The Doll Maker (47 page)

Jessica looked at the SWAT officer on top of the shuttered ticket kiosk, in full tactical gear, his high-powered rifle on a tripod, his cap backwards, his eye to the scope.

She had seen this tableau a hundred times before, but it never had any meaning for her. She thought it had, but it hadn’t. Not really. She knew that now.

As time stood still, she had but one thought.

Take the shot.
 

The more she willed it, the more time refused to budge. Still, the mantra screamed in a never ending loop in her mind.

Taketheshottaketheshottaketheshot …
 

Byrne was now fifteen feet away.

He still had a second weapon in an ankle holster. He had no way of knowing if it was visible. To look at it might mean giving it away.

Martin and Cassandra White, still holding hands with Sophie, were backed up all the way to the railing.

Sophie looked so small.

‘You okay, kiddo?’ Byrne asked.

Sophie nodded.

‘It’s not too late to stop this,’ Byrne said. He gestured to all the lights and people surrounding the ship. ‘We can end this with no one else getting hurt.’ He tore the earpiece from his ear, the two-way from his belt. He threw them both overboard. A strong gust of wind hurtled them into the blackness.

‘It’s just us now,’ Byrne added. ‘No one else is listening.’

‘Did you know her?’ Marseille asked.

‘Who?’

‘Our
maîtresse des marionnettes.
’

‘You mean Valerie? No. I did not.’

‘And yet you judged her.’

‘I never judged her,’ Byrne said, realizing, as he said the words, how inadequate they were. ‘I just did my job. She had a fair trial.’

‘She was our kind.’

‘What do you mean?’

Before Martin White could say another word, Byrne heard the footsteps behind him. Someone had given the order.

The SWAT officers had breached the ship’s deck.

Byrne looked into Sophie’s eyes.

Jessica’s eyes.

No
.

At the moment the world began to end, I looked at Anabelle. I know it is not possible for a doll to feel love, but at that moment I loved her.

I always have.

‘Is it beautiful?’ I asked her.

She nodded. ‘It is the most beautiful thing ever.’

‘Do you trust me?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Always.’

She looked down. In my free hand was the cameo brooch we had been given by our
maîtresse des marionnettes
so many years ago. I handed it to her.

‘These foolish things,’ I said.

A tear rolled down Anabelle’s cheek. ‘Never foolish, Mr Marseille.’

She saw the gun in my hand just as the men came up through the floor. She looked into my eyes. She brought the girl closer to her.

‘No, Mr Marseille.’

Anabelle and the girl took a step away from me.

‘It has to be this way,’ I said.

‘No.’

To my left I saw the shadows moving quickly toward us. I looked into Anabelle’s eyes.

‘My dearest heart.’

I wrapped my arms around Anabelle and the little girl. We all fell backward, over the railing, into life, into the eternal fire that is the moment of creation for all our kind.

When the three figures fell from the bow of the ship, Jessica was standing at the end of the pier. For an agonizing moment it didn’t seem real.

She heard a bloodcurdling cry, a heart-rending scream of pain and anguish. It seemed to come down a long, echoing tunnel.

The screams were her own.

She found herself running down the pier. When she reached the end she tore off her coat and her shoes. The water beneath her was black and roiling. Before she could dive into the water, strong arms grabbed her from behind and pulled her back.

‘
Let me go!
’

There were now four arms around her. From somewhere she found the strength to fight them off. She heard the siren
whoop
on the marine unit boats. Lights flashed. More hands grabbed for her. She pivoted, lashed out with her fist, connected. The pain burned up her arm.

Jessica was free for one moment, no hands on her. It was long enough. She vaulted the few steps, jumping for the back of the marine unit boat as it left the pier. She barely landed on the rear deck. In the process she slipped, hitting her head. Hands pulled her on board. For a few seconds her face was near the outboard, the smell of fuel and heat from the engine clogging her senses.

The sound of the sirens became louder. More shouting. Jessica tried to stand, but the blow to her head was dizzying. She lost her balance, struggled to her feet.

‘
Sophie!
’ she screamed.

