The Stolen Ones (21 page)

Luther watched the police from the rooftop of the building across the street.

He had parked the Toronado – the first car he had ever driven, out one night with Lucius – in another part of the city. He now knew he could never drive it again. When the time was right he would burn it.

He had one other vehicle, a nondescript ten-year-old van. Like Lucius, the man who first owned the van had once been a patient at Cold River. Luther had buried him in a landfill in New Jersey three years earlier, and had stored the van in a garage he rented in Bridesburg.

Now he would need it.

He climbed down the fire escape, cut through an alley, began to walk down 4th Street, his hands shoved deeply into the pocket of his overcoat. He felt the comfort and heft of the bone-handled knife in its sheath. He tapped the side of the knife, thinking, thinking. He stood at 4th and Diamond, waiting for the light to change. He looked to his left, and saw a horse-drawn cart with wooden wheels, clattering along on the cobblestones. The man driving the rig was wizened, ancient. His corncob pipe billowed gray smoke.

Luther blinked, and knew that it was not a horse-drawn cart at all, but rather a delivery truck. Painted on its side was a young man and a young woman, their brilliant white teeth glowing in the gray winter light.

Luther hurried across the street, picked up his pace, the sound of the doctor’s voice echoing in his head.

You know what you have to do.
 

‘Don’t make me take that phone away from you,’ Colleen Siobhan Byrne signed. ‘I’ve been working out. I can do it.’

Byrne smiled. She was right. She looked like she could take him in a fair fight.

‘Sorry,’ Byrne said. ‘I was supposed to get a call by seven o’clock.’

The call was coming from the ME’s office, a preliminary report on the human remains found in the false wall. The truth was Byrne was still winding down from the raid on Lucius Winter’s house.

The two detectives assigned to the case had determined the specifics in short order. After interviewing neighbors, they learned that occasionally there were voices and the sound of a radio coming from the property, but never loud enough to warrant a complaint.

As far as family was concerned, detectives were able to locate the man’s brother, who told them that after Lucius had done his two stretches in prison, he was all but disowned.

In addition to his time spent in prison, Lucius Winter had once been an inpatient at the Delaware Valley State Hospital.

While the murder of Lucius Winter was being investigated by the SIU of the homicide unit, the connection to the current spate of murders was undeniable. The crime scene unit would be working every inch of the man’s house well into the night.

Byrne turned off his phone. ‘I’m all yours,’ he said.

‘I’m the luckiest girl in Philly,’ Colleen signed.

The waiter brought their salads, and with them what was probably his fifth smile for Colleen Byrne. The kid was about twenty, good-looking. Colleen vamped appropriately. Byrne always got better service when he dined with his daughter.

‘I don’t know,’ Colleen said when they were midway through their entrees. ‘I’m thinking about changing my major.’

Colleen had talked about being a teacher for as long as Byrne could remember. Starting as early as junior high school she had tutored other kids, often inner-city hearing-impaired kids to whom deafness was an even greater obstacle. Quite often, an insurmountable one.

‘Why would you want to do that?’ Byrne asked. ‘You’ve always wanted to go into teaching. I thought that was a done deal.’

Another pause. ‘I’m not sure I’m cut out for it, Dad.’

‘What are you talking about? You’re great with kids. You’re great with adults.’

Colleen shrugged. ‘I don’t think I have the patience.’

If there was one thing his daughter had it was patience. It was one of the many qualities she had inherited from her mother. She certainly didn’t get it from him.

‘Of course you do, honey,’ Byrne said.

‘I’m thinking about switching over to business administration.’

Byrne just nodded. It was one of those moments as a parent that you just had to flow with the conversation. Although, anything that made his daughter happy would make him happy, too, he’d always had his mind and heart set on his daughter becoming a teacher.

Maybe that was just because he always figured that was what Colleen wanted to do.

They lingered over coffee, neither wanting the dinner to end. Byrne told Colleen about Violet.

‘How old is she again?’

‘Maybe two and a half.’

‘And she was in the middle of the street?’

Byrne nodded. ‘Just standing there.’

‘Was she okay?’

‘As far as we could tell,’ Byrne said. ‘At least, physically. We took her to Children’s Hospital to see Jessica’s cousin Angela. The little girl wasn’t hurt. No cuts, no bruises.’

