ferocious at times. Funny at others. This stuff was in his blood. His grandfather had been a beat cop in New York. His father had served as sheriff in North Kingstown. Two of his brothers were now state marshals. Years ago, when Griffin had first met Cindy on a hiking trip in New Hampshire, first looked into her eyes and felt her smile like a thunderbolt in his chest, he’d blurted out, before his name, before even hello, “I’m a cop.” Fortunately for him, Cindy had understood.

Griffin had been a good detective. Guys liked working with him. The brass liked giving him cases. The media liked following his career. He went on the Dave Letterman show when the Rhode Island State Police won a nationwide award for best uniform. He led Operation Pinto, which shut down a major auto-theft ring in a blaze of front-page
Providence Journal
headlines. He even got appointed to the governor’s task force on community policing, probably because the little old ladies had been asking for him since he’d strutted across Letterman’s sound stage. (Officer Blue Eyes, the
ProJo
had dubbed him. Oh yeah, his fellow detectives had definitely had that made into a T-shirt.)

Two and a half years ago, when the third kid vanished from Wakefield and the pattern of a locally operating child predator became clear, there had never been any doubt that Griffin would head the investigation. He remembered being excited when he’d walked out of that briefing. He remembered the thrum of adrenaline in his veins, the flex of his muscles, the heady sense that he had once again begun a chase.

Two days before Cindy went for a routine checkup. Six months before everything went from bad to worse. Eleven months before he learned the true nature of the black abyss.

For the record, he’d nailed that son of a bitch. For the record.

Griffin made the left-hand fork on Route 6, headed into North Scituate. Five minutes from headquarters now. He drove by the giant reservoir as the landscape opened up to reveal a vast expanse of water on his right and rolling green hills on his left. Soon he’d see joggers, guys grabbing a morning run. Then would come the state police compound. First, the flat, ugly 1960s brown building that housed Investigative Support Services. Then, the huge old gray barn in the back, a remnant of what the property used to be. Finally, the beautiful old white semimansion that now served as state police headquarters, complete with a gracefully curving staircase and bay windows overlooking more rolling green hills. The White House, the rookies called it. Where the big boys lived.

Damn, he’d missed this place. Damn.

“Welcome back, Griffin,” they’d say.

“Thanks,” he’d say.

“How are you feeling?” they’d ask.

And he’d answer
—

In the left-hand lane, a blue Ford Taurus roared past, red lights flashing behind the grille. Then came two more unmarked police cars, sirens also screaming. What the hell?

Griffin turned into the parking lot of state police headquarters just in time to see detectives pour out of ISSB and race for their state steels. He recognized two guys from the Criminal Identification Unit (CIU), Jack Cappelli and Jack Needham, aka Jack-n-Jack, climbing into the big gray crime-scene-investigation van. Then they had flipped on the lights and were peeling out of the lot.

Griffin swung in front of the ISS building. He hadn’t even cut the motor before Lieutenant Marcey Morelli of Major Crimes was banging on his window.

“Lieutenant.” He started to salute. Morelli cut him off.

“Providence just called in reports of rifle fire and a major explosion at the Licht Judicial Complex. ATF and the state fire marshal get the explosion. We get the shooting. All units respond.”

“A shooting at the
courthouse?
” His eyebrows shot up. No friggin’ way.

“You been following the Como case? Sounds like somebody got tired of waiting for the trial. Better yet, the media’s already there, catching the before and the after. Can you say ‘Film at eleven’?”

“Somebody up there hates you, Lieutenant.”

“No kidding. Look, whatever just happened, we know it’s going to be big. I’ve already asked the detective commander for additional resources, plus I want all of Major Crimes down there ASAP. The uniforms can handle the canvassing, but I want you guys on initial interviews. Find out when, where, why, how, radio it to every uniform in the area so they can be on the lookout for the shooter, and hey, catch this guy yesterday. You know the drill.” Morelli paused long enough to take a breath, then narrowed her eyes as, for the first time, she truly saw his seated form. “Jesus Christ, Griffin, I thought you’d spent the time fishing or something like that.”

“Well yeah. And some weights.” He shrugged modestly.

“Uh huh.”

“And some running.”

“Uh huh.”

“Okay, boxing, too.”

