The Fixer (17 page)

She was putting her bowl in the dishwasher when her phone vibrated along the kitchen counter. She glanced at the clock. Ten o’clock straight up. She reached for it and felt a wash of relief to learn it was the hospital calling.

“Dr. Corriger?” A familiar male voice. “It’s Darrell Johnson from Black Hills E.R. I thought you might like to know we’ve got your girl down here again.”

“My girl?” Lydia held the phone to her left ear.

“Savannah Samuels. I called a few nights ago. The cops found her wandering the park?”

Lydia pinched the bridge of her nose, hoping to quench the fire of fatigue and fear. “Yes, Dr. Johnson. I remember. Savannah’s back?”

“She is, but she won’t be for long. Ambulance brought her in about an hour ago. Barely a pulse when she arrived.”

Lydia took a deep breath. “What happened?”

“Police found her. You’ll be getting a call from them, too.” Johnson’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought I’d give you a head’s up.”

“Why would the police want to talk to me?” Lydia’s stomach muscles clenched. She didn’t like the idea of answering any questions about Savannah.

“A patrol car making the rounds found her hanging from the rafters of your office porch.”

Lydia’s legs dropped from under her. She grabbed the counter for support. The screams of the six year old Greta echoed in her brain. She replayed the last time she saw Savannah, running out into the winter twilight, so convinced she was beyond saving. Lydia summoned every ounce of will to sound professional. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s intubated. Unconscious. On her way to intensive care. I’m afraid there’s no way to know how long she’d been hanging. We can’t know the extent of damage until she wakes up. Doctors will be with her all night. Tomorrow’s better.”

“I’ll be there first thing. Thank you for calling, Dr. Johnson.” She closed the phone without waiting for his goodbye, stumbled to the breakfast nook, and collapsed into a chair.

Lydia knew that as a psychologist, it wasn’t a matter of
would
a patient suicide, but
when
. Her training had prepared her to accept the reality of her profession. Through the years several of her patients made less-than-lethal attempts, but she had never lost one.

And Savannah wasn’t merely a patient.

Lydia’s mind raced backward in time. She was just thirteen. Was it her fourth foster placement or her fifth? She remembered the day the social worker dropped the timid little girl with black curly hair and sad blue eyes into the care of Lenny and Cindy Huntsman, who fawned over her in the presence of the county worker and assured the harried woman that Greta would be fine. The social worker smiled at Lydia and told her she was counting on her to take the tiny girl under her wing.

Lydia remembered nodding, wishing she could tell the social worker what went on when Cindy passed out after her twice-weekly bottle of gin. Lenny’s stare kept her quiet.

Lydia rubbed a hand over her face. The memory of a hot summer night six days after Greta arrived materialized. They shared a bedroom. She’d been stupid enough to allow herself the fantasy that she could keep Greta safe. Then came the familiar soft click of the bedroom door opening.

He stood over her. Watching. She forced her breathing to roll slow and steady, mimicking deep sleep. She waited for him to snap the covers back as he had many times before.

But this time he turned. Lydia hoped she’d hear him shuffle back to the door. Instead she heard Greta cry out. She heard the swearing and the slapping as Lenny tried to silence the terrified child.

She remembered reaching for the baseball bat under her bed. Yelling for Greta to run. The first swing. The second. The warm splash of Lenny’s blood on her face as she connected for a third time.

The rest of that night was lost to her.

But on this night she sat at her table, buried her head in her hands, and cried for the little girl she failed to save and the women they’d both become.

Lydia needed sleep. She went to her bathroom and turned the water to the hottest setting. She ran it while she undressed, filling the room with steam. She pulled the glass door open, stepped under the spray, and hoped the hot water would float the pain out of her consciousness. She turned to face the hot water, careful to keep the right side of her head away from the spray. She was reaching for the shampoo when she heard it.

Her front door scrapped against the slate tile of her foyer.

She stood stock still. Naked and wet. Instantly alert. She knew the distance between her front door and her master bath. She also knew the sound of the water would let any intruder know exactly where she was.

