Lisa Gardner: The Survivors Club

“What do you mean Price is having some kind of fit?

“No, don't pull over. What? You've already pulled over? Whose dumb idea was that?”

Her cell phone rang. She flipped it open first ring and while still listening to Brueger's muddled explanation on the radio, barked, “Morelli.”

“He's going to do something on the way,” Griffin yelled over the phone. “He was never planning on meeting Molly. It's a ruse. Viggio was going to tamper with his getaway car!”

“Griffin…” And then to the radio, “I know you can't let him die!”

“Lieutenant, where is the transport van? Tell me where to find the transport van.”

“Dammit, Brueger, where are you? Griffin's yelling that Price has some kind of escape plan. Don't touch him. You hear me? Nobody touches David Price. Brueger?”

Shots. Sudden, sharp, coming over the airwaves. Lots of them. And then men swearing, and more gunfire, and then a gurgle. Close. In the receiver. A man choking on his own blood.

“Brueger? Brueger, do you hear me? Brueger, what is happening?”

“Where is the van, where is the van?” Griffin was yelling.

“Brueger!”

Silence. Total silence. Even Griffin had finally fallen quiet. Seconds ticked away. The sweat trickled hot from Morelli's forehead to the tip of her chin. She turned around slowly. She stared at Tom and Laurie Pesaturo, who were watching her with shocked, frightened eyes. Her gaze fell. She looked at Molly. Pretty little Molly, who, if there was any justice in this world, would never know her real father.

And then. A voice.

“Send Griffin my love,” David Price said over the radio. “ Oh, and somebody might want to send an ambulance. Wait, on second thought, I believe the coroner will do. ”

Griffin swore once, stunned, as the radio clicked off.

Lieutenant Morelli hung her head.

Griffin shut his cell phone. It promptly rang again. For a moment, he simply stared at it. Waters did, too. They had heard everything coming over Morelli's radio into Griffin's phone, and now their faces were white, drained. Fitz appeared shell-shocked. The assembled officers were shattered. Sometimes life was like being submerged twenty miles beneath the sea. All sounds were muted. Your limbs felt too heavy to move. You drifted in the dark, the surface too far away, the pressure about to collapse your chest.

Griffin's phone rang again.

He flipped it open and steeled himself for Price's smirking voice.

“He's going to do something along the way!” Jillian exclaimed. “He's never going to make it to the park!”

“I know,” Griffin whispered.

“Think about it,” she continued excitedly. “He let the police pick the location. He never would have done that if that's where he was planning on making his escape.”

“I know.”

“And with the snipers and the SWAT team and all that coverage… It would be impossible to do something there. En route, on the other hand, when it's just him and some drivers-”

“Jillian, I know.”

“You do? Well, then, stop him!”

He didn't say anything. He didn't have the words to voice what he had just heard. How many men had been involved in the escort? Four, six, eight? How many had wives? How many had children? Waters had turned away. Fitz sat down hard on Ron Viggio's driveway, staring bleakly at a streetlight. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog howled.

“Griffin?” Jillian said, her voice suddenly uncertain. “Did he? Is it…”

“It just happened.”

“Oh my God. What did…”

“I can't.”

“Meg?”

“We don't know.”

“Griffin, he can't get away.”

“You think I don't know that?” His body finally came alive. He kicked the tire of the police cruiser. Then kicked it again and again. Sitting in the back of the car, Viggio gazed at him balefully. The prick had probably heard it all and still didn't give a damn.

Griffin's vision started to cloud over. He could see his hands so clearly. He could envision them fastening on Viggio's neck, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing…

Breathe deep, exhale. Breathe deep, exhale. Don't give in. Picture yourself in a happy place. He wanted to dance on David Price's grave. Was that a happy place? Or did that simply mean that one year later, he hadn't learned a goddamn thing?

“Griffin,” Jillian said, “Lieutenant Morelli claimed you had a lead on the rapist.”

“Found him.”

“But he doesn't have Meg?”

“Nope. And he doesn't seem to be in the mood to talk about it.”

“Griffin, I know where she is.”

“What?” He perked up. Waters and Fitz caught the change in his demeanor and glanced at him sharply.

“David's self-centered,” Jillian said in a rush. “Self-absorbed. This has all been about him. He picked Meg to be the first victim again. He picked you to lead the case again. And now, for the grand finish…”

“No!” Griffin breathed.

“Yes. He has one more grave to dig, don't you see, Griffin? He started with Meg. And now he's going to do what he probably thinks he should've done six years ago. He's going to kill Meg. And he's going to bury her in the basement. He's going back to your old neighborhood, Griffin. He's going back to his old house!”

Griffin looked at Viggio. The rapist tried to blank his features, but was too late. The look of amazement on his face said enough.

“How did you get access to Price's former home?” Griffin barked.

“My mother bought it.”

“What?”

“Price recommended it. Face it, who wants to buy a home that used to have murdered babies in the basement? The real estate agent gave up months ago, and my mother bought it cheap. She's on fixed-income, so hey, she's happy.”

“You involved your mother in this?”

“Of course not! She's in Florida. I surprised her with a free trip.”

“Son of a bitch!” Griffin motioned furiously at Waters and Fitz. “Jillian, thanks. We're on our way there.”

Griffin's car was blocked by the police cruiser. They ran for Fitz's Taurus while Griffin started yelling into the radio.

David had a ten-minute head start and they were a good fifteen minutes away. Once more the clock was ticking. For Meg's sake, Griffin hoped they weren't too late.

In the Pesaturos' living room, Jillian hung up the phone, grabbed her coat, grabbed her purse and then grabbed her pepper spray.

“This is insane,” Toppi said immediately. “You're not a cop!”

“It's Meg.”

“Let them handle this.”

“Because it's gone so well thus far?” Jillian turned to her mother. “May I have your pepper spray? I'll take as much as I can get.”

Libby frowned, gazed at her reproachfully.

“I can't sit around and wait anymore, Mom! Meg needs me. I have to try.”

Libby didn't budge.

“Oh for heaven's sake, I'm not going to just barrel into the house! I did that once before and I know as well as anyone that it didn't work. I'll be careful. I'll… I'll think of something along the way.”

Libby's expression started to waver. Jillian bent down and looked her mother in the eye.

“I have to do this,” she said quietly, intently. “I didn't save Trisha, don't you see? You miss her terribly, I know you do. But I failed her, and I have to live with that every day of my life. Yes, he was stronger than me. Yes, you should blame the rapist and not the victim. It all sounds so well and good. But I was there. I saw her. And I… I didn't get to her in time. I didn't save her.

“I don't want to lose someone else, Mom. I don't want to lose you or Meg or Carol. So I need to do this. Maybe I can't change the world. But I'm finally learning that, for me at least, it's important to try. Please, Mom, may I have your pepper spray?”