who had made the arrangements.
Darby recalled the framed picture of his daughter and held it in her mind's eye while she examined her feelings.
I'm sorry for what happened to your daughter, that cold, analytical part said. But I don't feel sorry for what happened to you, Tim. I know I should, but I don't.
Darby thought of her own mother. Out of habit, or maybe out of faith, she knelt, and with her back ramrod straight, just as the nuns at St Stephen's had taught her, made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes. First she said a prayer for Sheila. Then she prayed for Hannah.
Her phone vibrated against her hip. The display said unknown caller. Darby let her phone ring three more times before she answered.
69
'Are you praying to God to help you find Hannah?' Malcolm Fletcher asked.
Darby reached inside her coat pocket and undid the strap of her shoulder holster as she looked around the church. The pews were empty, the walls with their stained-glass depictions of the stations of the cross covered in shadows.
'I didn't think I'd hear from you again, Special Agent Fletcher.'
'That was a long time ago.'
'Jonathan Hale told us everything.'
'A clever lie,' Fletcher said.
'I know what you're doing. I know why you're here.'
'Aren't you going to ask me about Detective Bryson?'
'You're admitting you killed him?'
'I did you a favour. Who knows what sorts of schemes he was planning? You might want to check your evidence locker.'
'Why didn't you just tell me?'
'I wanted Timmy to deliver a message and decided to send it air mail.' Fletcher laughed, a deep, guttural sound that made her feel cold all over. 'Aren't you glad he's dead?'
'I don't think he deserved to suffer.'
'Another lie. That's part of the reason you're at church now, isn't it? You wanted to lay down your guilt at the altar and beg the Almighty for mercy. I forget how much you Catholics enjoy the rack. Did He decide to end his insufferable reign of silence and answer your prayers?'
'I'm still waiting.'
'Don't you know your god deals in silence and ash?'
'We identified the remains.'
'I'm sure Tina Sanders is relieved. She's been praying for this moment for a long time.'
'She still won't speak to us.'
'I wonder why.'
'Let's talk about Sam Dingle.'
'I'm afraid I'm going to have to end this conversation. I don't entirely trust the phone. You never know who might be listening in. Oh, and Darby?'
'Yes?'
'Despite what you've read or heard about me, I have no intention of harming you now or anytime in the future. Hannah is in excellent hands. I hope you find her soon. Goodbye, Darby.'
Click.
Darby was standing outside the church, looking around the streets when her phone rang again. It was one of the surveillance technicians.
'We couldn't trace his call,' the tech said. 'If he calls again, just keep him talking. At some point he'll slip and we'll find him.'
'Don't bet on it,' Darby said.
70
Hannah Givens was thinking about the letter again, wondering if she had made a mistake.
Three days ago Walter had presented her with a nice sheet of stationery and matching envelope with postage. He gave her a pen and told her to write a letter to her parents. He promised to mail it.
Hannah knew full well Walter would never mail the letter. It was too risky. The way forensics worked now, the police could trace a postage stamp to the exact post office where it had been purchased. She had seen it done on a TV show.
The letter, Hannah knew, was a peace offering, a way to get her to speak. Walter needed her to talk. He had tried to get her to open up by sharing a horrible story about how his mother had almost burned him to death and then followed it up with all that religious talk about the importance of forgiveness.
When she didn't speak, when she continued to sit there, silent and staring, she could tell he wanted to hurt her. To his credit, he didn't, but that didn't mean Walter would wait forever. He'd hurt her once. There was no question in her mind he'd do it again.
Walter had left the felt-tipped pen. For a good amount of time she had played with the idea of using the pen as a weapon – stab him in the throat, if possible. At the very least, she could take out an eye. She had played through the scenarios in her mind and noticed that not once did she feel any fear. She had never injured another human being before but felt certain, if and when the time came, she could do it.
Walter, though, was smart. He wouldn't forget the pen. At some point he would ask for it back.
Another idea had taken root in her mind, one with possibly even greater potential: What if she could use the letter as an opportunity to gain some leverage? The question consumed her waking thoughts.
Hannah came up with a plan. She concentrated on what she would say, creating several drafts in her mind before committing the words to paper. Walter,
The Virgin Mary came to me in a dream last night and told me not to be afraid. She told me what a good, caring person you are. She told me how much you love me, that you wouldn't do anything in this world to hurt me or my family. Your Blessed Mother also said that you would allow me to call my parents and tell them not to worry.
After I talk to my parents, I was thinking that maybe you would join me for dinner, and we could talk and get to know each other better. Hannah had set the envelope and pen in the sliding food carrier along with the dirty paper plates from today's lunch. Now she had to wait to see what Walter would do.
To pass the time, she reread the short diary written by a woman named Emma. Hannah flipped to the last page and began to read: I don't know why I'm bothering to keep this journal. Maybe it's a coping mechanism, this need to leave something behind – to leave my mark. Maybe it's the fever. I can't stop shaking; I'm cold and hot at the same time. Walter, of course, thinks I'm faking. I told him to take my temperature and he did. He said my temperature was a little high but nothing to worry about. He said he wouldn't let anything happen to me.
When my fever didn't break, Walter came into my room holding two big white pills – penicillin, he said. He came back at lunch with two more pills, then two more at dinner. This went on for days (at least it seemed like days; time has no meaning down here). Finally I said to him, 'Do you want me to die?'
'You're not dying, Emma.'
'The pills aren't working. There's something wrong with me. I can't keep any food down. I need a doctor.'
'You have to give the medicine a chance to work. Keep drinking water. I bought you the fancy kind you like, the Pellegrino. You need to stay hydrated.'
