Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

Her mother was easier. She had cried, she had raged and she had been so damn happy the day the police had arrested Eddie Como. But she was also happy to have Meg home again, plus she had her hands full with Molly, and there were so many things to be done. Life was busy. Life went on. She also probably understood better than Meg's father that women were stronger than they looked.

Now, Meg threw her arms around her mother's trim, efficient form and squeezed her good.

“I gotta meet Carol and Jillian downtown,” she said, kissing her mom on the cheek. This was the kind of thing she could tell her mother. Her father didn't approve of the Survivors Club meetings. Why should his little girl sit around with two older women talking about rape? For God's sake, what was the world coming to?

Meg didn't mind the discussions. Frankly, she had been a little surprised and a little pleased that Jillian had invited her to join. After all, Meg didn't know anything. She hadn't turned militant like Jillian. She hadn't gone half-crazed like Carol. Meg was still Meg. She talked about her family, about the people she was learning to love all over again, while Jillian coolly discussed topics such as victims' rights and Carol railed against the injustices of a world created by men.

“Pancakes?” her mom asked hopefully.

“Meg!” Molly screamed. “Good morning, Meg!” Molly was a morning person.

Meg let go of her mother and crossed the kitchen to plant four wet kisses on Molly's syrup-smeared face. “Molly! Good morning, Molly!” Meg wailed back.

Her five-year-old sister, her parents' little midlife oops, but a happy oops, giggled at her. “Are you going to eat pancakes?”

“Nah, I'm going to drink chai.”

“No chai. Eat pancakes with me.”

“Can't, got a hot date. But I'll see you this afternoon.”

She kissed Molly's syrupy cheek again, then tickled the little girl until she squealed and squirmed in her chair.

“You're leaving already?” her mother asked from the stove.

“Sorry, I'm running late. I'm supposed to be at rue de l'espoir by eight.”

“You'll call.” Meaning if Meg heard anything from the courthouse, from Ned D'Amato.

“I'll call.”

Her mom finally stepped away from the stove in the tiny kitchen. She held the flipper in one hand, wore an oven mitt on the other. She looked at Meg for a long time.

“I love you,” her mother said abruptly.

“I love you, too.”

“You'll call me?”

“I'll call you.”

“All right then.” Meg's mother nodded, returned to the stove and dished out a fresh plate of pancakes in a kitchen where there was no one left to feed.

Meg headed out the door. The sun was bright, the morning cool but already warming with the promise of heat. A beautiful day, but that didn't mean anything. After all, one year ago, it had been a beautiful night.

Meg climbed into her little brown Nissan, parked on the street. She tried not to notice the expired parking sticker for Providence College still stuck on her window. Her father no longer felt college was safe enough for his little girl. If he had his way, she would never go back.

And Meg? What did Meg want? She was the lucky one. Everyone told her that. Detective Fitzpatrick, Ned D'Amato, Carol, even Jillian. Sure she had been raped, but that had been it. No broken bones, no scars, no burial plots. She had been the College Hill Rapist's first victim and after her, he'd definitely done worse.

Meg started the engine of her car. Meg drove down the street. Meg felt once more the eyes that followed her so often these days. Meg did not turn around.

But she shivered.

It had been four months now. She didn't know what was going on. But one thing was clear. Somehow, someway, sweet lucky Meg was no longer alone.

IN DOWNTOWN PROVIDENCE, GRIFFIN AND WATERS WALKED together out of the courtyard. Griffin thought he should say something.

“Tell me about the Eddie Como case.” Okay, he probably should have said something more personal than that.

Waters shrugged. “I don't know much. Providence handled the case.”

“Give me the headlines.”

“Four women were attacked, one was killed. The first was a student at Providence College, Meg Pesaturo. Guess her family is connected, though that's news to me. The next victim, the Rosen woman, lives in one of those big, historical homes near Brown, which you can believe got the whole East Side screaming for better police protection. The third attack was at Brown, another college student, except the woman's sister walked in during the rape. He beat up the older sister pretty badly, and the younger wound up dead. Anaphylactic reaction to latex, something like that.”

“The guy was wearing gloves?”

“Yeah, plus he tied them up with latex tourniquets. You know, the kind they use in the hospital when they're drawing blood. That's how the Providence police caught him in the end. Turns out the victims had donated blood at a campus blood drive prior to the attack. Police did a little digging… Eddie Como was a phlebotomist with the Rhode Island Blood Center. Theory is he used the blood drives to identify potential targets, then looked up their home addresses in the blood donor database.”

Griffin waved his head from side to side, working out a kink in his neck. “Circumstantial case?”

“No, they had DNA. Perfect match, all three victims. Como 's the guy.”

“Going to get buried at trial?”

Waters nodded vigorously. “Going to get buried at trial.”

“Interesting. So on the one hand, Eddie's probably going away for life. On the other hand, according to the state marshals, three women still wanted him dead.”

“You haven't seen the crime-scene photos,” Waters said. And then they arrived in front of the press.

“Sergeant, Sergeant, Sergeant!” The roar went up, followed by an immediate hail of questions.

“Is Eddie Como dead?”

“What about the state marshals?”

“Are there other fatalities?”

“What about the explosion? Was that a car bomb?”

“Who's going to be leading the case? Providence? State? When will we get a briefing, when will we get a briefing?”

Griffin held up his hand. Bulbs immediately flashed. He grimaced, suffered a spasm of bad memory, then got it under control.

“Okay. This is the deal. We're not answering any of your questions.”

Collective groan.

“We're here to ask you our questions.”

A fresh pique of interest.

“I know, I know,” Griffin said dryly, “we're excited about it, too. In case any of you haven't noticed, you're all witnesses to a shooting.”

“It's Eddie Como, isn't it? Someone killed the College Hill Rapist!”

The rest of the reporters started in again, kids turned loose in the candy store. “When do we get a briefing? When do we get a briefing?”

“Who's going to handle the case?”

“What can you tell us about the explosion?”

“Has anyone interviewed the women yet? What do the victims have to say?”

Griffin sighed. Reasoning with the press was such a waste of breath. But in this job, you had to do what you had to do. He and Waters squared their shoulders, shoved aside two of the blue police barricades and waded bravely into the fray. Four microphones promptly appeared in front of Griffin 's face. He pushed them back, homed in on one reporter in particular, and stabbed at the man with his finger.

“You. You and your cameraman can start. Over here.”

He and Waters pulled the two away from the group. The pair weren't very happy, but then Waters and Griffin didn't much care. Griffin made the reporter review his notes, while Waters had the cameraman play back his tape. At the last minute, they were rewarded with a grainy image of the back of a man running across the courthouse roof. The focus was all wrong, though. The cameraman had been zoomed in on a close-up shot of his reporter talking in front of the courtyard. When he yanked up the camera after hearing the gunfire, the shooter was too far away to yield a good image.