The Doll Maker (43 page)

‘Has she asked for a lawyer?’ Dana Westbrook asked.

Byrne shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

DiCarlo considered their options. ‘Has the older woman regained consciousness? This Miss Emmaline?’

‘Yes,’ Jessica said.

Byrne stepped away, took out his phone, called the hospital. Within a minute he returned. ‘She’s still sedated. Still listed as stable.’

‘Well, if we can get her on the record saying it
wasn’t
her magic mushroom, we have a shot at holding this girl on a misdemeanor assault charge.’

‘As soon as we charge her, she’s going to ask for a lawyer,’ Westbrook said.

‘And then I’m going to have to cut her loose,’ DiCarlo said.

Jessica glanced back through the mirror. The girl had not moved an inch. She just sat there, expressionless, her hands folded on the table, as enigmatic and impenetrable as the moment she walked in.

‘Let’s see if we can get her to sit tight,’ Westbrook said.

DiCarlo looked at the three detectives, said: ‘Give me something to work with.’

How does one dress to be put on a shelf?

It surely is a question pondered by all of my kind for ages.

I layered the clothing on the bed. I had selected a classic notch lapel, three button. The material was a fine wool and silk, a glen plaid and blue windowpane design.

Anabelle’s clothing, unbeknownst to her, had been packed for weeks. I do so hate to deceive her, but protecting her heart is far more important.

I knew what she would want to wear.

If all went as planned – as had been written in our story since that dark moment when an eighteen-wheel truck pulled to the side of the road so many years ago, the moment a slender young backwoods girl was observed practicing her cartwheels in the yard, the Blue Mountains rising from the mist in the distance, the moment the past and the present met and linked forever – I intended to return to this room but one more time.

I looked at my watch, my heart falling.

In just a short time our
maîtresse des marionnettes
would be dead.

Byrne wanted to be alone, to decelerate, to clear his mind, but decided to go ahead with the get-together.

He had given serious thought to cancelling, based on the recent events – he certainly wasn’t in a festive mood – but too many people were invited, people who had nothing to do with the department or the justice system as a whole.

He was on call, and could be back at the Roundhouse within fifteen minutes. Paddy Byrne was on the way, and there was no one better at hosting a party if need be.

So far their suspect, Cassandra White, had not asked for a lawyer. Her fingerprints were not in the system.

Byrne stood in the center of the front room. There were a half-dozen candles on the mantel, a dozen or so folding chairs scattered about the room, chairs he had managed to borrow from a friend of his who ran a funeral parlor in South Philly. The good news was, the Grace Brothers funeral home was not stenciled on the back of the chairs.

He’d borrowed Colleen’s iPad for the evening, and had it plugged into a stereo system, also borrowed. On it he had programmed three or four hours of music. Old blues, mainstream jazz, some modern stuff for the under eighteens.

Byrne again looked at his watch, far more nervous about this than he thought he would be. It was only a get-together for a small group of family and friends, after all, every one of whom had his back.

He was so nervous that he’d even set the timer on the oven, just to remind himself to take a shower and clean up.

At five-fifteen – two hours before the first guests were expected – there was a knock at the door. It would be the delivery from Finnigan’s Wake. He flipped on the light in the dining room wincing at how his makeshift buffet table – in reality, a four by eight sheet of plywood, on a quartet of sawhorses, draped with a plastic picnic tablecloth in the red and white gingham check style – looked under the callous glare of the old chandelier. As soon as the food was set up, he would turn the light off.

He opened the door, saw the van in the driveway, idling, the Finnigan’s Wake logo on the door.

‘How are you doing?’ he heard from behind the van.

The delivery man, wearing the distinctive Finnigan’s Wake green shirt and ball cap, came around the side of the van with three big trays of food.

‘Are you Mr Byrne?’ he asked.

‘I am,’ Byrne said. ‘Call me Kevin. Do you need a hand with that?’

‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I got it.’

The man walked in the foyer, wiped his feet, then crossed the living room to the dining room. He set the trays down on the makeshift table, looked around.

‘Great house,’ he said.

‘Thanks. It’s coming along,’ Byrne said. ‘Are you sure I can’t give you a hand with any of this?’

