The Charity (30 page)

The kitchen was as they had left it last night. Stale sandwiches littered the table and counter tops. The mail was still scattered on the floor.

He walked over and absently picked it up to replace it on the table. A return address caught his eye. Scrawled on the upper left hand corner of the small box was “Saddle String Ranch, Utah.” His brows creased into a straight line, and his jaw clenched.

He opened the box and poured its contents on the table. A letter, a pair of earrings and a small metal object slid out. He picked up the latter object and stood looking at it for a long time. Its patina had dimmed behind a layer of brown tarnish. It surface was heavily scratched, but a faint design could still be made out.

Michael’s heart slowed to a steady, pounding beat as the form of the engraving burned itself into his consciousness. A shamrock bled three drops of blood as it was sliced by a dagger.

He sank into a chair and sat, motionless except for his chest heaving deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. The lighter caught the light through the window and flashed its reality at him, almost as a challenge.

The pieces were there all along, and he refused to see them. Jessica Wyeth was in more trouble than he ever imagined.

PART THREE

Hamilton, Massachusetts
Perc, Kentucky
Boston, Massachusetts

November 1995

MAGNUS CONNAUGHT STROKED
the cheek of his wife in a loving gesture as she settled the tray of tea and soda bread on the table in front of him. He gave a contented sigh and returned the warm smile given to him by Catherine. Still a fine woman, he mused. Extending his hand, he motioned for her to join him in their afternoon refreshment. She glanced around the room at the other figures and demurred, then quietly withdrew. Magnus sighed again in the direction of the retreating figure, thanking the Lord that she was nothing like his first wife.

The comparison of the women crimped his face with momentary discomfort. His first wife was meddlesome and vocal in her opinion of his business dealings. He married her for her fiery independence then grew to hate her for it. Everything went wrong because of her. No matter. He managed to deal with her effectively enough.

He took a sip of hot tea and looked at his loyal sentinels. One wanted to speak. He nodded in the direction of the young man, granting permission.

“Sir. We have your invited guest in the other room. Shall we bring him in?” The young man’s voice was clear and bright and emanated from an unlined face. His eagerness to please radiated and warmed the old man.

“Yes. Yes. Let’s not keep him waiting any longer.” Magnus looked at the young man with paternal pleasure. The aide was growing up well under his watchful eye. It would still take more years of careful grooming before the lad would be ready to assume a greater position. The old man’s eyes flickered with a look of disappointment. A son following in his footsteps, as he had followed in his own father’s, was a lifelong dream. Chronic exhaustion pulled down on him. He wanted to retire and take Catherine away from all of this. Not yet. There was so much more to do.

He glanced up as the far doors swung open. Coogan strode confidently into the room. Magnus’ bony hand made an elegant gesture in the air toward an open chair.

“Ah, Detective Coogan. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Do sit down.” He looked at the faces of the other men. “I think the Detective would like to speak with me privately.” The men nodded and dutifully filed from the room.

Coogan settled deeply into the thickly padded chair and opened the buttons on his exquisite suit jacket. His shoes glowed richly in the warm firelight. He sighed and relaxed further in the deep comfort of the expensive surroundings. Magnus could see that Coogan felt very much at home. And on guard. “Magnus. It’s so nice to see you again. I hope you and Catherine are well.”

“Yes, yes. We are both well. Thank you for asking,” his voice rumbling in soothing paternal tones. The old man’s eyes were shaded with heavy lids. Skinny fingers wrapped around the china cup, sucking up its warmth. “I am sure you’re curious as to why I asked you here today.”

“The thought did cross my mind. It’s been a while since we’ve paid one another a social call.”

“You know we can’t be too careful in protecting our privacy. Many of my men cling to every word of a legend, such as yourself.”

“Yes, of course. I understand. What can I help you with?”

“I hate to be of any bother to you. It is just that you’ve been so helpful in the past. I was wondering if you could help me out with a few questions I have.”

“You know you can count on me if you need anything, Magnus. Anything.”

“Yes, yes. Of course I can. You have never let me down, have you?” The words were spoken in a sweet tone to lure the prey closer. Old eyes peered at the dandily dressed detective. He paused long enough to set the man on edge. “It seems that a mutual friend of ours has been located. I hate to bother you with the reminiscences of an old man, but my memory is fading. Please indulge me. What can you remember about a young girl by the name of Jessica Wyeth?”

