“Okay.”
As Susan turned to make her way back into the apartment, her cell phone rang.
“This is Adler.”
“Susan, it’s Mel.”
The sergeant’s voice sounded gruff so early in the morning.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Crosby told me to call you. Dispatch just got a call from a physical therapy center about an elderly patient of theirs who they think might be missing. Asked us to take a look. He lives in Verplanck, so I sent a unit over. The place looks fishy.”
“How so?”
“According to my guys, it looks tossed.”
“What’s the patient’s name?”
“James Darville.”
“Never heard of him,” she replied. “And I’m working the Trooper Kincaid homicide right now.”
“Rebecca Hill is your suspect.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, she’s the visiting nurse who’s assigned to our missing guy.”
Susan squeezed the phone. “Give me Darville’s address. I’ll meet you there.”
TRANSCRIPT
I’m recording this today because the fog has lifted and my mind is clear. It won’t be long before this disease takes complete control of me, and once that happens, I can’t trust myself to tell the truth about the children. They’re starting to ask too many questions, and when the fog is thick, I know I won’t be able to guarantee what my answers might be, so getting it out while I can recall the details seems the most logical thing to do.
At least the safest thing.
I guess I can think of my condition as both a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing in that one day I’ll forget what I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt. I won’t remember anything about the lives I’ve altered, nor will I be able to recall the names, faces, or scenes that haunt me every moment, asleep or awake.
I can rest easy knowing that soon I won’t remember the sound a shovel makes when it first pierces the earth. I won’t remember the noise a skull makes when it cracks open. I won’t remember the innocence in a child’s voice or the look in their eyes when they know something’s wrong. These are things I look forward to forgetting.
And most gratefully, I won’t remember her.
So that’s why I’m making this recording. I want to ensure that whoever finds this and listens will know what I’ve done and why. The more they ask their questions, the more I realize I’ve been speaking out of school and I can’t trust that what I say is always accurate. These recordings will document everything as it actually happened with dates and names and places and the truth. No more lies. No more misremembering or jumbled thoughts. I’m going to speak of my sins while my mind is clear enough to offer the details they want to know. I’ve done some truly awful things, and this is my confession . . .
4
Cindy walked into the kitchen and stood in the doorway. Her hair was still wet from the shower, and it chilled her neck and shoulders. Trevor was leaning against the counter next to the stove, the burner phone in his hand.
“Did he text?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked if we got James. I told him we did.”
“Did you tell him about the girl and the trooper?”
“Not in so many words. I told him we had a few hiccups that would need to blow over in the next few days.”
“And what’d he say about that?”
Trevor held up the phone, and she could see the picture of his wife and son. It was a close-up, so she wasn’t able to make out where the picture was taken. Smart. They were smiling, but there was something off about it. They were scared. She could see it in their eyes.
“They look okay,” she said, trying to be reassuring.
“No, they don’t. They look terrified.” He flipped the phone shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. “Hagen’s response to me telling him we screwed some things up was to remind me that he has my family. I don’t need to be reminded.”
Cindy pulled nervously on her wet hair. “I’ll start working on James. Maybe if we can show Hagen that we’re making progress right off the bat, he’ll forgive us for the trooper and the girl. I’ll see what I can get out of him. Like you said before, the faster we get what we need, the faster this can all be over.”
Trevor nodded as he stared at the phone in his hand. “Okay. And we gotta keep doing what we normally do as best we can from here. Basic day-to-day things. The people around us can’t think anything’s different. Make calls if you have to. Tell them you got a new number. Things need to appear normal.”
“I’m going to have to record some more episodes for the podcast. I only had three preloaded. I didn’t think we’d be stuck up here.”
“Then get going. And get your confession so we can get our lives back. Hagen gave you two days before he comes up here and kills the old man. I suggest you take every second he’s giving you.”
“We can fix this.”
“Hagen doesn’t care about James’s story or the truth about what happened to your sister. He just wants him dead.” Trevor leaned forward, and she could see the hate in his eyes. “And know that if anything happens to my family, you all die. Hagen too. That’s a promise.”
5
Susan snapped on a new pair of gloves and walked through the back door of James Darville’s house. It opened to an ancient kitchen. Linoleum-tiled floor, pink Formica countertops, brown oak cabinets. She made her way into a small dining room that held a cheap folding table, four chairs, and nothing more. Dated wallpaper surrounded the living room, and a worn carpet, stained with seasons of weather being tracked in, stretched from end to end. The place hadn’t been remodeled for decades. Even the television was from an era that had passed long ago.
In the hallway she took notice of a cluster of photos nailed next to the closet, each one no larger than a five by seven, stored in cheap plastic frames. The photos were black-and-white pictures of nature. Trees, fields, flowers, a cloud-filled sky. No people. No family.
The single-story house was empty, but it was apparent it had been rummaged through. Her trained eye could see the furniture that had been moved and not quite put back in its original spot. She could see that the drawers of the secretary desk in the living room had been left open just a touch. The cabinets in the kitchen had been rifled through, and judging from the splinters of porcelain on the floor, a few cups or plates must have shattered. The coat closet had been torn apart. The drawers in the ancient china cabinet that doubled as a linen closet had been gone through. Someone had been looking for something.
Sergeant Melvin Triston was in the living room with two other uniformed troopers. Mel was an older man, gray haired and slightly overweight, a few years away from a retirement he talked about endlessly. Fishing in Key Largo. He was counting the days. He looked worn, his face an Irish pink, his tired eyes projecting a kind of resignation with life on the job.
“What are we looking at?” Susan asked.
“Not sure yet. Definitely more than a B and E. There’s evidence of a struggle.” Triston took his notepad from his breast pocket and flipped it open. “According to the neighbors, Darville’s lived here for about fifteen years. Sixty-eight years old. Suffering from Alzheimer’s. A pretty tough case of it, according to the physical therapy center who called this in. They said James comes in to see them Tuesday through Friday each week and has been doing it that way for the last two years. He was in this past Tuesday with his visiting nurse, Rebecca Hill, and everything seemed fine. Then he was a no-show on Wednesday with no call to cancel. They rang his house and got no answer. Same with the nurse. They called her cell, and it rolled to voice mail. Same deal on Thursday. Didn’t show for the appointment, no call, and when the therapy center called him, no one picked up. Happened again this morning. He had an eight o’clock appointment, same day and time as the last two years, and he didn’t show. No call. No answer from James or the nurse.”