Havoc-on-Hudson (12 page)

40

A cacophony of annoying beeps brought Maggie swimming up from the depths of unconsciousness.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
She was alive! She struggled to unseal her heavy eyelids, prying one a quarter of an inch open. Light poured in. It was daytime. She attempted to move her arms. They were free! Now for the other eye. More light! When, finally, she could keep the heavy lids open, Maggie took in her surroundings. A pale green room. Artificial illumination. An antiseptic odor. A soft bed. I.V. tubes. Those damn
beep, beep, b
eeps
!

A hospital room! She was in a hospital! She was hooked up to … stuff.

Painfully she craned her head to check out her body. Everything that was supposed to be there seemed to be there. Monitors were attached to her arms and chest with suction cups. An IV line was inserted in her arm.

She shifted, trying to get into a more comfortable position, cried out from searing pain. Oh, God! Her rib cage! What had he done to her ribs?

Danny Joe! Oh, God! What had he done to her?

She wept quietly; she could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks. She’d been through hell and had every right to feel sorry for herself. “She’s coming to!” someone said, very far away. It was Andrew’s baritone voice!

She was alive … and safe … in a hospital! Andrew was here! She’d been so close to death. Somehow she’d been spared. Why? How?

Andrew, who’d been sitting behind her bedside curtain, rose, came close, leaned over the railing. “You’re awake!” he said, taking her hand in both of his.

What he didn’t say was, “You’re so pale!” What he would never tell her was, “Your eyes are bruised … blackened. Your hair … encrusted with the killer’s blood.”

She was a heartbreaking sight.

A nurse in blue scrubs appeared by his side. Peered at Maggie. Stuck a thermal strip in her mouth. “How do you feel?” she asked.

Ummmm
, Maggie responded.

“You’ve been better, right?” the nurse commented, reading the thermometer, jotting down a note. “When they brought you here last night, you were unconscious. You’ve been getting strong pain meds for the broken ribs. That’s what the I.V.’s for. You’re going to be groggy and out of it for a while. Just let go and sleep.”

Andrew took her hand and kissed it, then in that gesture of his she found so touching, brought her hand to his heart. “I’ll stay here with you,” he said.

“You bet he will!” The nurse laughed. “We haven’t been able to pry him out of that chair!”

“What happened, Andrew?” Her voice sounded like a rusty hinge. “How did I get here?”

He stroked her hand, then cradled it in both of his. “You’re at St. John’s Pavilion. They’re taking very good care of you.”

“Damn right!” the nurse added, adjusting the bedclothes. “You poor thing!”

Maggie smiled a weak acknowledgement, then turned back to Andrew. “Where’s … you know?” She shuddered. “Where’s Danny Joe?”

“Don’t even think about that creep. You’ll never have to worry about Danny Joe Farrell again! I took care of him.”

Maggie gasped. “How? What? How’d you get there? Oh, I
was
afraid you’d come looking for me?”

“I did come, and your car wasn’t there so I started to leave.”

“I left my car there—right in front of the building! What happened to it?”

“He moved it around back. Put it in an old shed. It was your silly umbrella that made me think twice about leaving. Once I saw it, I knew you must still be there. So I came in. …”

“You came in? Oh, my God! Did you … did you kill him?” Her eyelids were drooping.

Andrew pressed his lips into a thin line. “No. I would have, if I’d had to, but it didn’t come to that. He just … I don’t know how to describe what happened. I went after him with a … a tire iron, and he just … fell apart. Started crying.”

“Started crying …” Maggie drawled the words out, her eyes closed, and she fell asleep.

She slept for hours. When she woke up, it was dark out. Andrew was still sitting in the bedside chair, still holding her hand. He leaned forward and smiled.

“A tire iron?” Maggie queried, in her creaky voice.

He laughed, and stroked her now shampooed hair. “You funny thing,” he murmured, smiling. “Yes, a tire iron. He had a scalpel, and I started moving in on him.” He swallowed hard. “Before I could get close enough to strike him, he dropped some bloody thing that was clutched in his hand. Chief Betsy said it was an old letter.”

“His mother’s letter,” Maggie croaked.