‘There are two more trays,’ he said. ‘It would be great if you could grab them. I can set up the steam trays.’

‘No problem.’

Byrne walked out to the van, noticing that the sky was crystal clear, the temperature unseasonably warm. He walked back inside, put the trays on the table, the aroma of fish and chips reminding him that he hadn’t eaten.

‘Well, that’s everything.’

Byrne took out a ten, handed it over.

‘No need,’ the man said. ‘But I will have a beer. As long as you don’t tell my boss.’

‘You got it.’

Byrne grabbed a beer from the cooler, twisted off the cap. He retrieved his tumbler of Kessler’s from the table.

‘To your new house,’ the delivery man said.

‘Thanks.’

Byrne raised his glass, downed it. The whiskey was serviceable, but it wasn’t Black Bush or Tullamore Dew. He reminded himself to never go on the cheap again.

Glass drained, Byrne once again held up the ten. ‘Sure you won’t take this?’

‘I’m fine.’

Byrne pocketed the bill, turned back to check on the steam trays, trying to calculate whether or not there was going to be enough food.

‘Actually, there
is
one thing you can do for me.’

‘Sure,’ Byrne said.

‘You can let Anabelle go.’

At first, Byrne thought he had misunderstood the young man.

In an instant, though, he understood. Everything came rushing toward him. Why the young man looked familiar, was the first thing. When he saw him walking up the dark drive, he chalked it up to having seen the young man at Finnigan’s Wake.

He now knew where he recognized the young man from. He’d seen him on surveillance tape. He saw him as a six-year-old boy. He was the boy known as Martin White, a name Byrne now knew was given to him by the foster care home.

He was Mr Marseille.

The other thing that came quickening toward him was the fact that his service weapon, and his secondary weapon, were upstairs, in a box on a nightstand table.

‘Anabelle?’ Byrne asked, slowly turning around.

As expected, the young man had a handgun pointed at him. The front door was closed.

‘I think you know who I mean.’

‘You mean Cassandra White,’ Byrne said.

‘I know of no one by that name.’

‘And you are Martin White.’

The young man remained silent.

Byrne pointed at the logo on the green Polo shirt. ‘Is he dead?’

Again, silence. Then the young man said: ‘I’d like you to sit down. ‘

‘If I refuse?’

‘You are just another doll,’ the young man said. ‘You mean nothing to me. Broken or whole. If you refuse I will pull the trigger.’

Byrne knew he would have to find another way out of this, if there was one to be found. He looked over the young man’s shoulder, waiting for headlights to wash the front of the house, hoping that the first guests to arrive would be cops. No headlights shone.

Byrne reached back, pulled a chair, sat down.

‘So you are Mr Marseille,’ Byrne said.

‘I am.’

‘I knew I would one day meet you.’

‘And here we are.’

‘Maybe you could tell me exactly what you want,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can make it happen.’

‘I want you to make a call, tell your superiors that you made a mistake arresting Anabelle, and that they are to let her go immediately.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ Byrne said.

‘It’s not my problem.’

‘You have to know that you are just prolonging the inevitable. Even if they do let her go, and you two do get together, it will only be a matter of time until you’re caught.’

‘Like you caught me tonight?’

‘Fair enough,’ Byrne said. ‘But there are now at least four bodies on your sheet. It’s not going to go well.’

‘Let me worry about Mr Marseille and Anabelle.’

Third person
, Byrne thought. Never a good sign. ‘So, this is all about Valerie Beckert, yes?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘When she took us in we were merely a boy and a girl. Now we are Sauveterre.’

‘She is Jean Marie Sauveterre’s daughter.’

‘She is every Sauveterre ever
made
,’ he said. ‘She is perfect. And soon you will take her life.’

‘I don’t think my bosses are going to do this.’

‘Then it will be up to you to convince them.’

Byrne considered his options. There were few. ‘If there is more bloodshed there will be nowhere on the planet for you to hide.’

‘We have been hiding in plain sight for years,’ he said. ‘No one looks at dolls on a shelf.’