The lieutenant rolled her eyes. Griffin had spent the last year of his eighteen-month medical leave mastering the art of sublimation—funneling nonproductive tension into a productive outlet. He’d gotten pretty good at it. He could sustain a five-minute mile for nearly ten miles. He could box sixteen rounds. He could bench-press a Volvo.

His body was good. His face was still a little too harsh—a man not sleeping well at night. But physically . . . Griffin was a lean, mean machine.

The lieutenant straightened. “Well,” she said briskly, “The Boss is on his way. So get moving, Sergeant. And remember, there are only a hundred cameras about to document every step we take.”

Lieutenant Morelli resumed running. Griffin sat there for one more moment, honestly a little dazed.
My anxiety is operating within normal parameters,
he thought stupidly. Ah fuck it. Back is back. He flipped on his lights and joined his fellow officers, roaring toward Providence.

CHAPTER 3

Jillian

S
HE IS DRIVING TO HER SISTER
’
S APARTMENT.
W
ORK HAS
held her up, she is running an hour late. Traffic is miserable, of course. Another accident on 195, when isn’t there an accident? She is thinking about all the things she still has to get done. Cash-flow analysis of the first six months. Cash-flow projection of the next six months. Storyboards for Roger. Copy proofs for Claire.

Toppi called her at work to say that Libby was having a bad day. Please don’t stay out too late.

She is driving to her sister’s apartment, but she is not thinking about her sister. She is not looking forward to dinner with Trish. It has become one more thing to do on a long list of things to do, and part of her suspects that this is bad. She has lost perspective. She has let her life get away from her. The rest of her is too busy to care.

She has her responsibilities. She is the responsible one.

Trisha is off to college. Trisha has her first apartment, tiny, cramped, but beautiful because it is all hers. Trisha has new friends, new life, new goals. She wants to be a playwright, she told Jillian excitedly last week. Before that she had wanted to study communications. Before that it had been English. Trish is young, beautiful, bright. The world is her oyster, and Jillian does not doubt that Trish will become exactly who she wants to become, doing exactly what she wants to do.

And this pains her in a way she doesn’t understand. Lifts her up, pushes her down. She is the surrogate mother, proud of her child’s accomplishments. She is the tired older sister, feeling a nagging twinge of jealousy when she has nothing to be jealous of. Yes, her path was harder. No, she was never nineteen and carefree. No, she has never gotten to live on her own, not even now. But she went to college, earned a business degree. At thirty-six she runs a successful ad agency, calling all the shots. She didn’t sacrifice everything for her mother and sister. She carved out her own life, too.

And yet . . .

Visiting Trish is hard for her these days. She does not do it nearly as often as she should.

Now, she drives around Thayer Street, looking for a place to park. The third week in May, the sun is just starting to set and the sidewalks are crowded with Brown University summer students, milling outside of Starbucks, the Gap store, Abercrombie & Fitch. Jillian still gets a twinge of unease over Trisha living in the city. Especially after the recent reports of two rapes, the second of which was only two weeks ago. One was over at Providence College, however, and the other was some woman in her home.

Trisha knows about the attacks. They even talked about it last week. Some of the girls have started carrying pepper spray. Trish bought a canister as well. Plus she inspected the locks on her apartment. Her apartment is really very secure. A little basement studio, with only tiny windows set high in the wall and not big enough for a grown man to crawl through. Trisha had also installed a bolt lock when she signed her lease last spring. It’s a key in, key out kind of lock; supposedly one of the best money can buy.

“I’ll be fine,” Trish told Jillian in that exasperated way only a teenager can manage. “For heaven’s sake, I’ve taken two courses in self-defense!”

Jillian finally finds a parking spot deep down on Angell Street. She has a bit of a hike now to Trisha’s apartment, but that’s not unusual given the state of Providence’s parking. Plus, it’s a balmy, dusky evening and she could use the exercise.

Jillian doesn’t have pepper spray. She contemplates this as she locks the door of her gold Lexus. She does what she’s seen on TV—she carries her car keys in her fist, with the biggest key sticking out between two fingers like a weapon. She also keeps her head up and her footsteps brisk. Of course, this comes naturally to her. She has never been the shrinking violet type. She likes to think that Trish got her independent spirit from her.