“Yes. He dropped that, and then he collapsed in a heap on the floor. So weird—just like one of those toys we used to have. Remember? There was a guy on a string. When you pulled the strings he would stand up straight. When you let them loose, he’d fall in a heap. Only Danny Joe added sound effects; he started bawling like a little kid.

“Just then, police with drawn guns slammed into the room, and Danny Joe Farrell started screaming for his mommy.”

41

Chief Betsy pulled her chair closer to my hospital bed and took my hand. At the sight of my black eyes and facial bruises, her eyes had filled with sympathy.

“So, it’s … over,” she said, with a long sigh. “This elusive sicko who terrorized us for the better part of a year … this case can now finally be put to rest.”

“I owe you an apology for interfering with your investigation, Betsy. I wasn’t forthcoming with my findings. I was just so driven for reasons of my own, both personal and professional. He was shooting at our troops!”

I felt a tear dribble down my cheek. I was so weepy today—it must have been the pain meds.

“Look, Maggie, there’s nothing to apologize for. The truth is that we’d still be living under his shadow if you hadn’t taken the initiative and come up with an important witness … I’m talking about Leah Goldman. Finding her was clever, brilliant really … although you’ve had to pay a heavy price for your results.”

“Honestly, Chief, I couldn’t ever have imagined that the letter from Danny Joe’s mother would bring this madman to justice. I hadn’t turned it over to you for reasons of conscience. When Leah gave it to me, she made me promise to give it only to Danny Joe. She’d kept it for him faithfully for twenty years. Fortunately when I left for the veterinary hospital it happened to be in my briefcase. I hadn’t opened it, and I didn’t know what message it contained. But I intended to give it to you the next time I saw you. That’s why I was carrying it around. But I kept on putting it off, and it turned out to be a good thing, didn’t it? And really, it didn’t hold up the investigation or anything.” I was babbling.

“Well, I’ll disagree on that one, Maggie. Every clue, every piece of evidence, is important to an investigation.”

“But Betsy, if I hadn’t had that letter in my possession and blindly offered it to Danny Joe because I didn’t know what else to do, I would have been murdered. I would have been splayed on that table just like the dead cat he’d gutted.”

Chief Betsy patted my hand and gave me a weak smile. No one seemed comfortable with how close I had come to death. Not Andrew. Not Betsy. Not Claire. Not anyone. They all gave that same flaccid smile when I mentioned it.

And I mentioned it over and over again. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

Betsy adopted her professional cop voice. “We’ve studied the documents and the letter—which he’d torn into two pieces after he read it, Maggie. When we opened that large white envelope Leah Goldman gave you containing a bunch of family documents, we found his mother’s real estate license under her maiden name, Tessa Svenson. Well, with information that his vanished mother had been a real-estate agent, and the help of the guys from Homicide, we were able to start putting two and two together.”

“You know, Betsy,” I cut in, that was something I’d considered from the beginning—that she might have been in real estate. I’d located a database covering all fifty states and researched the name, Farrell. None of those Farrells fit the bill. Of course, I hadn’t considered that the license might have been in her maiden name.”

“And it wouldn’t have done you any good if you had—since you had no way of knowing her maiden name.”

The lunch cart rolled into my room, and Betsy moved aside to let the aide deposit it on the bed table. She went to lift the lid on the main dish, and I shook my head. “I don’t even want to know what’s under there,” I said. “Andrew promised to bring me a salami sandwich with provolone and mustard.”

“On rye bread?” the Chief asked.

I nodded—
of course
. Now let me just finish telling you what I know, so I can get it off my mind. “It took some mental gymnastics for me to understand what these crimes were about. Danny Joe Farrell didn’t know his mother was dead. He was looking for her, and each time he found a real-estate agent who wasn’t her, he went berserk. He was on a quest for confrontation and revenge.”

My visitor’s expression was sober. “Maggie, I know that agents all over the country are raped and murdered every year. It’s a statistic the average person knows nothing about. Although this monster is behind bars, it won’t stop the others, until your industry changes some of its basic rules of operation.”

“I know. Thanks, Chief, for your support. They’re letting me out of the hospital tomorrow. My … various wounds have begun … to heal.” I reached for the glass and took a drink of water. Then I set it down exactly in its own condensation ring. I was going to need order and predictability for a long time, I expected. “And they can’t do much for broken ribs … same story. It’s a matter of time.”