Lydia opened the shower door and stepped out onto the mat. She shuffled in place, aware she’d need the traction of dry feet. She kept her eyes on the closed bathroom door and took one step to the tall cabinet next to the pedestal sink. She reached behind the stack of white cotton towels and her hands found what she needed: a Smith and Wesson 686 Silhouette revolver.

Lydia stepped lightly, allowing the sound of the shower would mask her movement. She pressed her left ear to the door. Nothing. She turned out the bathroom light, steadied the heavy gun in her right hand, and entered her bedroom. The small reading light on her nightstand was lit. The bedroom was empty.

Lydia heard her front door scrape the entry slate again. Still naked, she trained the gun on the open bedroom door, crossed to the window, and lifted a corner of the drape. Lydia peered into the starless night. She could see less than twenty feet down her snow-filled drive. She listened for footsteps or car engines, but heard neither.

She crossed back to her bathroom and pulled a white terry cloth robe from the hook, keeping her eyes and her gun on the closed bedroom door. She reached into the shower stall and turned off the water. Three minutes past with no sound or movement. Lydia opened the door.

A small lamp in her entry was on. It wasn’t supposed to be. She inched down the hallway, the gun steady in a two-hand hold. She strained to listen. Motion. Breathing. Anything. She heard nothing. She reached the foyer and flipped the switch controlling the lights in the living room. She saw the splintered door jamb. Small pools of water glistened on the entry slate; melted snow from the boots of an intruder. No wet footprints led into the living room. She turned toward the kitchen and saw dry hardwood flooring. Whoever came in had entered, took a few steps, turned, and left.

She turned off the small table lamp and flipped the living room switch again, casting the interior in darkness. She crossed the wet entry slate and turned on the exterior lights. From her vantage she could see her entire front yard and down her long drive.

Nothing but blowing snow.

Lydia closed the front door as best she could. She’d nail it until a repair could be made. She clicked on the living room lights.

A large manila envelope sat on the foyer table. No address. She picked up the envelope and weighed it in her hands before heading to the kitchen. She sat at the breakfast table. The envelope in front of her; her gun two inches to the right.

Lydia tried to steady herself by taking inventory of the emotions swirling inside her. There was rage at the invasion of her home. Fury for whoever had robbed her of her illusion of security. There was also vulnerability, for herself and Savannah, and sorrow for what had become of them both. An orgy of feelings swelled despite her exhaustion. One feeling screamed louder than any other. She gave the emotion its name: Fear. Mortal, primal fear. Lydia watched her hand shake as she reached for the envelope’s clasp.

She touched the gun and glanced outside before she pulled the contents onto the table. Her pulse quickened. She felt the burning flush of adrenaline course through her body. She tucked her hands beneath her thighs. A vain attempt to control the shaking.

She’d been foolish enough to believe she was free; that she was safe.

Lydia picked up the first item in the envelope. A 5 by 7 black-and-white of a woman in her early thirties. Blonde hair. Generous smile. Eyes vibrant. She stared at the photograph and frowned at its implication. She reached for another item. A business brochure for Elegant Edibles. Lydia opened it and read their promise of an unforgettable event. Complete party planning. Corporate or private. Small or large. Full service catering. Wedding receptions their specialty. Visit their website for menu samples and more.

Her eyes focused on the photograph at the bottom of the brochure. Next to the company’s address and phone number. A picture of a woman in chef’s whites. Smiling for the camera. Blonde hair. Generous smile. Eyes vibrant. She read the caption.

Let Culinary Genius Cameron Williams Make Your Next Event Unforgettable

Lydia set the brochure aside and studied the rest of the envelope’s contents. There was a MapQuest to Cameron Williams’ shop and another to her residence. A schedule from a local gym with a Tuesday/Thursday Pilates class circled in red. Several magazine clippings. A candid snapshot of Cameron walking a brindled boxer down a neighborhood street. Another photograph of the two of them frolicking with a Frisbee. An attached note read: “Golden Garden Dog Park, 8498 Seaview Place. Every morning 7:00. Sundays 1:00”.

Someone had gone to a lot of effort to document Cameron Williams’ comings and goings.