The soft chair began to lose some of its comfort. Coogan shifted his weight in an effort to get it back. “Who?”

“Come now, Detective,” Magnus said through a phlegmy chortle. “I think that name must have a familiar sound to it?”

“Wyeth. Wyeth. Oh yeah, right. Wasn’t that the young kid that murdered some horse trainer or something? I recall that she was killed right afterward in a freak explosion.”

Magnus waved his hand in the air to conjure an image. “I vaguely recall that myself. Tell me, how did you come to the conclusion that it was her body found in the ruins? I am always in awe of the fine police work you do.”

“She was properly identified.”

“I see. Tell me
how
she was identified.”

Coogan swallowed. “Every bit of procedure was followed.”

“I’ve no doubt you had confidence in the process. Tell me the steps that were taken.”

Coogan’s sharp features froze into a mask of arrogant confidence. “Hey! Are you trying to tell me that the Wyeth chick is
alive
? No way. Impossible. There was no way she could have escaped that explosion. Besides, they found bones in the debris.”

“
Bones
? I recall that it was clearly identified as a ‘body.’”

“They were charred beyond any recognition.”

“And...?”

“And Keenan in Forensics identified her! I had to pay dearly for that identification. Keenan was an ass. Always yanking me around.”

“So you verified what he found?”

“Yes. Of course. Female. Age 18 to 22. Stood five feet, eight inches tall.”

Magnus’ white head nodded in total understanding. “Again, memories play tricks on old minds. I recall that you were having a friendly chat with her shortly before her untimely death.”

“Yeah. Yeah. That’s right. I tracked her to that dive.”

“I seem to recall you stating that you learned a shocking piece of information shortly before she died. Could you refresh my memory as to what it was she said to you that caused you to be so concerned?” The old man’s tone was sing-songy in its attempt to impart a sense of safety.

“I overheard her talking to her friend earlier that day. It sounded like she knew something. She did. I made sure to get her alone to hear her confession to Gus Adams’ murder.” Coogan wiped his dampening hands on his finely clothed thighs. The game shifted. “What’s all this about? This should hardly be of concern to you.”

“Please. Please, Detective. Calm yourself down. I’ve never had any reason to doubt what you told me. Until now, that is.”

“This is impossible. She’s not a threat to you.”

“The dead are never a threat. I feel totally protected by the efforts of you and your fine police department. I know the lengths you would go to protect the cause, and me.”

“Look,” he said straining for control, “if you’re telling me that Jessica Wyeth is alive, then it’ll be easy to track her down. We can issue a warrant for her arrest and alert all states to be on the lookout for her.”

Rheumy eyes glowered from behind draped eyelids. “For a crime committed so long ago? I am certainly in no position to do your job, Detective, but that strikes me as odd. Surely someone would question that, don’t you think? That would be a little bit too sensational for it to go unnoticed by the press.”

“Hey. Enough with this game crap. You’ve told me that she’s alive. How can you be so sure?”

The rumpled newspaper clipping showing the happy faces of the winners of the Harvest Hunter Pace was spread out on the table.

“You can’t base this on one photograph in some hick newspaper.”

“True. That’s why I sent an old friend to see for himself.”

“She
confessed
to killing Gus Adams,” Coogan said through tightly drawn lips. “All the evidence supported that statement. That’s in my report.”

“Ah, yes. Your official
police
report.”

“I went over every piece of evidence myself. It was airtight, and the dead don’t talk.”

“She’s not dead and it’s only a matter of time before she talks.”

“Look. There is nothing that connects you to that murder. There is not one shred of evidence that would begin an investigation into your connection with that farm. So she’s alive. What of it? You’re clean.”

“Detective. As I said, my old head is filled with thoughts and memories. It sometimes takes a long while for my memories to drift to the surface. I just seem to recall that Miss Wyeth told you something of great importance as to what she saw the night you claim she murdered Gus Adams. You sewed the case up so neatly and quickly, that I hardly had a chance to absorb what you said. Such a fine example of efficient police work. Tell me again what she said that’s
not
in your official report.”

Coogan’s finely tailored suit was almost soaked in sweat. “She said she saw two men kill Gus Adams.”

“And did anything unusual happen in the following days that might not have gotten into your official police report?”

“Unusual? I don’t follow you.”

“Hamilton is such a sleepy hollow. Anything unusual would surely be remembered by someone.”

“No. Nothing. I sewed the case up tight.”