Trisha lives at the edge of the Brown campus. Generally, they meet at her apartment, then walk to Thayer Street with its host of ethnic restaurants and upscale coffee shops. Jillian could go for some Pad Thai. Or maybe grilled lamb.

For the first time, her footsteps pick up. Thayer Street has such great restaurants; it’s nice to be out and about on College Hill, with its youth and vitality. And the night is lovely, not too hot, not too cold. After dinner they can go for some ice cream. Trisha can tell her all about her summer internship at Trinity Theater, whether the set guy—Joe, Josh, Jon—has asked her out yet. There would be fresh gossip on her group of friends, of course, The Girls. Tales of adventure from their recent trip to Providence Place Mall, ladies’ night out in Newport, etc., etc.

Jillian could relax, sit back, and let Trisha go.
Tell me about
every hour, minute, day.
Tell me
everything.

For this is where the proud surrogate mother and tired older sister come together: they both love to listen to Trish. They love her enthusiasm. They cherish her excitement. They marvel at her wonder, a nineteen-year-old woman-girl, still learning about the world, still convinced she can make it a better place.

Jillian arrives at Trisha’s apartment complex. Once, it was a grand old home. Now, the building is subdivided into eight units for the college crowd. As the basement renter, Trisha has her own entrance around back.

Jillian rounds the house as the sun sinks lower on the horizon and casts the narrow alleyway into gloom. Trisha has a powerful outdoor spotlight above the back door. Jillian is slightly surprised, given the rapidly falling night, that Trish has not turned it on. She’ll mention it to her.

At the door, Jillian raises her hand, she lets her knuckles fall. And then she catches her breath as the door soundlessly swings in to reveal the darkened stairs.

“Trisha? Trish?”

Jillian moves cautiously down the steps, having to use the handrail to guide her way. Had Trisha grown tired of waiting for her? Maybe she’d decided to start her laundry and had run down the street to the Laundromat. That had happened once before.

At the bottom of the stairs is another door, this one wooden, simple. An inside bedroom door. Jillian puts her hand on the shiny brass-colored knob. She turns. The door sweeps open and Jillian is face-to-face with a deep-shadowed room.

“Trisha?”

She takes three steps in. She glances at the tiny kitchenette. She turns toward the bed, and—

A force slams into her from behind. She cries out, her hands popping open, her car keys flying across the room, as she goes down hard. She catches herself with her left palm and promptly hears something crack.

“Trish?” Her voice high-pitched, reedy, not at all like herself. The bed, the bed, that poor woman on the bed.

“Goddamn bitch!”

A weight is pressing against her back. Rough hands tangle in her hair. Her head is jerked back. She gasps for air. Then her head is slammed against the floor.

Stars. She sees stars, and her scattered senses try to understand what is happening. It’s not a cartoon. There is no Coyote or Road Runner. This is her, in her sister’s apartment, and oh my God, she is under attack. That is not a store mannequin tied naked and spread-eagled to the bed. Trish, Trish, Trish!

All of a sudden, Jillian is pissed off.

“No!” she cries.

“Fucking, fucking, fucking,” the man says. He has her hair again. Her head goes up. Her head goes down. Her nose explodes and blood and tears pour down her face. She whimpers, but then her rage grows even hotter. She must get this man! She must hurt this man! Because even in pain, even in shock, she has a deeper, instinctive understanding of what has just happened here. Of what this man just did to her sister.

Her hands come out from beneath her, flailing wildly, trying to whack at the weight on her back. But her arms don’t bend that way, and he’s still beating her face and the world is now starting to spin. Her head goes back, her head goes forward. Her head goes back, her head goes forward . . .

He is sliding down her back. He is rubbing against her and there is no mistaking his arousal. “I’m going to fuck you good,” the man says. He laughs and laughs and laughs.

Jillian finally twists beneath his body. She beats at his thighs. She knits together the fingers on her right hand and tries to jab them into his ribs. And he whips her head from side to side to side until she can no longer feel the sting. She is in a dark, black place with a weight crushing her body and a voice stuck in her head and he is going to fuck her good.

His left hand curls around her throat. It starts to squeeze. She tries to claw at his wrist, but encounters only latex.

Oh no. Trish. Oh no.

