Lisa Gardner - Live to Tell

“Your father?” I asked incredulously.

“The respectable Sheriff Wayne. An old soul trapped in the abyss. That’s the true hell, Danielle. That’s what all of us should wisely fear.”

Andrew glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. You can confront your past, or you can lose your future. You can save my father’s soul, or I will use all four bullets. I’ll start with the mother. That’s how these things are generally done. Then Evan. Then his father. I’ll save you for last, the order you know best. Tell me, Danielle, how many families are you prepared to lose?”

Andrew disappeared into the gloom of the hallway. I sat frozen, too stunned to move. Then I heard a new sound, from the room next to mine.

“Mommy?” Evan whispered, his voice tinny with fear. “Mommy?”

Andrew was insane, I thought, and we were all going to die.

Phil was a brilliant man. Via cell phone, D.D. gave him the update on Andrew Lightfoot, who appeared to have abducted Danielle and Evan. They needed Andrew’s last name and background info, fast.

Phil answered by cross-referencing Lightfoot’s address with the state licensing board for financial traders. Given that Lightfoot used to be an investment banker, it stood to reason that he kept his license up, if only to manage his own assets.

Sure enough, the database spit back the name Andrew Ficke, son of Wayne and Sheila Ficke. Sheila had an address in Newburyport, not far from her son. Wayne, a former sheriff, had died two years ago.

D.D. called Sheila, told the bewildered woman that her son was currently assisting the BPD with an urgent investigation and they needed to locate him immediately. A list of known addresses, please?

Turned out Andrew owned a seaside home, a yacht, and a co-op in New York. If souls really got to choose their experiences, D.D. was coming back as a New Age healer.

She doubted Andrew would run all the way to New York with an abducted woman. Seaside home too obvious. Yacht more interesting; lots of privacy out at sea. D.D. would notify local uniforms to watch the docks, and the Coast Guard to monitor the harbor.

“Sorry to call so late,” D.D. told the woman, not wanting her to be alarmed and attempt to contact Andrew. “We’re all set now. Thanks again.”

“What’s the case?” Sheila asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You said Andrew was assisting with a case. Which case? If you can talk about it, of course.”

D.D. almost said no. But then, at the last second: “He’s helping us investigate the murders of two families. Maybe you’ve seen the reports on the news.”

“Oh, that sounds like Andrew. He’s been fascinated by such cases ever since his father’s involvement, of course.”

“His father’s involvement?”

“Way before your time, dear. Back in eighty-five, when Wayne was still sheriff, one of his former deputies got drunk and turned his gun on his family, then himself. Only the girl survived. Danielle Burton. Such a terrible night. Wayne put together an album of the event, filled with newspaper clippings and such. Right up until his death I’d find him searching through it. I think he kept looking for what he might have done differently, the warning he should’ve spotted, the action he could’ve taken, which would’ve spared that poor family.”

“Where’s the album?” D.D. asked immediately.

“Andrew took it. My husband was the first on the scene, carrying the girl from the house. Many of the newspapers dubbed him a hero. I don’t know that Wayne agreed, but the articles are flattering and it’s nice for a son to have such stories of his father.”

“Wayne ever talk about that night? The details of what happened?”

“No, he wasn’t a talking sort of man. He put together the album. I think that was his therapy.”

“What about Andrew? Did he question your husband about the case?”

“Andrew asked Wayne questions every now and then. But once my husband retired, he left those days behind him and took up fishing. That seemed to work for him.”

D.D. ended the call, turned to Alex.

“Andrew Lightfoot’s father was the sheriff who handled the shooting deaths of Danielle’s family twenty-five years ago,” she reported excitedly. “What are the odds of that being a coincidence?”

“His father was at the scene?”

“His father was considered a hero for entering the carnage and rescuing Danielle.”

Alex blinked, paused, got the same intense look that was on her face. “So… we have Andrew Lightfoot, linked to Danielle’s past, linked to Danielle’s present. Has a family connection to a historic mass murder. Has a personal connection to two families who have presently been murdered. Shit. It’s a reenactment!”

“Reenactment?”

“The Harringtons and Laraquette-Solis family. He’s staged them to be similar to Danielle’s family.”

“But why?” D.D. demanded, running an impatient hand through her hair. “Million-dollar question, and we still don’t have a penny’s worth of answer.”

“I have no idea.” Alex grabbed D.D.’s arm. “Wait. We’re being stupid about this. The boy, Evan. Wasn’t his mother admitted to the hospital earlier today with a knife wound?”

“I think so.”

“Where is she now?”

“Somewhere in the parking lot with all the other patients, I presume.”

They both turned back to the hospital. The fire engines were still on-site, as well as numerous uniformed officers. Patients, staff, and curious onlookers were now corralled a safe distance from the building, where nothing much seemed to be happening. No smoke. No shooting flames. The fire, if there had been one, appeared under control.

“Let’s not presume.” Alex released her arm. “We need to find her and ask about Lightfoot.”

“We don’t know what she looks like.”

“Greg does.”

The staff and kids from the psych unit remained huddled by a copse of trees, waiting for the signal to reenter the hospital. Most of the kids were awake now and getting into trouble.

Greg flashed Alex and D.D. a quick glance as they approached. Then he yelled at Jorge to get out of the tree, told Jimmy to drop the stick, and whirled to grab an escaping Benny by the shoulder.

“We need you to find Evan’s mom,” Alex informed the MC tersely.

“Right now?” Greg raised one arm, Benny dangling from his biceps. Jorge and Jimmy came racing toward them, arms outstretched like airplanes.

“Vroom, vroom, vroom!” the boys cried.

“Right now,” Alex said over the noise. “This is about families, right? Entire families. So if Evan’s gone…”

“Where is his family?” Greg filled in.

“Exactly.”

Benny dropped off Greg’s biceps, and joined his vrooming friends, weaving among the bushes. Greg looked from the kids to the detectives and back to the kids again. His dilemma was clear.

“Oh crap.” D.D. closed her eyes and bit the bullet. “I’ll take the kids,” she informed Greg. “You go with Alex and locate Evan’s mom.”

Greg arched a brow. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” D.D. eyed the racing kids dubiously. “But hurry. I mean it. For all of our sakes, run!”

How long was ten minutes? When you were a kid, ten minutes seemed like forever. Once you were in school, it became a fifth of a class. And when your hands were bound and you were stumbling around a darkened house…

I was in the hallway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The night had been an endless one, and the first tendrils of morning were starting to seep into the sky. In another thirty minutes, the house would be bright with the daylight. Assuming any of us were alive to see it.