Chapter 4
4
S ully had retrieved his baggage and was exiting the airport when it began to rain. He paused beneath the canopy, trying to decide what to do first.
Problem number one: Virginia Shapiro wasn’t answering her phone, which made him nervous. What if she couldn’t? What if she was already dead?
Problem number two: Problem number one.
The way he figured it, her apartment had to be first stop on the list of things to do. He had her address. The rest was simple. At that point, he hailed a taxi, and after giving the driver the address, leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, but his mind wouldn’t let him relax. He kept seeing Georgia at five years old, chasing after him and Tommy when they were kids—the crush she’d had on him during his sixteenth summer, while her twelve-year-old body hovered on the brink of womanhood, still wrapped in freckles and braces. The look on her face when she’d told him that she was going to become a nun. The passion in her eyes had been as fervent as always, but it was the quieting of her spirit that had humbled him. For the first time he had seen her as a woman in her own right and not just as Tommy Dudley’s little sister.
Now the authorities wanted him to believe a woman like her was capable of taking her own life? Not now. Not ever.
Then he sighed. He wouldn’t deny the how of her death. After all, a priest with no reason to lie had seen it all. But what in God’s sweet name would it take for her to walk off a cliff into a flood-swollen river? At the thought, he shuddered, then wiped a hand across his face. Nothing short of the Devil.
He clenched his jaw. God help us all .
One thing was certain: when he got to a hotel, he was going to call Tommy. The family deserved to know what was going on, and from the little he had gained from Georgia’s letter, he didn’t think she’d shared her suspicions with them.
His mind was still lost in the past when the cab took a sudden swerve to the right. He looked out the window and then up, peering at the three-story building. Although his view was somewhat marred by the rain, this was not where he’d supposed Virginia Shapiro would live. It was a Victorian home in an ordinary neighborhood, as opposed to a high-rise apartment befitting a hard-nosed, hardworking journalist.
“That’ll be fifteen seventy-five,” the cabby said.
Sully handed him a twenty. “Keep the change.”
As he got out of the cab, a pizza delivery car pulled up behind them at the curb. Mentally thanking his luck, Sully followed the delivery boy up the steps. When the boy buzzed to be let in, he followed him inside, then took the stairs as the delivery boy rang the bell on the downstairs door. It soon became apparent that there were only three apartments plus the super’s room in the whole of the house, and Virginia’s was the one on the second floor.
He paused at her door and rang the bell, then stood in the shadows of the hallway, listening to the echo of the bell on the other side of the door. It was now five minutes after midnight. If she was in there, probably the last thing she would do was come to the door, but he’d come too far to stop now. He rang again and when there was still no response forthcoming, began to knock.
Now his imagination was starting to kick in, imagining her unable to answer—imagining her dead—and he damn sure wasn’t leaving until he knew for sure. Dropping the duffel bag near his feet, he reached in his jacket pocket. Moments later, he inserted a small lock pick into the keyhole and gave it a couple of twists. The click of the tumblers seemed loud in the silence of the small hallway, and he glanced over his shoulder before stepping inside. No alarms went off. No bells and whistles sounded.
After one quick glance back at the stairwell, he closed and locked the door behind him. Motionless, he stood with his back against the door, listening for sounds of life, but heard nothing. Not even a dripping faucet. Hesitantly, he turned on the lights.
Within seconds, he knew she was gone.
There was a throw pillow on the floor, and a drawer in a nearby table was only half shut, as if someone had grabbed something out of it and, in their haste, had not pushed it shut.
Following the layout of the apartment, he began to move through the rooms. Her bed was made, but there was a large indentation in the middle of the spread that would accommodate the size of a suitcase. Her closet door was half-open, a dresser drawer still ajar. A pair of shoes lay in the corner of the room, as if they’d been tossed aside for something else. In the adjoining bath, her cosmetics were gone.
There were a dirty bowl and glass sitting in the kitchen sink and nothing else. Absently, he ran a little water in the bowl to soak loose the dried cereal and rinsed out the glass, then stood in the middle of the floor, mentally mapping her progress through the house.
Moving to the living room, he began a more thorough search.
As he was looking, a phone began to ring in an apartment downstairs. The faint sound jarred his memory about Georgia’s warning to avoid taking calls, and he thought of Virginia’s phone.
At first glance he didn’t see it. On closer inspection, he found it on the floor by the sofa. He picked it up and set it back on the table, then lifted the receiver. The line was dead. Tracing the cord to its end, he soon saw that the jack had been pulled from the wall. A small smile crossed his lips as relief settled in his gut.
