Walter Smith carried Hannah down the cellar steps. When he reached the door to her room, he switched Hannah to his shoulder.
The key card was tucked in his front jean pocket. Walter stepped up next to the card reader. It beeped. He punched in the four numbers. The electronic locks clicked back. He opened the door and gently set Hannah down on her new bed.
Walter turned on the small lamp on the nightstand. Hannah's nose had stopped bleeding but blood had stained the front of her wool jacket. He took off her hat, jacket and gloves and folded them on top of the washing machine down the hall. Then he went upstairs.
His first stop was the garage. He opened up the trunk and removed the extra blankets Mary had told him to pack. His Blessed Mother said that if he ever got stopped by the police, they would search the trunk. If the police find blood, Walter, they'll take you away and you'll never see me again. Walter threw the blankets into a garbage bag.
The bathroom was on the second floor. Walter opened the medicine cabinet. He heard a car engine racing down the street.
Was it the police? Had they found him? Panicked, he turned off the bathroom light and looked out the tiny window.
A big truck was ploughing its way through the snow. It came to a stop at the end of his street, and in the street light he saw the words 'AJ Movers' printed on the side of the truck. The big engine coughed as it turned right and headed up the steep hill, stopping in front of a grey clapboard ranch that had been vacant for well over two years. Someone was moving into the Peterson home.
Walter relaxed. He grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a roll of toilet paper and headed back to the basement.
For the next half hour he cleaned the blood from Hannah's face. Her nose was swollen but it wasn't broken. Good. He didn't want her disfigured in any way.
Walter made one more trip upstairs, to the kitchen. He filled a large Ziploc bag with crushed ice and placed it on Hannah's nose. Her clothes were wet and smelled of fried food. Her sweatshirt was rolled up; he could see her stomach. She had a small, strawberry-coloured birthmark on her waist. He touched it. Her skin was warm and smooth.
Walter rubbed his hand across her stomach. He realized what he was doing and yanked his hand away, disgusted with himself.
'I'm sorry, Hannah. That was wrong.'
Hannah didn't stir, didn't move.
'I'm sorry I hurt you. It was an accident.' Walter hoped she could hear him.
The ice had melted. He took off Hannah's boots and socks. She had pretty feet.
Walter shut off the light, about to head upstairs, when he thought of Hannah's wet clothes. He wanted her to be comfortable.
In the dark, with his eyes shut, Walter slipped off her jeans then worked the sweatshirt and T-shirt over her head. Walter opened his eyes when he reached the hallway. Mary would be proud of his self-control.
He put the wet clothes in the washing machine. When he came back into the bedroom, he saw the outline of Hannah's body in the soft light from the hallway. She wore nice cotton underwear – the simple kind good girls wore, not the sinful stuff he saw in magazines and on TV. Emma had worn that kind of underwear – expensive, promiscuous. Hannah wasn't like that. Mary said Hannah was a good girl, with a good heart.
Hannah's breasts swelled beneath her bra. Walter stared at her chest, wanting to touch her again. The time would come for that later, after they got to know each other, after he showed Hannah how much he loved her and how happy she would be here with him.
His Blessed Mother was trying to speak to him. Mary's voice sounded far away. He closed his eyes and concentrated.
It's okay, Mary said.
Walter didn't move. His skin felt hot, the scars covering his face and body throbbing with heat.
Here, let me help you.
Walter felt his Blessed Mother working through him. Mary unbuttoned his shirt. Mary pulled off his T-shirt and unbuckled his belt. Then she gently guided him to the opposite side of the bed and moved back the sheets. Mary didn't have to tell him what to do next.
Walter climbed on top of Hannah and laid his head against her chest. He could hear the soft beating of her heart. He closed his eyes, knowing he could stay here forever, just like this, pressed up against her skin. He buried his face in her soft hair.
'I love you, Hannah. I love you so much.' Walter kissed Hannah's cheek and, unable to contain his joy any longer, started to cry.
14
Darby stood inside Emma Hale's closet, holding the photograph ID had taken of the second jewellery box. An antique locket with a platinum chain lay on the red felt between the two diamond necklaces. She handed the photo to Bryson.
'I checked everything against the photographs and the inventory list. Everything's here except the antique locket. There's no question Emma's killer came back for it.'
Bryson stared at the photograph for a long moment, his expression clearly pained.
'Marsh pulled tonight's security tapes,' Darby said. 'I've already got them bagged. They only keep a month's worth of tapes here. The rest are stored in Hale's security office in Newton. Hale's supposed to be home sometime over the weekend, but I don't want to wait that long. Hale's personal assistant is a woman named Abigail. I want to talk to her and see if we can get inside the office first thing tomorrow morning.'
Bryson placed the photograph back inside the small evidence box sitting on top of a leather ottoman. 'Patrol's still sweeping the area for the intruder, but I'm sure he's long gone,' he said. 'Darby, this man you met, you said his eyes were entirely black.'
'It was like I was looking at a Halloween mask.' Thinking about it again, even in the light, made her shiver.
'The power was out,' Bryson said. 'It was dark, so maybe you saw -'
'The man's eyes were black, Tim. No colour whatsoever – no pupil, no iris, nothing, just black. Everything he wore was black – his coat and shoes, his pants, shirt and gloves. He's between six one and six three. His face was very pale and his black hair was cut short. I could pick him out of a lineup.'
'Do you know him?'
'No. Why?'
'He knew your name, he saw you at your parents' gravesite,' Bryson said. 'I got the feeling he knew you.'
'I have no idea who he is or what he was doing here.'
'Did he seem familiar in any way?'
'I definitely would have remembered meeting someone like that.'
Darby felt cold all over. Her palms were damp. She shoved them in her jean pockets.
'I talked to Marsh,' she said. 'He swears he doesn't know anyone matching that description.'
'You think he's telling the truth?'
'My gut instinct says yes. Still, it wouldn't hurt to hold his feet to the fire.'
'I agree. For the moment, let's assume Mr Marsh is telling the truth. If that's the case, then the intruder didn't walk through the front door, he found another way in. You said he left by the fire escape.'
'I already checked the window,' Darby said. 'There's no sign of forced entry. He found another way in – maybe the same way Emma's killer found. I doubt either of them walked through the front door.'
Bryson turned his attention to the electrical box. 'You must have surprised him coming up the stairs. He probably shut off the power hoping the darkness would make you leave – at the very least it would give him enough cover to slip away. Then he moved behind the door and waited in the bathroom. Problem was you had
