Lisa Gardner - The Survivors Club

Now his hands and ankles were shackled. A state marshal walked on either side, both heavyset faces grim. David smiled at his escorts. He smiled at the assembled corrections officers. He smiled at the waiting blue van. He was in a good mood.

They loaded him up.

“Try anything, buster,” one of the state marshals said, “and we'll grind you into dust. Capisce? ”

“I don't speak Italian, you English-challenged hump.”

The marshal growled at him. David smiled back.

The van doors closed. Soon the prison gates would open.

Five thirty-five P.M. So close to freedom, David could taste it on his lips. Five, ten more minutes, and the gates would open. Five, ten more minutes, and his real journey would begin.

Thank you, Sergeant Griffin, he thought. And of course, thank you, Meg.

“Apparently, Ron Viggio didn't feel the need to tell his employer about his entire criminal history,” Griffin said as he hurtled his car onto the interstate and Waters called for backup. “Turns out he wasn't arrested for B amp;E, but for first-degree sexual assault. He also spent three years behind bars in the mid-nineties for breaking into a woman's home.”

“So first he's a Peeping Tom, then he's breaking into women's homes, then he goes for assault. Wow, he's positively textbook.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, the sexual-assault charge didn't stick. The woman had had a prior relationship with Viggio-they'd dated briefly-and since she'd slept with him willingly in the past, she got worried the jury wouldn't believe her claim. Or maybe she just got freaked out at the thought of the trial. It's not exactly a walk in the park.”

“Why try the defendant when you can beat up the victim?”

“Exactly. Viggio entered Intake in December, his accuser dropped the charges in January. His probation officer can probably tell us even more stories.” Griffin came to the Cranston exit, flashed his lights at the sluggish traffic, then whipped around them, cursing. Some jerk pulled out in front of him. He slammed the brakes hard and swore, and Waters grabbed the bullhorn. “To the right. NOW ! ”

That put the fear of God into the asshole. Of course the driver shot them a dirty look as they went barreling by. Civilians.

“Viggio had four weeks at Intake during the same time as David Price,” Griffin said, breathing hard, his palms dampening with a combination of adrenaline and anticipation. He found the proper side street, his speedometer over eighty and his attention focused on the wheel.

“Oooh, is it just coincidence?”

“Or is it probable cause? By December, Viggio had probably figured out that it was only a matter of time until he attacked a woman again. But he also knew his DNA and prints were already in the system, so the first time he gave in to impulse, he'd have two detectives knocking on his door. Then he remembered good ol' David Price, who lived next door to a cop and still got away with killing ten kids. Good ol' David Price, who's conveniently locked up with him in Intake.”

“Even rapists need role models,” Waters said.

“Unfortunately for us. And now, unfortunately for Viggio. Hang on a sec, we're here.” Griffin saw the street sign belatedly, hit the brakes and let the momentum of the car's back end whip them around the turn. He promptly killed the grille lights and eased up on the gas. He didn't want to spook Viggio by racing down the street, lights flashing. First, they would conduct a casual drive-by to assess the home.

They neared the address and immediately spotted a man walking out the front door, heading for his car in the driveway. The man wore dark blue pants, a light blue chambray shirt and, from the back at least, could've been a double for Eddie Como. Hello, Ron Viggio.

“Jesus Christ,” Waters murmured in awe.

“He's gonna bail!” Griffin warned. He grabbed the radio. “Everyone, greenlight, greenlight, greenlight! ”

Griffin whipped his car sideways onto the driveway, blocked Viggio's vehicle and slammed on the brakes. Viggio's head popped up. He registered the two unmarked cars and one police cruiser bearing down on him. And then he ran.

“Move, move, move.” Griffin was out of his car. Up ahead, he saw Fitz swerve his Taurus into another driveway in an attempt to stop the fleeing suspect. Viggio leapt onto the Taurus's hood, jumped down the other side and kept moving.

Shouts now. Waters bellowing, “Police, stop!” Residents peering out of their homes and yelping in surprise at the commotion. Officers yelling as they tore out of their cruisers and prepared to give chase.

Griffin had the lead. He scrambled over Fitz's hood and thundered down the sidewalk. He'd show Ron Viggio what a five-minute mile meant. Vaguely he was aware of Waters racing right along beside him. Fitz panted somewhere in the distance.

Viggio glanced frantically over his shoulder and saw them closing the gap. He darted right, headed between two small houses and leapt a low wooden fence. A woman shrieked. A dog barked. Griffin heard it all from far away as he vaulted the fence, homed in on Viggio and dove for the man's legs.

At the last minute, Viggio spun left, avoiding the tackle and reaching a tall chain-link fence. Griffin went down, rolled into the fall and was back on his feet in time to see Viggio and Waters disappear over the barrier. He jumped onto the chain link and resumed pursuit.

They had arrived in someone's personal version of a salvage yard. A small white house sat forlornly in the middle of a pile of twisted, burnt-out wrecks. For a moment, Griffin couldn't see anyone at all. Then he heard a clatter as Viggio darted past a pile of rusty hubcaps, and Waters went careening around another gutted car.

Griffin watched Viggio's line, saw the obvious destination-a kid's bike by the home's front door-and raced around the other side of the house.

He burst into view twenty feet in front of Viggio. “Boo!” Griffin roared.

A startled Ron Viggio drew up short.

And Waters took him out with a flying tackle.

Ten minutes later, Ron Viggio sat handcuffed in the back of a Rhode Island police cruiser, sullenly refusing to talk. They let him be for now and descended upon his home. In the bathroom, Waters found the neatly stacked boxes of latex gloves. In the kitchen pantry, Fitz bagged and tagged three rows of Berkely and Johnson Disposable Douches, all Country Flowers. Then, of course, there were the vials they found in the freezer.

The kitchen table held an open package of model rocketry igniters and was covered with some sort of gray clay. Griffin sniffed the gray material suspiciously, then left it for Jack-n-Jack to figure out. They checked the upstairs bedrooms, the downstairs bathroom and all the closets. Still no sign of Meg.

Griffin finally found a door beneath the staircase, a door leading to the basement. He took a deep breath, motioned to Waters, and together they descended into the depths.

“Meg?” Griffin called out. Something grazed the top of his head. The end of a pull chain for an overhead light.

Still no sound in the dark.

Steeled for the worst, he yanked the chain and turned on the light.

Thirty seconds later, he and Waters had walked the entire length of the dank, empty space.

“Floor doesn't even looked disturbed,” Waters said. “I don't think anyone's been down here for a bit.”

Griffin thought about it. “Car?” he asked with a frown.

“Gotta be.”

“Shit.”

They were back up the stairs and out of the house. Car wouldn't be good. Trunk of a car would be even worse. Hold it together. Remember the lessons of the past year.

The driver's-side door wasn't locked. Waters opened it with gloved hands, while Griffin ran around to the trunk. He had his firearm out, just in case. On the count of three, Waters popped the trunk.