She must get him off. She can’t get him off. Her lungs are burning. She wants to fight. She wants to save her sister. Oh please stop, please.

Somebody. Help us.

The lights grow brighter behind her eyes. Her body slowly, surely, goes limp. The man finally loosens the grip his legs have on her ribs. His weight comes up off her body slightly.

And she jabs her hand forward as hard as she can and nails him between the legs.

The man howls. Rolls to the side. Clutches his balls. Jillian twists her shoulders, grabs at the floor, and tries to find something to pull herself free.

And then the weight is completely gone. The man is gone. He is curled up on the floor and she’s gotta move. Phone, phone, phone. The kitchen counter. It’s on the kitchen counter. If she can just get to the phone, dial 911.

Jillian pulls herself across the hardwood floor. Gotta move, gotta move. Trisha needs her. She needs her.

Come on, Jillian.

And then, before she even feels him, she hears him coming again.

“No,” she whimpers, but she’s already too late.

“Goddamn, fucking bitch! I’m gonna
KILL
you! I’m gonna
SNAP
your goddamn neck, I’m gonna pop out your fucking eyes. Goddamn . . .”

He slams down upon her back and grabs her throat with his steely hands. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. Can’t swallow. Can’t breathe.

Her chest, growing so tight. Her hands, plucking at his gloved hands. No, no, no.

Come on, Jillian. Come on, Jillian.

But he is too strong. She realizes this as the world begins to spin and her lungs start to burst. She is proud. She is smart. She is a woman who believes she controls her own life.

But he is brute strength. And she is no match for him.

She is sinking down. She wants to say something. She wants to reach out to her sister. She is so sorry. Oh Trish, oh Trish, oh Trish.

And then, all of a sudden, the hands are gone.

“Fuck!” Fast footsteps run across the room. Footsteps pounding up the stairs. A distant boom as the external door bursts open.

Jillian draws a ragged, gasping breath of air. Like a drowning victim bursting free from water, she bolts upright, desperately dragging more oxygen into her lungs.

He’s gone. He just . . . gone.

The room is empty. It is over. She’s alive, she’s alive. She is not stronger. She is not more capable. But she is lucky.

Jillian pulls herself unsteadily to her feet. She staggers across the room. She falls onto the bed next to her sister’s form.

“Trish!” she cries out.

And then, in the unending silence of the room, she realizes that she is not lucky at all.

Seven
A
.
M
. Monday morning, Jillian Hayes remained prostrate on her bed. She stared up at the ceiling. She listened to the sound of her mother’s muffled snoring down the hall, then the faint
beep, beep, beep
of Toppi’s alarm clock going off for the first time. The adult-care specialist hit snooze right away. It would take three or four more alarms before Toppi actually got out of bed.

Jillian finally turned her head. She looked out the window of her East Greenwich home, where the sun was shining bright. Then she looked at her dresser, where the manila envelope still lay in plain sight.

Seven
A
.
M
. Monday morning. The Monday morning.

The phone next to her bed bleated shrilly. Jillian immediately froze. It might be another reporter demanding a quote. Worse, it might be
him
. He probably hadn’t even started the ride to the courthouse yet. What did he wake up thinking about on a day like today?

The phone rang again, loud and demanding. Jillian had no choice but to snatch it up; she didn’t want it to disturb her mother.

“Did I wake you?” Carol asked in her ear.

Jillian started breathing again. Of course it was Carol. Good ol’ Dan was probably up and out already. Heaven forbid that even on a day as important as this day, he stay at home with his wife. Jillian said, “No.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Carol said.

“I now know every pattern on my ceiling.”

“It’s funny. I feel so nervous. My stomach is tied in knots, my hands are shaking. I haven’t felt like this since, well”—Carol’s laugh was brittle—“I haven’t felt like this since my wedding day.”

“It will be over soon,” Jillian said quietly. “Do you think we should call Meg?”

“She knows about breakfast.”

“All right.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“A camel-colored pantsuit with a white linen vest. I laid it out last night.”

“I went shopping. Nothing in my closet felt right. Then again, what do you wear for this sort of thing? I don’t know. I found this butter-yellow Chanel suit at Nordstrom. It was nine hundred dollars. I’m going to burn it when the day is done.”