Lydia leaned back and rested her head against the breakfast nook wall. A morbid montage of memory flashed across her closed eyes. Back six years to a fifty-seven year old bookkeeper. Serial rapist. Nineteen victims identified. Likely triple that. None older than seven. Each too terrified to testify. An audio recording of him bragging about how to lure kids away from a playground withheld by a judge bothered by the suspect’s lack of knowledge that he was being taped.

The next memory was the father of a four-year-old girl put into intensive care by the raping bookkeeper. He cried impotent tears in Lydia’s office, unable to give justice to the daughter he couldn’t protect; asked her how he was supposed to live with that. She knew his pain. The harsh, cruel slap of justice denied. The worthless moaning that nothing could be done. The righteous clinging to a system so bent on protecting the accused that victims were tossed aside. Their pain less than trivial. Their loss ignored. The collective tsk-tsk before people moved on to the next bit of office gossip.

She’d tried before to save a child from a rapist. As a teenager she’d failed. As an adult she wouldn’t. An anonymous note sent to the powerless father told him how to reach someone called “The Fixer”.

He made the contact and Lydia had her first assignment.

She hadn’t planned on the wave that followed. First Thursday of every month. For every twenty requests, Lydia turned down nineteen. She wasn’t an assassin. She was justice.

Her mind reviewed every mission in chronological order. Not one regretted. Each one righteous.

And now the work was over.

Her cell phone snapped her out of her reverie. She didn’t need to look at the screen. She slid it opened and waited.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Streisand said. “You’ve had time to review the package?”

Lydia said nothing.

A short electronic blip announced a shift to British Man’s voice. “Valentine’s Day, Fixer. Either I hear by February 15
^th
that Ms Williams is dead or on February 16
^th
the murderer of Fred Bastian will be exposed.”

The call ended. Lydia glanced at the calendar magnet on the side of her refrigerator. She had seventeen days.

Mort Grant barely heard his phone ring over the noise of his cappuccino machine. He glanced at the screen. Robbie was calling.

“What has you up so early?” He switched off the milk steamer.

“It’s an hour later here, Dad.” Robbie chuckled. “When are you going to get your time zones down?”

“That was your mother’s job.” Mort cradled the receiver under his neck as he blended the foamy milk with the rich espresso. “Hey, I’m using that fancy coffee pot you and Claire got me. I just made myself a latte.”

“You’re a true metrosexual. Next it’s weekly manicures.”

Mort glanced at the fingernails that allowed Lydia to conclude so much about him. “Not much chance of that. How are the girls?”

“Driving us crazy about their dollhouses. You should know better than to send pictures before you’re ready to ship them. You raised two kids, for God’s sake.”

“That was your mother’s job, too.” Mort took a long drink of coffee. “What good are grandkids if you can’t rile them up and turn them loose on their parents? Did Claire like that I’m making them chateaux?”

“She did,” Robbie said. “Said maybe you’re getting over the fact your son married an immigrant.”

Robbie’s dreams of being a trench-coated foreign correspondent climbing the ranks to CNN’s Paris Bureau Chief were thwarted when a semester abroad left him too homesick for an expatriot’s life. So he begged the lovely woman he’d fallen in love with to follow him home.

“Hey, only way a mope like you gets a good looking French woman is she’s looking for a green card. Count your lucky stars.” Mort smiled at the mention of his beloved daughter-in-law. “What’s new with you? That Halloway story shaping up? I want to see you with a Pulitzer before I’m drooling in the home.”

“That’s why I’m calling. Mind if I poke around in that detective head of yours?”

Mort pulled out a stool and took a seat at the breakfast counter. “You still leaning toward something more nefarious than a romp-in-the-sack turned ugly?”

Robbie blew out a long sigh. “Every bone in my body tells me it was a hit, Dad. I’ve learned Halloway loved hired help. I’ve spoken to a few of his favorites. They tell me he wasn’t into anything kinky. Wham, bam, get-off-me, ma’am. That was his style. And there’s still no lead on that hooker. A city that small, all the pros know each other. No one knew her. I’ve tried to track her down from her registration. Name’s Anna Galleta Salada. Credit card’s legit. Opened six years ago and only used once: to book her room where Halloway died. Paid in full with a wire transfer from a numbered account in the Caymans. Hasn’t been used since.”