She knew! By God…she knew!
Now the urgency to find her was over. He didn’t know how, but somewhere within the next couple of days he would locate her, only not tonight. And, since it seemed obvious that Virginia Shapiro was not coming back any time soon, he saw no reason to let a perfectly good bed go to waste. He thought of his promise to call Tommy and decided it was too late for that now. He would do it in the morning, before he left.
As he turned toward the bedroom, a picture on the wall caught his eye. He moved closer for a better look and caught himself staring at the trio—an older man and woman, and a young, dark-haired woman caught in the middle of their embraces.
Me, Mom and Dad: Yellowstone—1997
The woman in the middle had to be Virginia. He took a step closer, curiously examining her face. The picture was about four years old, but she couldn’t have changed that much. The image was grainy, obviously an enlargement from a smaller snapshot, but the joy and vibrancy on her face were impossible to miss. He couldn’t help but superimpose what she must be feeling now. Fear. Confusion. Helplessness.
He reached out and touched her smile, frowning at the obstruction of the glass between him and her image. She seemed so real.
As he stood, the air-conditioning unit suddenly kicked on, and he became aware of the wet clothing on his back. Sully gave her picture a last thoughtful glance before striding toward the bedroom. It was time to get out of these clothes and into a bed.
It was 2:15 a.m. and Sully had yet to fall asleep. The faint scent of her shampoo was on the pillows, while echoes of her perfume stirred through the air. Frustrated, he rolled onto his belly and shoved her pillow onto the floor. Never in his life had he fixated on something as juvenile as a pretty girl’s picture, and he wasn’t going to start now. The only thing wrong with him was that he’d been too long without a woman.
Just before three, he finally drifted off to sleep, but Virginia Shapiro was still in his dreams, mixed up in the nightmare that this trip had become—a beautiful smiling face, staring sightlessly up at the sky and covered in blood.
Bainbridge, Connecticut
“Emile, not that tie, dear. Wear this one. It’s much more dignified.”
Emile Karnoff traded ties with his wife and smiled.
“Lucy, darling, what would I do without you?”
Lucy Karnoff hung up the other tie and then turned to her husband, giving him a judicious stare.
“Maybe if you change the—”
Emile held up his hand. “Relax. The rest of my attire is fine. It’s just another press conference, after all.”
“It’s no such thing,” Lucy argued. “You’re an important man. People deserve to hear what you have to say.”
Emile smiled as he began to knot the new tie.
Lucy fussed about the room, picking up a sock from beneath the bed, then rearranging Emile’s shoes inside their closet. He seemed easier with his new-found fame than he had in weeks. When the buzz began that he was up for the award, Emile had suffered many sleepless nights, often waking up in a cold, shaking sweat. She’d begged him to see a doctor, but he’d refused, calling it nothing but a case of nerves. As the weeks had progressed, so had his troubles. Only in the last few days had he seemed more at ease with himself and what he’d become. She could only imagine how difficult it would be—going from an obscure physician to having his picture on the front of all the news magazines.
She brushed a piece of lint from the back of his jacket as he smoothed down his thin, graying hair. Not only was it her job, but it was her joy, to have Emile presented to the world in perfect order. After years of financial struggle and behind-the-back ridicule from the women in their social circle, her husband, the man her family had disowned her for marrying, the man who’d so often been the butt of her friends’ bad jokes, had won the Nobel Prize for Medicine. That the call had come more than a month ago and the story was beginning to be old news didn’t matter. Lucy Karnoff had come into her own.
“Don’t fuss,” Emile said. “I’m fine.”
“I only want to help,” she said.
Emile turned and touched the side of his wife’s face with his forefingers, tilting the saddened corners of her lips into a smile.
“Lucy, my love, you are always a help to me.”
Emile smiled as she giggled. In his eyes, she became a girl again, rather than his sixty-eight-year-old wife. It was a blessing that Lucy was so easily pleased. He suspected it was the single reason their marriage had lasted. In the early years his passion for his studies had overflowed into his personal life to such a degree that his son, Phillip, was almost a stranger. But Lucy’s faith had never wavered, and for that he was truly thankful.
He turned to the mirror for one last look at himself as Lucy hastened from the room, murmuring something about making sure the drawing room was in order and the flowers in place. Only in the past couple of years had they been able to afford a cleaning lady, and while Lucy liked the picture it presented to her friends, he suspected she resented another woman’s presence in her house. However, the fact that they now had help was an important factor in keeping their lives in order, because the truth was, Phillip had become a burden to them both. Unable to maintain a job, his periodic bouts with depression seemed destined to keep him under their roof, and neither of them was getting any younger. Because of Phillip, Lucy had been tied to their home, unable to travel with Emile for any length of time for fear they would come home to a family disaster.
