Tess Gerritsen - The Silent Girl

“Is that how you did it all these years?”

“It was all I had. It’s what kept me alive, the hope that my daughter might come home to me. I lived for that, Detective. I lived for the day I’d see her again. Or if it never happened, for the day I would see justice done. At least I’ll know that I died trying.”

Jane rolled again and her battered hip thumped against the floor, her face scraping across rough concrete. Suddenly her back collided with a wall and she lay on her side, panting, resting for what would be the next, and most difficult challenge. “I’ve reached the wall,” she said.

“Get to your feet. The door’s at the far end.”

With the wall as a support, Jane tried to squirm up to a kneeling position, but lost her balance and collapsed facedown, her mouth slamming against the floor. Pain shot straight from her teeth into her skull.

“Your daughter,” said Iris. “What is her name?”

Jane licked her lip and tasted blood. Felt the soft tissues already puffing up, swelling. “Regina,” she said.

“How old is she?”

“Two and a half.”

“And you love her very much.”

“Of course I do.” With a grunt, Jane struggled to her knees. She knew what Iris was doing; she could feel new strength in her muscles, new steel in her spine. No, she would not be kept away from her daughter. She would survive this night, the way Iris had survived these past two decades, because nothing mattered more to a mother than seeing her child again. She fought gravity, straining her back and neck to rise to a kneeling position.

“Regina,” said Iris. “She is the blood in your veins. The breath in your lungs.” Her voice was hypnotic, her words a whispered chant that sent heat rushing through Jane’s limbs. Words spoken in the universal language that every mother understands.

She is the blood in your veins. The breath in your lungs .

Get to your feet, Jane thought. Get those keys.

She rocked forward on her knees, coiling her muscles, and sprang up. Landed on her feet, but only for a few tottering seconds before she lost her balance and fell forward, her kneecaps slamming onto concrete.

“Again,” ordered Iris. No hint of sympathy in her voice. Was she as ruthless with her students? Was this the way real warriors were honed, without mercy, pushed beyond their limits?

“The keys,” said Iris.

Jane took a deep breath, tensed, and sprang up. Again she landed on her feet and wobbled, but the wall was right beside her. She propped her shoulder against it as she waited for the cramp in her calf to ease. “I’m up,” she said.

“Get to the far corner. That’s where the door is.”

Another hop, another wobble. She could do this. “Once we get free, we still have to get past him,” said Jane. “He has my gun.”

“I don’t need a weapon.”

“Oh, right. Ninjas just fly through the air.”

“You don’t know anything about me. Or what I can do.”

Jane hopped again, landing like a kangaroo. “Then tell me. Since we’re probably going to die, anyway. Are you the Monkey King?”

“The Monkey King is a fable.”

“It leaves behind real hair. It kills with a real sword. So who is it?”

“Someone you want on your side, Detective.”

“First I want to know who it is.”

“He’s inside you and me. He’s inside everyone who believes in justice.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s as much as I can tell you.”

“I’m not talking mystical mumo jumbo,” Jane panted and hopped again. “I’m talking about something real, something I’ve actually seen. Something that saved my life.” She paused to catch her breath. And said quietly: “I just want to thank him-or her-for that. So if you know who it is, could you pass that message along?”

Iris answered, just as softly: “It already knows.”

Jane made one last hop and her forehead banged against a door. “I’m here.”

“It’s hanging about the level of your head. Can you feel it?”

Brushing her cheek against the wall, Jane felt metal suddenly bite into her skin. Heard the soft clink of the hanging keys. “Found it!”

“Please don’t drop them.”

Jane gripped the keys in her mouth and lifted the ring off the wall hook. We’re going to do this. We’re going to beat them…

The squeal of the opening door made her freeze. Lights blazed on, so bright that she shrank back, blinded, against the wall.

“Well, this is a complication,” said a voice she recognized. Slowly she opened her eyes against the glare and saw Mark Mallory standing beside Patrick. It has always been the two of them, she thought. Hunting together. Killing together. And the bond that linked these men was Charlotte. Poor Charlotte, whose every interest, every activity, had introduced predators to their prey, turning something as innocent as a tennis meet or an orchestra performance into an opportunity for killers to glimpse and choose fresh faces.

Mark grabbed the key ring and wrenched it from Jane’s mouth. Gave her a shove and sent her toppling to the floor. “Does anyone know she came here?”

“We have to assume so,” said Patrick. “That’s why we need to get rid of her car. We should have done it hours ago, if only you’d gotten back sooner.”

“I wanted to see if anyone would show up.”

“No one came for her?”

“Maybe the tracker’s broken.” He looked at Iris. “Or maybe no one cares about her. I waited for four hours, and not a soul turned up.”

“Well, someone’s going to be coming for this one,” said Patrick, looking down at Jane.

“Where’s her cell phone?”

Patrick handed it to Mark. “What are you going to do?”

“It looks like her last text message was to her husband.” He began to tap out a new message on Jane’s phone. “Let’s tell him she’s headed to Dorchester and won’t be home for a while.”

“Then what?”

“It has to look like an accident. Or a suicide.” He looked at Patrick. “You made it work before.”

Patrick nodded. “Her gun’s up in the dining room.”

“My husband will know,” said Jane. “He knows I’d never kill myself.”

“The spouse always says that. And the police never believe them. Do they, Detective?” said Mark, and he smiled.

If her limbs had not been trussed, she would have been on her feet and pummeling him, fists slamming into those perfect teeth. But even with rage fueling her muscles she could not tear free, could do nothing but watch as he finished the text message and sent it into the ether. She thought of how it would probably happen: a bullet to her head to kill her, followed by a second gunshot to plant residue on her hand, the way Wu Weimin’s suicide had been staged. What Mark said was true: It was too easy to ignore the denials of a victim’s family. She’d been guilty of it herself. She remembered standing over the body of a young man who was missing half his head from a shotgun blast. Remembered the mother sobbing, He’d never kill himself! He’d just turned his life around! And she remembered her own remark to Frost afterward, about clueless families who never saw it coming.

“You’ve made so many mistakes,” said Iris. “You have no idea what’s about to happen.”

Mark turned to her and laughed. “Look who’s talking. The lady chained to the wall.”

Iris regarded him with an eerily calm gaze. “Before it all ends for you, tell me. Why did you choose my daughter?”

Mark crossed toward Iris until they were face-to-face. Though he was far taller, though he held every advantage, Iris revealed not a flicker of fear. “Pretty little Laura. You do remember her, Patrick?” He glanced at the older man. “The girl we picked up as she walked out of school. The one we offered a ride to.”