The old man paused and motioned to the drawing room door with a nod of his head. “You have been most helpful, Detective Coogan. Thank you for indulging the ramblings of an old man. I am losing faith in my ability to recall small details. And the mind of a murderer like this Wyeth woman is no place for me to lose my way.”

Coogan got up from the chair and stopped at the door. His leather soled shoes soundless on the dark parquet floor. “I’ll see to it that our friend is taken care of.”

Another chuckle rattled up from the chest of the old man. “Oh, no. No need to trouble yourself with
another
effort. I know you would never dream of lying to me. And after so many years, I am sure she doesn’t even remember what she told you. Good Evening, Detective Coogan.”

The graceful mahogany doors swept shut behind the arrogant detective.

“I need to talk to you.” Magnus did not look up as his summoned aide materialized out of the shadows. “I would hate to think that any additional bumblings would further mar our friend’s record. I definitely want him to know why his service has come to an end.”

The figure nodded. A smile tugged at the line of smooth skin on his face. He turned to leave.

“Make it slow.”

December 1995

“MERCI BEAUCOUP, MONSIEUR.”

The conductor barely acknowledged the thanks from the demurely dressed and very pregnant woman. It was late, and he wanted to get home. He just wanted to make sure nobody slipped and fell this rainy night on his shift. Especially that one. The figure of the young woman waddled along beside her husband or boyfriend or whatever. He felt a flash of pity for her. That big lout she was with hardly offered to help her at all. Well, that was not his problem. He tipped his hat at her and returned to help another passenger

At the curbside, the woman rubbed her lower back in discomfort and turned to her escort. “
Merci mille fois
, thank you.”

The beefy man winced. “Yeah. Sure. Anytime.” He was glad to be rid of her. She had stuck to him like flypaper ever since New York. He could not even lose her during his train change. A real weirdo. She had better get new eyeglasses, too. Those thick ones she was wearing hardly helped her vision at all. She must be legally blind or something. He escaped through the crowd once she got to the taxi stand. That preggo would never be able to keep up with him.

“
Au revoir!”
she waved happily at the retreating figure. The woman hoisted her suitcase into the taxi pulled up in front of her. Responding to the surprised look at the cabby’s face, she replied, “Oh! Strong!” and pantomimed flexing her bicep. Settling into the back seat, she handed a cabby a note with ‘Marriott Copley Place’ scrawled on it. The taxi pulled out into traffic and left the bustle of South Station behind.

“Ya know, lady. Ya couldda got off at Back Bay Station and saved yerself a fare.” The cabby’s brown eyes and bushy black eyebrows were framed in the rearview mirror as he stared back at his passenger.

“Oh?
Oui
.” She remained silent for the rest of the trip despite his efforts to talk with her, just looking and smiling absently in his direction. Language barrier. She tried to pay him with Canadian dollars and bowed her head in apology when he refused. Finally settling the tab, she waddled into the hotel, past the lobby and through the causeway joining the hotel to a large mall.

It was late, and the mall was nearly empty. Quietly observing everyone, she slogged her way to the ladies’ rest rooms. The people in the mall at this hour were a mix of college-aged kids dressed in an array of punk, grunge, and general anti-fashion clothes. A small percentage were well-dressed professionals, returning to the cluster of hotels from dinner or theater engagements or just window shopping at the expensive stores. She dallied in front of the mirror, adjusting her thick glasses and washing her hands thoroughly. When the few women that were there either left or entered a stall, she entered the large handicapped stall unnoticed.

Slipping out of her overcoat and long, plain dress, she brought the sharp scissors to her swollen abdomen. Using the blades as a knife, she stabbed through the layers of support and the belly rumpled to the floor. Instantly, layers of old clothes, boxes of different hair dye, shabby wigs, and a box of bandages and first aid tape littered the floor. All traveled safe from accidental discovery.

She swept her red hair up into a ponytail at the top of her head. First aid tape was used to secure the hacked hemline of the dress to somewhere above her knees. Its lace collar was ripped off and flushed. Working efficiently, she stuffed her backpack with the contents of her belly. A man’s long black overcoat and short boots emerged from the huge suitcase and the horrible brown plaid coat and ‘sensible’ shoes were exchanged in their place.

Before donning her new attire, she carefully and painfully cleaned and redressed her burns. The pain no longer made her knees buckle. She taped a series of wads of bills to her inner thighs, stomach, back, and upper inner arms, just in case. Having cash taped to her gave just a little more flexibility, a tinge more safety. She needed to find better places for all of the cash from selling the Jeep. She hesitated before jamming the rest of it in the pack.

