Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

'I didn't have a choice,' he said again.

'What day was Sammy released from Sinclair?'

'I don't know.'

'You didn't keep a close eye on him?'

'No.'

'Did you look for Sammy after his discharge?'

'No.'

'I didn't think so.' Fletcher picked him up by the arms. 'You know Sammy killed those women. Since Sammy voluntarily admitted himself under the guise of having a nervous breakdown, you knew he could release himself whenever he wanted, or at least until his parents stopped paying the hospital bill, which they did, incidentally, six months later.'

'I did what you asked. I told the truth.'

'You did, and I'm very proud of you. See the fire escape at the end of the roof?'

'Barely,' Bryson said. Everything was blurry.

'I'm going to escort you there now.' Fletcher helped him across the roof. 'That's it, watch your step. I wouldn't want you to trip and hurt yourself.'

Bryson wanted to get out of this terribly cold air. He couldn't stop shivering.

'In case you're wondering, Sammy wandered across the country performing menial construction and landscaping jobs,' Fletcher said. 'He did, however, manage to return east once to collect his portion of his parents' rather meagre estate. During his visit, he raped and tortured Jennifer Sanders over a period of days before strangling her and leaving her body to rot.'

Bryson wanted to close his eyes and go to sleep.

'Like you, Detective, I knew Sammy had killed those women he dumped along the highway. Unlike you, I never stopped searching for him. It took me years to find him, but I never gave up hope. I finally found him last year in Miami, where he had resumed his nocturnal activities. Sammy couldn't recall where he dumped their bodies, but he did remember all the names of his victims and could recall, in vivid detail, how he had killed them. I think his memory was aided by the recordings I found in his home. Sammy taped his… experiences with each of his victims. I'll spare you the grisly details. I would hate to place an additional burden on your conscience.'

Bryson closed his eyes and saw himself at ten climbing the big oak in the backyard, he wants to reach the top and watch the homes on Foster Avenue, brick-faced houses with three-car garages and big backyards of nice lawns and swing-sets and dollhouses where kids in nice clothes played under the supervision of their nannies and au pairs – he feels like the way God must feel looking down on them, watching, learning their secrets. He almost reaches the top when he slips and falls, branches whisking past his face and flailing arms as he tumbles through the leaves, limbs pounding him before he comes to a hard, sudden stop. He is lying on the ground and he can't breathe. His ribs are broken and he can't call for help. His mother is standing at the kitchen window, washing her hands in the sink. He opens his mouth to scream but can't draw a breath, he is gasping for air. She doesn't see him, just keeps washing her hands, her apron streaked with flour.

'Wake up, Timmy.'

Bryson stood at the edge of the roof, near the fire escape. From this height, the parked cars and fire trucks looked like toys. People were streaming out into the street as firemen moved inside the club. Bryson wanted to wave to them but his hands were cuffed behind his back.

Directly below was the surveillance van. It was blocking the alley. He didn't see Lang or any of his men. They must be inside the club now, looking for me.

'Before I remove your cuffs, I want you to deliver this to Darby McCormick.' Fletcher stuffed something inside Bryson's coat pocket. 'Make sure you give that to her.'

'I will.'

'You promise?'

'Yes.'

'Thank you,' Fletcher said and shoved Bryson off the roof.

Falling through the cold air with his hands cuffed behind his back, Bryson screamed as he watched the roof of the surveillance van coming closer… closer… too close, his head landed on the roof, neck snapping as his body fell against the van in a sickening thud, denting the steel and shattering glass.

Bryson stared up at the building's roof. Malcolm Fletcher waved good-bye and disappeared.

Blurred faces crowded around him. One face came closer.

'Help is on the way.' A woman's voice. She gripped his hand, squeezed. 'I'll stay right here with you. What's your name?'

The woman's voice was soft and reassuring, like his mother's. The day he fell from the tree, he lay on the ground thinking he was going to die and here came his mother running out of the back door, running as fast as she could in her high-heeled shoes, her apron streaked with flour and cake frosting. 'The ambulance is on its way,' she said, kissing his forehead. Bryson watched the colourful leaves blow across the lawn. 'Relax, Timmy, just lie there and relax. Everything's going to be all right now. You'll see.'

Darby received the news from Bill Jordan, the man heading up her surveillance. He was waiting for her on the front steps of the hospital.

Jordan quickly filled her in on the Jaguar and Tim Bryson's last conversation with Mark Lang, an undercover narcotics detective and driver of the second surveillance van. Lang had followed Bryson into Boston. Bryson had entered the club along with his partner Cliff Watts, who had provided the details of the events inside the club's private basement but couldn't explain why Bryson was cuffed and dragged away or how Bryson had ended up on the roof of the second surveillance van. Jordan was taking his men into the city.

Darby stood alone in the dark, hands deep in her pockets as she stared off into the woods, allowing the news to sink past her skin. She had to deal with this. Now.

She left Coop in charge of the crime scene and drove to Boston.

One hand steady on the wheel, the Mustang's engine booming as she tore down the highway, she dialled the commissioner's home phone number.

Chadzynski had already received several updates about the events in Boston. At the moment, details were sketchy. Darby briefed the commissioner on what she had discovered inside the hospital's chapel.

'These Virgin Mary statues you found inside the box are the same ones found on Hale and Chen?' Chadzynski asked.

'They appear to be the same. I'm more interested in the Virgin Mary statue standing next to the altar.' Darby told her about the rags she had found along the floor, the sponge in the bucket of water. 'The statue was spotless. He's been there recently. After we're done with the remains, I want to stake out the chapel, leave a couple of men inside there so we'll be ready the next time he returns.'

'You really think he'll go back?'

'He will as long as he thinks it's safe.'

'Okay, I'll find someone to organize the stakeout.'

'We can't involve Danvers PD.'

'Aren't they already involved?'

'They don't know about the remains. I'd like to keep it that way.'

'Darby, we can't -'

'I know we're playing in their backyard. But the more people we bring into this, the greater risk we run of having the information slip out. If the media gets wind of the remains found inside that chapel and decides to run with it, the man who killed Chen and Hale won't come back. If it's the same man who has Hannah Givens, he might kill her and run.'

'What about Reed's people? How are you going to keep them quiet?'

'We can't. Bill Jordan and some of his men are already working with Reed's people, so we're containing the situation the best we can. Finding this chapel might be the break we needed. I'd hate for us to lose it.'

'I'll talk to Jordan. Call me when you know more about Bryson. I want to be updated at every turn.'

Darby took the first empty parking spot she found on the street and ran the rest of the way, following the red, blue and white lights pulsing like distress beacons over the building rooftops on Lansdowne Street.