Emile yanked at his tie, pulling it straight, and then reached for his cuff links. It was too bad that the discovery that had netted him the Nobel Prize had no effect on mental instabilities, although in the early days he had pursued that train of thought. After realizing the dangers that hypnosis represented to those in an unstable state of mind, he had quickly foregone the theory.
The sound of footsteps in the hall outside his door sent his focus in another direction, as did the familiar hesitation in his son’s voice.
“Father?”
Emile turned, wondering again, as he had for almost thirty years, how he could have sired a son such as this. He was tall, good-looking in an effeminate sort of way, yet he hadn’t a clue as to what life was really about.
“Yes, Phillip, what is it?”
Phillip Karnoff shifted from one foot to the other and hated himself for being such a wimp where this man was concerned. He was forty years younger, half a head taller, and just once he would like to be the one to stand unflinchingly beneath that all-seeing gaze instead of always, always, being the first to look away.
“I was wondering…about the press conference, I mean. Do I need to be there this time? I don’t really—”
“You are family! You will sit at my side!”
Come on, wimp. Tell him how you feel. If you’re too big a coward, then stand back and give me a chance at him . Phillip’s gut knotted, ignoring the constant presence of the voice inside his head.
“Why, Father? I am nothing. Compared to you I am a failure. I have no focus—no dreams. I still live at home, and I haven’t held a full-time job in four years.”
Yeah, but I can show you how to have fun .
“You are my son,” Emile said. “You will find your way when it’s time.”
“And what if I don’t?” Phillip asked.
Emile shook his head in denial, as if the thought did not bear consideration.
“This is not the time for such discussion,” Emile said. “Some other time, when we aren’t so rushed.”
He strode past his son, giving him a halfhearted pat on the shoulder in passing.
Phillip sighed. Time never turned in his favor. There was no reason to assume anything would change. Especially now. He would never be able to come close to what his father had done, let alone top it. His shoulders slumped as he followed his father downstairs. How did one compete with a man who had discovered how to unleash the healing power of the human mind when he couldn’t even control his own thoughts?
Sully came awake suddenly and sat straight up in bed. He’d been dreaming, but about what? Already the dream was fading from his memory, but he remembered it hadn’t been good. Glancing at the clock, he swung his legs out of bed and strode to the bathroom, turning on the shower as he passed. Outside the old Victorian house, a new day had begun. It was time he joined it.
He dressed quickly after showering, anxious to get back on the road. But he had a call to make first, and it wasn’t going to be easy. He sat down on the side of Virginia Shapiro’s bed and picked up the phone. It was time to talk to Tom Dudley. The phone rang twice, and then a woman answered.
“Susan, this is Sully. I need to talk to Tom. Is he still there?”
“Sully! How wonderful to hear your voice,” Susan said. “He’s here, and he’ll be so glad to hear from you.” Then she added in a lower tone, “You know about Georgia?”
“Yes, that’s why I called.”
“Just a minute, I’ll go get him.”
Sully waited. This was the kind of call he hated. There was nothing to say but “I’m sorry” when someone died, but when it was a member of your very best friend’s family, the words came even harder.
“Sully, is this really you?” Tom Dudley asked.
Sully grinned despite the sad circumstances. “Yeah, it’s me. How have you been?”
There was a pause, and then it was as if the life had gone out of Tom’s voice. “We’ve certainly been better,” he said.
“Look, that’s why I called. There’s something about Georgia’s death that I think your whole family should know, but I’m leaving it up to you to spread the word.”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked.
“I’m not officially working on the case, but—”
“What case? What the hell are you talking about? Georgia killed herself. Father Joseph witnessed the whole thing.”
“Just listen,” Sully said. “And trust me.”
He repeated everything he knew about what Georgia had learned, right up to where he’d received her letter too late to help, then explained that he was trying to find the last classmate before it was too late.
“Oh God, Sully. You don’t know what this is going to mean to our mother—hell, to the whole family. We’ve been struggling with a way to rationalize what she did, but it just didn’t jibe with the woman we knew.”
“I can only imagine,” Sully said. “Look, I want you to do me a favor. Sort of keep this to yourselves for the time being. I’m not certain whether the Bureau is officially involved or not yet, but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time. You’ll probably be contacted by an agent at some time during the investigation. Tell them any and everything you can remember, no matter how small and insignificant you think it might be.”