‘Are you sure she isn’t deaf?’

‘She isn’t. When Angela examined her, she said the little girl understood everything she said, responded to her requests. She can hear. She just doesn’t talk.’

Byrne pulled up in front of his ex-wife’s house, where Colleen stayed when she was back in the city. He pulled to the curb, put the car in park. They sat for a while, watched the people scurry along the sidewalks in the rain.

Colleen butterflied a hand, getting Byrne’s attention. He looked over. She had covertly placed a silver band on the ring finger of her right hand.

‘It’s a friendship ring. I’m not engaged, okay?’ she signed.

The word was a fresh arrow. Byrne imagined it would be for a while, followed by the rest of the quiver – proposal, consideration, marriage, pregnant,
grandpa
. For as small a target as the human heart might be, there was always room for another barb.

‘Okay,’ Byrne said. ‘I just saw the ring on your finger. Freaked me out a little. It was on your right hand, but it was the left side of the screen. Some detective I am.’

‘You know you’d be the first person I would tell.’

‘Even before your mother?’

Colleen smiled. ‘I have two hands,’ she signed. ‘I’d find a way to tell you both at the same time.’

‘Fair enough.’

Colleen unsnapped her umbrella. ‘Keep me posted on that little girl, okay?’

‘I will,’ Byrne said.

‘Text me if something happens.’

‘Okay.’

Colleen thought for a few moments. ‘Someone has to come forward. She’s somebody’s little girl.’

At that moment Byrne knew that his daughter was not going to be a businesswoman.

Colleen leaned over and gave him a hug and a kiss. She opened her door, got out of the car, closed the door. Byrne rolled down the passenger-side window.

‘So, lunch on Friday?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ Colleen signed. ‘I’ll come by the Roundhouse around two.’

‘I love you, sweetie.’

‘Love you too, Dad.’

As he watched Colleen walk up the steps, and into his ex-wife’s house, her words resonated.

She’s somebody’s little girl.
 

As Byrne sat at a red light at 10th Street, he picked up the little pink purse. He thought about the process of how it came to be in his hand, at this moment, the journey it had taken. It was designed, manufactured, distributed, put on the shelf in a store, purchased, and given to the little girl.

Who gave it to her? Who made the half-sandwich?

In the streetlight coming through the window he looked at the little charm hanging off the zipper, and suddenly felt his chest tighten.

He pulled over to the curb, the understanding a thunderclap in his mind. He turned the locket over, saw the engraving on the back:

PPD 3445

He recalled the words as if he’d heard them yesterday.

If you’re ever in trouble, just present this to any detective in Philadelphia. They will take care of you.
 

It was right there.

It was right in front of him the whole time.

How had he missed it?
 

The drive north was a slog. Rain plus snow plus slush.

He stopped at a diner on Route 611 near Tannersville, a twenty-four-hour spoon. It looked clean and inviting.

As long as the coffee was strong, he would have no complaints.

She poured him a cup without even asking. He must have had the look. He hadn’t been able to take his mind off the locket since leaving Philadelphia. Somehow he had a menu in his hands.

‘What can I get you, hon?’

Byrne looked up. The waitress was in her late thirties, dark haired, pretty. He did a quick sweep. No wedding ring. Her laminated nametag read
N
ICA
.

Monica? Veronica? If she smiled, he’d ask.

Byrne slipped the laminated menu back into the holder. ‘Pancakes and sausage.’

‘Links or patties?’

Her accent was pure eastern Pennsylvania. Byrne wondered if she’d ever been out of Monroe County.

‘What would you recommend?’

Nica looked out the window for a moment. The fog was rolling across Route 611. In this gray light Byrne thought he read a little pain beneath her sunny demeanor. She looked back.

‘Me? I’d take the patties.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I see how they’re made.’

She smiled. Byrne asked.

‘So, Nica is short for Monica or Veronica?’

‘Actually, it’s short for Dominica.’

‘Very pretty.’

‘Thanks…’

Byrne soon realized she was waiting for something. Then it hit him.
Man
he was getting rusty. ‘Kevin.’

‘Kevin,’ she said. ‘It suits you.’

‘Thank God,’ Byrne said. ‘I’m way too old to answer to anything else.’