Jessica felt along the inside of the trash receptacle that shared the wall of her stall and the stall next to it. There was a large amount of space deep above the receptacle’s door flap. She rummaged through her pack and pulled out a short black wig and thin red sweater. Placing a wad of twenty-dollar bills and the wig in the center of the sweater, she scrunched it into a long tight roll and taped it inside the lid.

She sat still for a long time and identified the sounds around her. Several women had come and gone in the time she was there and took no notice of her. She placed the suitcase on the toilet seat and bent down to look under the stall partition. One pair of feet could be seen at the far end of the row. Jessica squirmed her way over several stalls and emerged. If anyone found the suitcase and was suspicious, the review of any surveillance tapes would not readily give away the transformation that occurred in that stall.

Looking at her reflection while washing her hands, she stifled the urge to laugh. Dark red lipstick coated her lips and some of the color blended onto her cheeks. Time to go. She had to hurry if she was going to get to the YWCA’s Berkeley Residence before midnight.

She walked crisply with a slight bounce to her step down Boylston Street, taking a right onto Berkeley. Occasionally glancing in the gleaming windows, no one paid any attention to yet another Generation X kid in the college-swamped city of Boston. Her shoulder muscles were stiff and sore from her travels and from the tension she felt from being hyper vigilant. Relaxation could happen only once she passed the last hurdle for the night.

A trio of women returning from a night out bustled up the stairs of the residence. Walking up to the bleary-eyed resident assistant hunched over open books behind the lobby desk, Jessica huffed impatiently to be noticed.

“Yeah? Whaddya want?” The overweight woman shifted heavily in her burdened chair.

“Hi. Lolly Greenburg. I called yesterday.”

Pudgy fingers pushed and sifted through papers littering the desk. “Yeah. From Buffalo, New York.” More shufflings of the mess on the desk produced a key. The assistant leaned her hulk over the desk and stared at the backpack. “Temporary stay, right? That’s thirty-two bucks a night. Credit card?”

Jessica shook her head and offered cash, US. She paid for three nights.

“Private room. Shared bath down the hall. Cafeteria on the second floor. Questions?” The red ponytail shook again. “Up the elevator. Fifth floor. To the right.”

It had been three days since she stopped to rest. Once safely in her room, Jessica threw her pack down on the rickety chair. She was exhausted. The only sleep she had gotten were the small periods of dozing she allowed herself during the long train and bus rides she took crisscrossing the east coast. She spent a lot of money on tickets she never used or gave to anyone who looked anything like her and on clothes purchased at thrift stores, now discarded. Without any kind of license, real or fake, she could not rent a car. It would not take her long to get another one, however.

The earlier attempt to run before the fire prompted her to pack her suitcase. She had forgotten that she left it in the Jeep when Snugs began her labor. With everything else that happened, she never gave it another thought. That is, until she woke up and saw Michael sleeping in the chair beside her that night. Without a barn full of horses to tie her down, she crept out of the house and rolled her Jeep down the hill to start it well away from her guard’s ears.

She put the Jeep into four-wheel drive and drove along the dirt mountain roads, always heading east. She crossed into West Virginia and then into Virginia. She sold her Jeep at the first place she came to. Smelling desperation, they ripped her off but she did not care as long as she had cash. Money in hand, she immediately walked to the bus stop, bought four tickets to different cities, boarded a bus and got off a few stops before her destination. She made the first of many stops to a local consignment shop and pharmacy. Appearance and destinations kept changing. Most importantly, she kept moving.

Running was second nature. Skills remained fresh, and she added new tricks when she needed to. Giving the appearance of traveling with someone whenever possible would confound anyone looking for “a lone woman.” The stunned silence of most of the people she ‘joined’ up with was used to her advantage, always filling the gap with some story and accent that seemed to fit at the time. She made an early promise that she would never spend the night in the streets. She sensed they were far too dangerous for her. She always felt safer in the woods or on a farm in the open than in a city on a street. But, cities were easier to get lost in.

But those were rules of the past. There was a big difference in how she was running now. She was not running away. She was running
to
. Mistakes could not happen.

Thoughts strung out through the veil of her sleep deprived mind. No decisions or plans could be made now. She would worry about staying lost in Boston in the morning.