On unsteady legs she made her way to the front of the craft. The water was lighted by a pair of halogen spotlights as it neared the bow of the SS
Clermont-Ferrand
. Jessica saw a figure in the water, no more than thirty yards away. Again she tried to dive into the water, but was held back.

‘You can’t go in, detective!’

‘
Get your fucking hands off me!
’

As the officer held her, Jessica saw her daughter. Sophie was trying to swim against the tide. Every stroke brought her head under the frigid water. Stroke after stroke she tried, but the tide was too strong. She was pulled under.

Two divers went in. More shouts.

The longest moments of Jessica’s life passed. She tried to battle the arms holding her back, but she had no strength.

Moments later the divers pulled Sophie on board. Her skin looked blue. She wasn’t moving.

She wasn’t breathing.

Jessica did not remember anything after that. All she could see was her dark-haired toddler, struggling to her feet next to the coffee table at her father’s house on Catharine Street.

Then, amid the sound of the rescue team shouting, amid the smoke and noise and chaos, there was only darkness.

Hour dissolved into hour. Night into day into night.

The sound of sirens and screaming had become the sound of a blood pressure monitor, the whoosh of the oxygenator, the soft murmur of doctors, nurses, aides, orderlies.

Jessica opened her eyes to a gray light filtering in a window. She felt her head. It was bandaged. As was her right hand.

She fought the pain, tried to sit up. She looked around the room. She was in a hospital bed. Someone was sleeping in the chair next to her.

It was Vincent. Somehow he sensed she was awake. He stood up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes. She had never seen him look so pained. He took her hand.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Jesus Christ,
no
.’

‘Jess.’

‘
Sophie
,’ Jessica said.

‘Mom?’

Jessica turned. Sophie was sitting up in the bed next to hers. Jessica tore the nasal cannula from her nose, the IV from her arm. She rolled out of bed, knelt next to her daughter.

‘My baby girl,’ she said. ‘My baby girl.’

Sophie stroked her hair. ‘Did I beat Angie Alberico?’

For Jessica, the tears came, and would not stop.

Nor did her prayers.

The marine unit of the Philadelphia Police Department was one of the elite divisions in the country. With hundreds of square miles to patrol, as well as the not infrequent performance of rescue and recovery operations – on both the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers – their equipment and their training of officers and divers was world class.

In the weeks that followed the events on the SS
Clermont-Ferrand
, the unit found no trace of Cassandra and Martin White. Police departments in Camden, New Jersey, and other departments from New York to Maryland were also alerted.

The two had vanished.

This was not unusual for the Delaware River. The current was so strong, and the river – in some places three miles wide and more than fifty feet deep – had concealed and consumed shipping vessels, fishing boats, human beings, and myriad secrets for centuries. Investigators conceded that they might never know the fate of the young man and woman who called themselves Anabelle and Mr Marseille.

On December 12 the District Attorney of Philadelphia announced that the execution of Valerie Beckert was halted indefinitely, while the case for which she had been tried and convicted – the murder of Thomas Rule – was reopened.

Each day Jessica read the overnight reports, as well as the
Inquirer
and
Daily News
, hoping and expecting to read of the recovery of the bodies, but it never came.

Far more troubling was that Kevin Byrne had taken a leave of absence, and Jessica had not been able to reach him.

She stood in front of the Wynnefield house. Although it had been less than two weeks since the party, it seemed much longer.

Jessica had to admit that, although she still thought the place haunted, it looked far less threatening in daylight.

She stepped onto the porch, knocked on the door, waited. She knocked again, put her ear to the door, listened for footsteps. Nothing.

She made her way to the rear of the house, looking at the windows for signs of damage or foul play. She found none.

Once on the back porch she knocked again. Again there was no answer. She tried the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked.

Byrne would never leave his door open. He was the type of man who would lock his car if he was going to take eight steps into a dry cleaners. Not paranoid, just practical.

Something was wrong.

Jessica pushed open the door. ‘Kevin?’

No answer.

Jessica drew her weapon, kept her finger on the trigger guard. She held the Glock at her side.

‘Kevin?’