I didn’t want to talk about having been raped, although, of course, she knew. I’ll need some therapy to overcome the trauma. I’d been heavily drugged, but I’d known what was happening. I’ll have to purge that experience from both body and soul.

42

Claire brought my clothes to the hospital the following day, a loose-fitting black Eileen Fisher sweatshirt and summer jeans. Andrew drove me home. We lunched together on my sunny terrace.
Salade Nicoise
and
crepes
from Petite Auberge. Pink clematis climbed the trellis, and the river peeked through the vines.

Despite the bucolic scene, Andrew seemed a bit jumpy. Finally he stood up. “Maggie, I’m going to run out to Starbucks and get myself some coffee. Do you want a Chai Latte?”

I thought about it. No. I needed to be energized. “Well, since I’m finally allowed to have coffee, would you please order me a grande, dirty soy chai latte in a venti cup with an extra shot.”

“Sure,” he said, with a wink. There was, I thought, something other than a wink going on in his brown eyes. Maybe a bit of a sparkle?

But I was still on meds, so I couldn’t be certain I wasn’t simply seeing things. After he left, I fell into a bit of a snooze, there, at home, next to the river, in the sun.

“Maggie?”

That was quick. Andrew was back already? Seemed like I’d just closed my eyes.

I opened them and smiled. There was my gorgeous man, standing next to me, grinning, one hand deep in his pocket.

“Where’s the coffee?” I mumbled, needing a jolt to wake me up again.

“Damn the coffee,” Andrew said, pulling his hand from his pocket. In it he held a small blue Tiffany box. Kneeling down on the slate terrace, still grinning, he held the box toward me. “It’s my damn fault that you haven’t been wearing this for the past couple of months.”

“Oh, Andrew,” I gasped, reaching out for the box. I opened it slowly, my eyes welling with tears. “Oh, Andrew, this is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen!” And it was. A stunning teardrop emerald set in gold.

“You remembered,” I said, as a tear of my own fell on the ring.

“Remembered what? That emeralds are your favorite stone? Of course I remembered.

“Oh, Maggie, will you marry me? I love you so much. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

I reached out my hand, and Andrew slipped the exquisite ring on my finger. “Nothing would make me happier,” I said.

43

State Report
–
Chief Betsy Col
well

Daniel Joseph Farrell’s mother, a real-estate agent, abandoned him when he was eight years-old, a vulnerable age. She left him to the mercy of his drunken, abusive father, who violated the child in numerous
ways.

As Farrell grew older, resentment festered. Eventually, he swore he would find his mother, confront and kill her for abandoning him. He began stalking real-estate ag
ents.

Each attack on a female agent was almost as fulfilling as an attack would have been on his own mother. But none of these women
was
his mother, leading to disappointment after disappointment. With each frustration the attacks escalated. A deep sadness would turn to fury. Each time the woman wasn’t his mother, rage would inten
sify.

Daniel Joseph Farrell is believed to have been responsible for seventeen attacks on real-estate agents and one murder, that of Hudson Hills broker, Amy Honey
well.

Investigators have evidence that may well lead to more crimes for which this perpetrator will be found responsible. Until a trial date is set, Farrell will be held in the psychiatric division of a maximum security federal correctional institu
tion.

Epilogue

She kicked off her shoes. Then she removed the crimson silk scarf she’d bought from a street vendor in front of Saks Fifth Avenue and hung it on the brass closet hook. Once she heard the news, her day’s activities had become a complete blur and she couldn’t wait to get home. Pouring herself a double vodka with a lemon twist and a couple of ice cubes, she carried the glass to the dining-room table and sat down. On second thought, she stood up again and went back for the whole bottle of S
toly.

“I know I’m going to need this,” she said, to no one but her
self.

She turned her tote bag upside down, shook it, and several local newspapers, including The New York Times, fell out. The papers spread neatly in front of her, she took a nice long sip of her drink. “Aahhh,” she said gratefully as it went
down.

