Richard Montanari: Rosary girls

Today, as Jessica came for her daily visit, she knew she had a lot to do. As much as it made her feel bad to leave, she knew that life would, and must, go on. She'd stay about fifteen minutes. She sat in the chair in Byrne's flower-filled room, thumbed through a magazine. For all she knew it could have been Field amp;Stream or Cosmo.

From time to time, she glanced up at Byrne. He was much thinner; his skin had a deep gray pallor. His hair was just starting to grow back.

Around his neck he wore the silver crucifix that Althea Pettigrew had given him. Jessica wore the angel pendant she had received from Frank Wells. It seemed that they both had their talisman against the Andrew Chases of the world.

There was so much she wanted to tell him, about how Colleen was voted valedictorian at her deaf school, about the death of Andrew Chase. She wanted to tell him that, a week earlier, the FBI had faxed the unit with the information that Miguel Duarte, the man who confessed to the murder of Robert and Helen Blanchard, had an account at a New Jersey bank under a false name. They had traced the money back to a wire transfer received from an offshore account belonging to Morris Blanchard. Morris Blanchard had paid Duarte ten thousand dollars to kill his parents.

Kevin Byrne had been right all along.

Jessica turned back to her magazine, and an article about how and where walleyes spawn. She supposed it was Field amp;Stream after all.

"Hey," Byrne said.

Jessica nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice. It was low and raspy and terribly weak, but it was there.

She scrambled to her feet. She leaned over the bed. "I'm here," she said. "I'm… I'm here."

Kevin Byrne opened, then closed his eyes. For a horrifying moment, Jessica was certain he would never open them again. But after a few seconds he proved her wrong. "Got a question for you," he said. "Okay," Jessica said, her heart racing. "Sure." "Did I ever tell you why they call me Riff Raff?" he asked. "No," she said, softly. She would not cry. She would not. The slightest smile graced his parched lips. "It's a good story, partner," he said. Jessica took his hand in hers. She squeezed gently. Partner.