Silence. She listened for sounds. All she heard was the wind rattling the old window panes.

Jessica turned the corner into the front room, and there found a disaster.

She took the room in all at once. There was destruction everywhere – plaster, wood lath, drywall, light fixtures, heating vents, wall switches, glass – all in piles scattered about. It looked like the aftermath of a tornado.

In the middle of it all sat Kevin Byrne. He looked worse than Jessica had ever seen him.

‘You okay?’ she asked. He was clearly
not
okay.

Byrne looked up, his face a coil of anguish. For a horrifying moment Jessica thought he might have his service weapon in his hand.

He did not.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

Byrne said nothing.

Jessica took a moment to once again assess the room. The walls were completely torn apart. What had been fresh drywall and paint just a few weeks ago was on the floor in piles. She glanced into the dining room. It was the same. Ditto the kitchen. She had a feeling the whole house was going to look like this.

‘What happened?’ she asked.

Byrne remained silent, reached for the bottle of Tullamore Dew. Jessica noticed an empty nearby. Byrne took a sip.

‘He liked squirrels,’ he said.

It took her a moment to realize what Byrne had said. ‘Squirrels?’ she asked. ‘
Who
liked squirrels?’

Jessica stepped closer. She now saw that, scattered around Byrne, were dozens of drawings and notes, all sketched and written in a child’s hand. Four of them had names.

Byrne held up the half-full bottle of Dew.

‘Buy you a drink?’ he asked.

Jessica smiled. ‘Sure, sailor.’

‘I’d offer you a glass, but I think there’s a pretty good chance I broke them all.’

‘Bottle’s fine,’ she said. ‘South Philly girls don’t need a glass.’

Jessica cleared a spot on the floor, sat down, glanced at the ceiling. It was intact. At least that was something.

‘How’s Sophie?’ Byrne asked.

‘She’s good. Day at a time. But the days are getting better. She’s sleeping through the night.’

‘Tough kid,’ Byrne said. ‘Wonder where she gets it.’

‘Her father,’ Jessica said. ‘Trust me on that one.’

There were so many things Jessica wanted to say, so many thoughts and feelings that had come together over the past two weeks. Thoughts about her job, thoughts about what happened on that pier, thoughts about putting her daughter in harm’s way. She had no idea where to begin. She decided to just start talking, and hope it all came out right.

‘Kevin,’ she said. ‘That night on the pier. I didn’t mean to—’

Byrne held up a hand, stopping her. He passed her the bottle. She’d said all she needed to say, and for that, and so many other reasons, she loved him.

They sat in silence for a while. Byrne picked up one of the pieces of construction paper on the floor next to him. He handed it to Jessica. At first she didn’t know what it was, but soon it made sense, and she then understood why the house looked the way it did.

In her hand was a crude map of Fairmount Park. On it were five stars, drawn in red crayon. Byrne had torn apart his house looking for it.

‘It’s them,’ she said.

Byrne didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

The paper was a map of where the other children were buried – Jason Telich, Nancy Brisbane, Aaron Petroff, and Thaddeus Woodman – as well as a star where Valerie intended to bury Thomas Rule.

‘I found it in the kitchen,’ Byrne said. ‘Behind the stove. Remember how Valerie said “speak to Mr Lundby”?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Turns out there was once a company called Lundby that made tiny stoves for dollhouses.’

‘Did you call it in?’

‘I did,’ Byrne said. ‘Dana said she put a call into the FBI. They’re going to go to these locations with their equipment. But I know. They’re there.’

Jessica thought about the case, the madness that was Valerie Beckert, the obsessions of Martin and Cassandra White, the anguish of David Solomon.

‘One thing I don’t get,’ Jessica said. ‘What spooked Solomon? What was it about the invitation we showed him that clued him in as to why Nicole had been killed, and that they might be coming after the Gillen boys?’

Byrne reached to his side, sifted through a short stack of what looked like a court reporter’s transcripts. He handed one of the documents to Jessica. It was a partial transcript of a therapy session between David Solomon and Valerie Beckert. Jessica scanned it. She saw it at the bottom of the second page.