‘Why tonight?’ Byrne asked. ‘Because she is scheduled to die at midnight?’

Mr Marseille pulled up a folding chair, positioned it by the front window, peered through the curtains. He turned back, sat down.

‘There is one more tea,’ he said. ‘When that is over we will both turn our lashes to the light, and you can put us on a shelf forever.’

‘They were all there at the competency hearing,’ Byrne said. ‘You blame them for Valerie getting the death penalty.’

The young man said nothing for a few seconds. Then:

‘Have you ever lost a doll, Mr Byrne?’

He was talking about loss. Real loss. Byrne thought about losing his mother to cancer, how thin she grew in her final weeks, how much he missed her, and always would. He battled back the sorrow.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Then you know the pain of grief.’

‘I do.’

Mr Marseille looked at the stairs leading to the second floor. ‘I remember the first time I climbed these stairs. I thought they might reach to heaven.’

Byrne needed to bring him back to the moment.

‘What if I can’t do what you’re asking? What if I call my bosses and they say no?’

‘Then I will greet your guests at the door, and one by one I will send them to their rooms.’

Send them to their rooms
, Byrne thought. This is how this man thought of cold-blooded murder.

‘In the meantime, I cannot have you down here,’ he said. ‘Please stand up.’

Reluctantly, Byrne stood up.

He started up the stairs with Mr Marseille behind him. When they reached the third floor, Mr Marseille opened the closet door. He reached beneath the bottom shelf. Byrne heard a latch triggered. The young man then gripped the bottom shelf and pulled.

The entire shelf unit opened as one, hinged on the left. In front of Byrne was a long hallway.

‘What is this?’ Byrne asked.

‘Welcome to my home,’ Mr Marseille said.

He flipped a wall switch. Ahead Byrne saw a half-dozen iron wall sconces come to life, bathing the corridor in an amber glow.

On either side was a wall of dolls, nailed to the plaster, at some places three deep. There had to be hundreds.

When they reached the end of the hall, Marseille unlocked a steel door, pulling two large barrel bolts to the side. Ahead was a windowless double bedroom. And still more dolls. But here the walls were lined with posters and photographs, as well.

Pictures of Nicole Solomon, of Robert and Edward Gillen, of Andrea Skolnik, scores of others, many of them black and white pictures turned sepia by time.

‘Please have a seat,’ Marseille said, gesturing to a chair near a small rolltop desk.

Before he could move Byrne heard a buzzer go off. It was the kitchen timer he’d set, but it sounded far too close. He suddenly understood. He looked down, at the heating vent at his feet.

‘That’s how you knew,’ Byrne said. ‘You heard everything that was said in the kitchen. All my conversations.’

The young man didn’t respond to this. Instead, he repeated: ‘Please have a seat.’

In his mind, Byrne knew what he meant. But the sound was strange, full of reverberations and echoes. For a moment, he thought it was the music, which was coming from just below them.

But he knew it wasn’t.

It was why the bottom shelf whiskey had tasted so bad. Marseille had done it while Byrne was at the van. It was why Marseille wanted a beer, to make a toast.

He had laced Byrne’s drink with magic mushroom.

A few moments later, as Marseille closed and bolted the steel door from the other side, the world began to change.

Byrne looked around. Every corner of the room watched him with dead eyes, eyes that, two by two, began to open, to come to life.

The forty-four minutes he had lost that night.

He’d been here before.

I left the policeman to his thoughts. He seemed a bright and reasonable man, but that in no way meant that he would not put me on a shelf at the first opportunity or sign of weakness.

I gave him time to think about his guests, and what he could do to save them.

I pulled a chair to the front window, looked out at the street, my heart brimming with sadness. The idea of hosting a tea without Anabelle filled me with a deep longing for the time when we first came to this house, when Valerie took us in and made us Sauveterre. It was a splendid summer, the house filled with all our little friends. Aaron, Nancy, Thaddeus, Jason. And Thomas. Little Thomas Rule with his slow gait and fierce determination.

There had been other friends over the years, but it had not been the same without Valerie. When we read in the paper that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania was going to take her life at the stroke of midnight – in just a few hours’ time – I knew what we had to do.