She smiled again. ‘My husband was a Trooper, you know. Troop N, Hazelton.’

Byrne nodded. He decided not to ask Nica how she knew he was on the job. He’d given up thinking he looked like anything other than a cop years ago.

‘Your husband’s retired?’

A dark moment passed. Byrne understood. He’d asked the wrong question. Too late now.
Damn
.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Walt died. In ’09.’

Byrne hadn’t expected this. Nica looked way too young to be a widow.

Before he could stop himself he said, ‘I’m sorry.’ He’d always wondered why people said such things to total strangers. He imagined it was, as was the case with him, something instilled by parents. He continued, knowing he was digging a hole, but for some reason could not seem to stop himself. ‘Did it happen on the job?’

Nica shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was the cancer.’

The
cancer
.
It was one of the many reasons Byrne wanted to move to a small town one day. Things like cancer were still given proper weight.

‘Top your cup?’ she asked.

‘Please.’

Byrne wolfed down his food in record time. Part of it was that he had not eaten since his dinner with Colleen. The other was that he saw that the weather was turning, and he had to get on the road.

Nica came back with the coffee pot. Byrne declined a refill.

‘Good pancakes,’ he said.

She tossed a hip, pulled her pad out of her pocket, tore off his check, slipped it delicately onto the counter in front of him. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘At my house they come with blueberries.’

Byrne smiled. He loved straightforward women. ‘I love blueberries.’

After paying his check, Byrne turned at the door, waved.

‘You be careful on the road,’ she said. ‘Stop back sometime.’

Byrne walked into the coming storm. He flicked a glance at the name of the diner, the blue and yellow sign at the road.

He’d remember.

Byrne traveled another hour north, his mind a deadfall of questions. As pretty as the waitress was, and as much as it was nice to be flirted with, by the time he reached the exit his mind had returned to the reason for the trip, and the darkness that compelled him.

He pulled off, entered the parking lot for the campground.

Ten minutes later, as he found himself on the winding trail, it began to snow.

He was not prepared for the cold. He was underdressed. With his leather-soled shoes, every step into the forest was a challenge. More than a few times he had to hang onto a tree limb to keep from falling.

Byrne looked at the hand-drawn map again, already yellowed with age. Somehow it had gotten dark in the past twenty minutes. He pulled out his mini Maglite, shown it on the paper. Snow fell on the page, and when he tried to wipe it off he smeared the crude drawing.

‘Shit.’

Byrne turned 360, saw nothing but darkness. The smart thing would be to head back down, find a motel for the night, try again tomorrow.

That’s when he saw the light on the other side of the field, perhaps a half-mile away. It was dim, but it was there. He started toward the light.

He was halfway across the field when he saw someone coming toward him. Byrne’s hand instinctively went to the weapon in his holster. He stepped behind a tree, his heart racing. What had he gotten himself into? He wasn’t in the city any more. He was way out of his element.

But there was nothing he could do now. He steadied himself, stepped back into the field, into the open.

In front of him, no more than ten yards away, stood a man with a very big crossbow in his hands. Byrne lifted his flashlight, shone it on the man. What he saw made the breath catch in his throat. The man in front of him looked bad, almost craven – long hair and beard, sunken cheeks, red-rimmed eyes. Byrne had not seen him in a while, and what he saw now broke his heart. At one time Ray Torrance had been a mountain.

‘My God,’ Torrance said. ‘
You
.’

Byrne held up the charm he’d found on Violet’s purse. The first time he’d seen it was when Ray Torrance had shown it to him three years earlier, and told him the words he’d said to the teenaged girl:

If you’re ever in trouble, just present this to any detective in Philadelphia. They will take care of you.
 

On the back of the locket was Ray’s badge number:

PPD 3445

From time to time, over the past three years, Byrne had thought about the locket, about Ray Torrance. He wondered what had become of both. He’d wondered if he’d ever see either of them again.

He never expected it to be with a two-year-old-girl.

‘I found it,’ Byrne said.

On the trip from Philadelphia, Byrne had considered what Ray Torrance might say or do when he told him. When Ray fell to his knees and began to scream, Byrne realized that the locket was connected to a darkness more profound than he knew.

All Kevin Byrne could do at that moment, on a frigid mountain trail in Pennsylvania, was help his friend to his feet, and begin the long walk back.