“Yes, of course,” Tom said. “And, Sully…well, you know how I feel about you…how we all feel about you. You’ve been a good friend to me all these years and—”
“You don’t have to say anything,” Sully said. “I loved her, too.”
“Yeah. Right. Well, I’ll let you go. I’m going to call Mom right now.”
“Give her my love,” Sully said.
“You already have ours, and more.”
They disconnected, and for a few moments Sully just sat in the quiet room and thought about what lay ahead. Then his gaze fell on a ruffled pillow that he’d tossed on the floor and he stood. Picked up the pillow and put it back on the bed. He paused in the doorway, making sure that he was leaving things as he’d found them.
As he gathered up the rest of his things and moved through the apartment, he imagined Virginia’s fear as she’d gone from room to room, wondering what to take, fearful of leaving the life she’d built for herself.
He stopped again at the picture, tracing the shape of her face with the tip of his finger.
“Hang in there, honey. I’m on the way.”
“Boss, some guy named Sullivan Dean wants to talk to you. I told him you were busy, but he insisted.”
Harry Redford glanced up at his secretary and frowned. “I know that name. Why do I know that—” Suddenly he bolted to his feet. “Send him in!”
Harry’s pulse rocketed as he watched the man make his way across the room. Damn, damn, damn, the man from Ginny’s letter. Please God that didn’t mean something had happened to her.
“Mr. Redford, I appreciate you taking the time to—”
“Is she okay?”
Sully frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“Ginny! Is she okay?”
Sully was beginning to feel like Alice must have felt when she fell down the rabbit hole.
“I think we need to start over,” Sully said. “My name is Sullivan Dean. I’m with the FBI and—”
“So that’s why the nun sent you the papers!”
Sully felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.
“You know?”
“Some,” Redford said. “Ginny showed me everything.”
“You’re speaking of Miss Shapiro? Virginia Shapiro?”
Redford nodded. “Yeah, but don’t call her Virginia unless you’re ready to get a piece of her mind.”
“Where is she?” Sully asked.
Redford shrugged. “Hell if I know. She lit out of here yesterday afternoon. Said she was going to the police and then leaving town. Promised to stay in touch. Other than that, I couldn’t say.”
Damn it . “Do you know who she talked to at the precinct?”
Redford nodded. “Yeah, I checked. Detective by the name of Pagillia. Anthony Pagillia. He’s good, but other than a bunch of dead women, they don’t have much to go on.”
Sully handed him his card. “If you hear from her, will you give me a call? It’s important that I find her.”
“Yeah, I’ll call, and I’ll tell her to stay put, but that’s only if she calls. I can’t make any promises.”
“Fair enough,” Sully said. “Got a phone book? I need to call a cab. I’m going to talk to this detective before I leave town.”
“I’ve got a reporter who’s going that way to pick up some court reports. Hang around a couple of minutes and you can hitch a ride.”
“Thanks,” Sully said. “I appreciate it.”
“Anything for Ginny,” Redford said.
Sully thought of the smiling woman from the photograph he’d seen last night. “I take it she’s well-liked?”
“Oh yes, and a damn good reporter to boot. You go find her, and when you do, make sure you bring her back in one piece.”
“That’s certainly my plan,” Sully said.
Minutes later he was on his way to the headquarters of the St. Louis Police. Upon his arrival, he soon realized that Redford must have made a few phone calls. Anthony Pagillia was waiting for him at the main entrance.
“Agent Dean, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Pagillia said.
“Word does get around,” Sully said. “I’m assuming Redford gave you a call.”
“He’s concerned for Miss Shapiro, as we all are. Out of curiosity, what’s your tie to this mess?”
“I grew up with Georgia Dudley, uh…Sister Mary Teresa. Her brother was my best friend. She knew I would help. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the information in time to help her.”
“Yeah, tough break about that,” Pagillia said. “It’s a little hard to imagine a nun committing suicide.”
Sully’s lips thinned. “She was murdered.”
“Do you know something I don’t?” Pagillia asked.
“Yeah,” Sully said. “I knew Georgia. She couldn’t swim and was afraid of water. The last thing she would ever have done was kill herself, and even then, never by drowning.”
“We have information that a priest witnessed her death.”
“I’m not saying she didn’t drown. All I’m saying is, someone made her do it.”
“That’s going to be a hell of a thing to prove,” Pagillia said.
“Not if I can find Virginia Shapiro,” Sully said. “As far as we know, other than the person who’s doing this, she’s the last living link to this mess.”