The newspaper archives of the Boston Public Library were located on the first level in a windowless cavern behind a door labeled ‘Microtext Department.’ The air, arid and still, reeked of decaying paper and dust. Current issues of
The Boston Globe
were stacked along the back wall. Images of any issue over four years old filled the metal cabinets of microfilm, with more recent issues on CD-ROM.
Unsure of exact dates, Jessica grabbed microfilm index books dated 1983 through 1988.

A precise strategy eluded her. She could not remember enough on her own, and nothing of what happened to her in the past weeks made any sense. Memories of her childhood were not something she examined. Going back in time would help her. She could only remember up to her guilt; then the rest was a void. Jessica wanted to know how she killed and
why
. She also wanted to know why the men who broke into her house wanted her dead. They knew who she was, but they did not report her to the police.
Why?
Jessica suspected she knew the answers and willed her memories to the surface. To help herself, she had to piece together the facts from whatever anyone else may have said or written at the time.

Articles were indexed by subject matter, names, dates and certain key phrases. After several attempts, she finally located a reference to a headline,
Brutal Murder Shocks Quiet Town of Hamilton
.

The image of the article was slightly yellow as it appeared on the screen of the ancient film viewer, but the text and photographs were quite clear.

HAMILTON, MA - The brutally slain body of a man was found early yesterday at Wyeth Worldwind Farm, located in the exclusive North Shore suburb of Hamilton.

The victim, identified as 59 year-old Patrick ‘Gus’ Adams, was a long-time manager of the world famous thoroughbred breeding and training establishment. Mr. Adams’ body was found early this morning by Jason Cressup, an employee of the farm. The cause of death was multiple stab wounds. There were signs of a struggle, including a woman’s jacket nearby covered with blood. The jacket has been identified as belonging to Jessica Wyeth, the wealthy heiress of the late James and Margaret Wyeth and sole owner of Wyeth Worldwind Farm. Footprints, apparently made by a woman, were also found at the scene.

Sources report that Mr. Adams and Miss Wyeth had engaged in a heated argument at a restaurant earlier in the evening. When questioned by police, Miss Wyeth was reported to have been wearing clothes which appeared to have been stained with blood, dirt, and hay as a result of a struggle.

Senior Detective Terrance Coogan reluctantly named Miss Wyeth as the prime suspect in this murder. He was quoted as saying, “It would be a tragedy that a woman at the beginning of her adult life would be accused of such a deed.” All efforts are being made to locate the person or persons responsible for Mr. Adams’ murder. Trooper Owen Shea stated that Miss Wyeth could not be reached for comment.

A picture of Jason standing over the site where he found Gus’ body and a picture of a young and vibrant Gus, smiling after some unnamed win at a track, accompanied the article. The shock of the description of the body and the implicit condemnation of her was traumatic. Reading how Gus died confused her. She did not remember holding any knife or stabbing him. She forced herself to read the paragraphs again and again until she became numb. Finally, the trembling in her hands subsided as she clenched the antique machine. She felt mildly detached from her surroundings, floating somewhere above the table, held there by some invisible hand.

Mechanically, the research continued. To keep her mind functioning, Jessica forced herself to take notes as she read, listing the names of anyone quoted. Articles marched on in succession. Nothing opened more memories. Facts hit the shield and were deflected. A second series of articles told of the young heiress, the prime suspect, suddenly killed in a freak explosion. It was a sensational story at the time and received much coverage. She was dubbed the ‘Murdering Heiress.’

Hours passed as she poured over the newspapers. Finally saturated, she returned the fiche to the small metal cabinets and moved herself to less dismal quarters. Her head pounded as it usually did whenever thoughts from her past invaded her. She just wished she could remember on her own.

Eyesight blurred from research spurred the growing migraine. Jessica read through the names on the list. Jason Cressup became a minor celebrity for finding the body. He was quoted in every article. Contacting him would be stupid. He would turn her over to the police in a second to rekindle his moment of stardom.

The next names on her list were those of the officers in charge of the investigation. A Detective Terrance Coogan and a Trooper Owen Shea were the leaders on the team. A crevasse opened in her mind, and a ball of memories rolled out. Jessica fought hard to keep the revulsion from boiling out of her when she remembered the detective. She placed her head down on the table and could feel her heart begin to pound. Instead of pushing the memories away, she willed them forward. She saw Coogan’s leer, his sharp features, the way he questioned her, the way he did not even try to listen to her when she tried to talk about what happened.