Allison Brennan - Stalked

PETER: (unresponsive)

TP: Peter, why didn’t you go to your parents?

PETER: I did, in the morning, when she didn’t come back.

TP: But not to their room.

PETER: I didn’t want to bother them. In case they had someone spend the night.

TP: Has that happened before?

PETER: Yeah.

Lucy’s heart went out to the boy Peter McMahon had been, but her instincts told her this boy was now twenty-four and had had a tragedy heaped onto his dysfunctional upbringing. There had been no signs of physical abuse, but emotional abuse and neglect could be just as powerful a negative force in a child’s life.

Tony had a lot of private notes on the McMahon case. It wasn’t unusual for agents to keep a second set of private files. They often only contained copies of the official records, but many of the investigators wrote down their personal observations. Technically, anything written down while investigating a crime should be part of the record, but Lucy knew that wasn’t always the case.

Lucy now understood why Tony had been melancholy thinking about the boy. He had no one to protect him while all this was going on, no one to shield him from the evil in his life. Violence was part of society, but society tried to protect the young and innocent from the results. And when that failed, hope seemed to be lost.

Lucy sat at her computer and quickly input all the pertinent information about Peter McMahon. Tony had included everything in the file except Peter’s Social Security number, but Lucy didn’t need that. She had his parents-Aaron and Pilar McMahon-his date of birth, and where he was born. Logically, Tony would have either contacted friends of his involved in the case or used the FBI database, and maybe that’s how he found out that the father was in Seattle and the mother had remarried and was living in Texas. Both far away from New Jersey.

Tony had scribbled a note that Margaret Gray had died ten years ago at the age of seventy-nine, and Tony had said that he thought Peter had gone to live with the grandmother in Florida. What had happened to him after? Lucy quickly learned that Pilar’s maiden name was Gray, so Margaret was Peter McMahon’s maternal grandmother. Further checking confirmed the information.

There was nothing on Peter McMahon that she could find in New Jersey or Florida.

Seven years ago, after Lucy’s all-too-public ordeal, she’d considered changing her name. But more than exposure, she feared losing her sense of identity. She could have easily slipped into a made-up life in an effort to forget who she was and what had happened. But changing her name would have been a Band-Aid, and she would never forget what had happened.

Over the years, she’d encountered many victims who had opted to clean the slate with a new identity. Sometimes it was merely changing their first name or going back to their maiden name after an abusive relationship. What if the parents or grandmother wanted to give Peter a clean slate? To help him forget what had happened?

She shivered and didn’t know why. Except-a child of nine would always remember. She would never forget her nephew Justin. They’d been together nearly every day for years, because her mother babysat him while his mother worked. He and Lucy were more like twins than nephew and aunt. If Peter’s family wanted to suppress memories of his sister, in their effort to help or purge their own demons and grief, they may have changed his name. Maybe that’s why Tony could find nothing on him today.

Lucy put all the notes aside and downloaded a copy of Rosemary Weber’s Sex, Lies, and Family Secrets, the book about the McMahon family and the tragedy that befell them. While Tony’s notes were good, Lucy needed more info about the case. She didn’t know if she could trust Weber’s writing on the matter, but if she doubted something, she could ask Tony.

All this was a mere Band-Aid, Lucy thought as she picked up her cell phone and called Sean. A book, published when Peter was fourteen and living in Florida with his grandmother, wouldn’t tell Lucy where he was or what he was doing today.

Sean answered, panic in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Why would you think something’s wrong?”

“Calls in the middle of the night are never good news.”

Lucy glanced at her clock. One forty-five. “I am so sorry, Sean. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“So you weren’t dreaming of me and just had to call and hear my voice?” he said with mock offense.

She smiled. “It’s always nice to hear your voice.”

“It would be better in person.”

“I’m calling for another favor.”

“You know, I’m going to start keeping a tally. All these favors are going to add up, and I’m going to cash them in for a real vacation.”

“Real vacation? Maybe it would be safer for us to vacation at home.” They’d tried to go away together several times, and each one had ended in murder.

“Superstitious?”

“Of course not.”

“Just leave it to me. Tell me what you need.”

She quickly explained why she was looking for Peter McMahon, and the loose connection to the Rosemary Weber homicide. “Can you find out-legally-if Peter McMahon changed his name?”

“As an adult, easy. As a child? Possibly. Depends on the circumstances. If I can cut a couple corners, I can definitely get you the information.”

“Let’s try this legally, okay?”

“You’re the boss.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

Sean laughed, and Lucy shut down her computer. It was late and she had to be up in four hours.

“I’m going to bed,” Lucy said.

Sean sighed. “Wish I were there, princess.”

Ten Years Ago

Two weeks after my fourteenth birthday, Grams went into the hospital after coughing up blood. The doctor said she had pneumonia and needed to stay, and asked if I had any family. I told them my parents were dead and Grams was all I had. I think the nurses felt sorry for me, because they let me stay with her.

I think I felt sorry for me, because I blamed Grams for getting sick. “I need you,” I told her. “You shouldn’t have been gardening in the rain.”

Grams loved her garden. I helped her, sometimes, but I think she liked to be alone to pull weeds and turn the soil and plant her flowers. I helped carry pallets of flowers, mowed the lawn, and trimmed the bushes because the shears were too heavy for her. But Grams spent hours every day outside.

It didn’t rain a lot in Florida, but whenever it did Grams got sick. Like now. Except now was worse because she was seventy-nine and had been slowly dying ever since Grandpa died when I was five.

I knew she wouldn’t live until September, when she’d be eighty. The doctors wouldn’t say it, but they didn’t tell me she was coming home, either. They said things like “We’re doing everything we can” and “She’s strong,” and “Give it time.” Never that she was going to die, but never that she’d get better.

It wasn’t fair! I needed her.

“Read to me, Peter.” Grams had been in the hospital for three days. I thought she might come home today, but the doctors said no. She looked sick. She’d never looked sick until three days ago. Tired, maybe, but not sick.

I picked up book 6 in the Chronicles of Narnia series. She’d bought me the books the first Christmas I lived with her, before my sister’s killer was put on trial. I read them because there was nothing else I could do-I couldn’t sleep more than a couple hours a night, I couldn’t go to school without someone talking about Rachel or my parents. Even in Florida, people knew. Especially after that reporter published a book about it. Why would somebody do that? Write a book about Rachel’s murder and the bizarre life my parents lived. People whispered when they didn’t think I could hear, even the teachers. Grams got rid of her television, so at home I didn’t have to remember if I didn’t want to.