“I’ve notified all the other police departments concerning the deaths, and there is a central task force here in St. Louis that will be coordinating the gathering of information. Since this has become an interstate crime, I’m assuming the Bureau will take control?”
Sully shrugged. “Maybe, but not through me. This is too personal for the Bureau to let me on the case. What I’m doing is strictly off the clock.”
“I understand, but just know that if you need it, you have our full cooperation.”
“Thanks,” Sully said.
“What are your plans?” Pagillia asked.
“I’m going to rent a car and keep a promise to a very old friend.”
The yellow lines on Mississippi Highway Number 48 were in need of repainting, and Ginny’s car was in need of some gas. It was fifteen minutes after three in the afternoon, and both the gauge and her belly were hovering on Empty. As she rounded a curve, she realized she was approaching a town. Her shoulders slumped with relief as she slowed down to read the sign.
Collins, Mississippi, population 2,541.
It was small, but certainly large enough for what she needed. As she wheeled into a small service station and parked at the pumps, a man exited the building.
“Fill ’er up?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” Ginny said. “And check the oil, too.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll sure do that. Right hot for July, isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Is there an ATM nearby?”
He pointed up the street. “See that bank there on the corner? If you go around to the side, you’ll see it.”
“I’ll be right back,” Ginny said, and walked up the street while the man began filling her tank.
He was washing her last window when she came back at a jog, only slightly winded.
“How much do I owe you?” she asked.
“Twenty-three fifty.”
Ginny counted out the money, giving him exact change. “Oh…I almost forgot. I need a map, too.”
He went back in the station and came out with a neatly folded map of the state of Mississippi.
“Heading anywhere in particular?” he asked, as she paid him for the map.
“Not really,” she said, and got in the car and drove away. A couple of blocks down the street she pulled into a drive-in and ordered a hamburger and a milk-shake to go. The scents of charbroiling meat mingling with the heat of the day made her think of family cookouts and picnics. She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes, resisting the urge to cry. If only her parents were still alive. If only…
She sat up with a jerk. Self-pity would get her nowhere. Compared to her old friends, she didn’t have anything to complain about. At least she was still alive.
A teenage girl came out of the drive-in, carrying a tray. Ginny reached for her purse. After situating herself so that she could eat and drive, she backed out of the parking slot and drove away, quickly leaving the town of Collins behind.
The urgency to get somewhere fast and then hide from the world was overwhelming. Before, she’d just been running, trying to get as far away from St. Louis as possible, but she couldn’t keep driving forever. Inevitably, she would have to stop. What she needed was a place off the so-called beaten path—a place she would normally never go. But where might that be?
She took a big bite of her hamburger, then began to chew. By the time she was through, she felt much better. In fact, she was confident that when it mattered, something would turn up.
Storm clouds had been building on the horizon for a couple of hours now, and Ginny was starting to get nervous. At best guess, she was driving directly into its path and that was not wise. She had to get out of her car and into shelter before it hit. Just thinking about the impending thunder and lightning gave her a feeling of sick lassitude. She pulled over to the side of the road and opened her map, trying to ascertain where she was, and then where the nearest shelter might be. She knew she was in the DeSoto National Forest and had been for some time. And that she was on Highway 29, a good distance north of Biloxi.
As she studied the map, the first drops of rain began to fall. Nervous, she looked up to see that the storm was almost upon her. Tossing the map aside, she pulled back on the old two-lane highway and accelerated swiftly. Surely there would be some place to stop.
Twenty minutes later she saw a sign through the downpour and slowed so she could read it.
Tallahatchie River Fishing Dock—One Mile. Cabins For Rent.
“Thank you, God,” Ginny muttered.
Sure enough, she saw another sign, this time, a large wooden arrow that had once been painted yellow, pointing down a road to her left.
Tallahatchie River Landing, it said.
The car dragged on the high center ridge between the ruts as she left the pavement for an old graveled road. Water splashed up around the tires as she split large standing puddles, while the windshield wipers swiped squeakily against the glass.
“Please, please, please,” she muttered, unaware that she’d spoken aloud, or that her desperate request was so vague. Her head felt light, her focus slipping, as if she was about to faint. She had to get out of this car.
And then she saw it: a small cluster of old rustic cabins nestled against a backdrop of trees. There was one standing apart from the others, which she took to be the office, and she turned in that direction.
Bolting from the car, she dashed through the rain. Within minutes she had a key in her pocket and was pulling up to cabin number ten, which was at the end of the row. She grabbed her suitcase and got out on the run. The irony of her new home away from home was not lost on her. For some time now she’d been running out of hope and time, and now she was, quite literally, at the end of the line.