Then she took in the headlines: HUDSON VALLEY RAPIST IN CUSTODY … RAPIST-MURDERER APPREHENDED … DRAMATIC CAPTURE OF REALTY RAPIST … PSYCHO HAD VIOLENT HISTO
RY. …

The news articles couldn’t be any clearer. They told of a psychopath with an extensive criminal history that had begun at an early age. They laid out that he had spent most of his youth behind bars—for burglary, rape, aggravated assault. But she was still in de
nial.

How could i
t be?

At a news conference today in Hudson Hills, Police Chief Betsy Colwell told reporters that, when he was thirteen, the suspect, now twenty-eight, stabbed his father with a steak knife and served one year at Wartsburg Juvenile Correction Facility near Kingston, New York. His father survived the attack, but lost one of his kidneys as a consequ
ence.”

Is this really happe
ning?

She studied the grainy newspaper photos of the man in custody. He had dark hair, surely dyed, but aside from that, he bore an uncanny resemblance to her father and to other close family members. Like the rest of the Svenson clan, Daniel Joseph Farrell was a tall, muscular S
wede.

Obsessively, she picked up the newspapers, one by one, rereading the articles about his capture from beginning to end, not wanting to miss anything. The truth stared at her from every word she read, and each of those words s
tung.

Yes, it was her child, her Danny
Joe.

She wondered if Leah Goldman, her old friend from Buffalo, had ever given Danny Joe the goodbye letter she wrote him when he was eight years old. She’d asked that Leah hold the letter until Danny Joe was mature enough to deal with its contents. It had spoken of her intended suicide, and, now in retrospect, she was sorry she’d ever written it. It had been a gloomy letter and, even though she’d spoken of her deep love for Danny Joe, an awful memory for a mother to leave with her
son.

She knew now, that she’d been suffering from clinical depression and low self esteem at the time, having endured years of verbal and physical abuse from her crazy, alcoholic husband. She knew that, as much as she’d loved her child, she could not have taken him with her, only to abandon him by carrying out her plan to commit sui
cide.

Twenty years had passed, and here she is, still alive, a testament to the healing power of the human spirit. At least, her spirit. Danny hadn’t been so fortunate. Had it been all her f
ault?

The last time she’d seen Danny Joe, he’d been just a little tyke. Now he’s a grown man, and—as horrible and shameful as it is for her to accept it—he’s a rapist and a murderer. When she passes on, this violent psychopath will be her only legacy to the world. All her lofty immigrant dreams for a successful life in America for herself and her only child will die with them
both.

Ironically, leaving Frank and Danny Joe was all she’d needed herself in order to thrive. She’d legally taken back her maiden name, Svenson, taken up her career as a real estate broker, and thrived in her new environment. Although she’d enjoyed a good social life, she never discussed her past with friends or colleagues, nor had she ever married again. The past was a closed book and best forgo
tten.

She hoped that no one will ever discover that she is Daniel Joseph Farrell’s mother. The shame she now feels so deeply is only partly for the terrible crimes her son is accused of, but even more for her own failings as a parent. Had it been her decision to abandon him that had turned her innocent, loving child into a grotesque mon
ster?

She emptied the bottle of Stoly, then opened a second one and poured another drink. She was trying to remain calm, but guilt, intensified by shock, overcame
her.

She knew now what she had to do: what she’d meant to do so long
ago.

“Please let me die, dear God!” she cried out to the heavens. She slid off the tufted chair onto her knees, sobbing, her body heaving with grief, her soul agonized. Then she began screaming; loud, animal-like sounds reverberated in the room and beyond. Consumed by her inconsolable grief, she reached up to the table for the bottle to refill her glass once more. Her body shook uncontrollably, but she was still able to reach over to the chair where she had thrown her purse. Yes! There was the vial of pills! The small white pills whose prescription she’d filled at a pharmacy on her way home from down
town.

She emptied them into her d
rink.

Skol! She held the glass high; it shook in her hand, radiating light from the crystal chandelier. Then, shot by shot, she gulped down the remainder of the v
odka.

Oh my poor, sweet little boy, it’s all Mommy’s fault. When I left you in your father’s care, I failed you. I’m the one responsible for your anger and violence. I’m the Angel of D
eath!

May God forgiv
e me!

It had taken twenty years, but Tessa Svenson was finally at peace, and Danny Joe Farrell’s search for his mother had e
nded.