The Piper (29 page)

A paramedic guided her down the stairs, arguing over his shoulder with someone about whether or not to take her to an emergency room before Detective Withers arrived. No one asked Olivia's opinion, which was just as well. She didn't have one.

She sat obediently on the living room couch, puzzling over Hugh's last words about Teddy until Donnie Withers had a uniformed officer come and take her away.

O
livia was not sure of the time, for some reason she thought maybe three a.m., and her endurance was crumbling fast. She kept waiting for it to stop, the repetitive questioning. The interview room was metal tables and worn linoleum, rank with old sweat and fear.

She was distracted, having trouble concentrating on what Detective Withers said. Her body ached for sleep, but when she closed her eyes, she saw Hugh, swinging from that red leather belt. She was very aware of Hugh's Blackberry, still tucked into the pocket of her jeans. Detective Donnie would go ballistic over the Blackberry. He would confiscate it and Olivia might never know what Hugh had taped if she handed it over to the police. From moment to moment she expected Detective Withers to insist she turn her pockets out.

Instead, he questioned her and watched her. She'd stood up at one point when she thought she'd heard McTavish in the hall outside the small, airless room with the door shut so tight.

Olivia listened to the voices in the corridor, an angry man, then a woman laughing in a mean sort of way. Not McTavish. It was the middle of the night, McTavish would be home asleep. Or maybe Detective Withers would keep him away. She wanted to ask for him, but knew it would complicate matters beyond belief. But she was alone and hungry for even a glimpse of a familiar and sympathetic face.

‘I want to go back to my hotel,' Olivia said.

‘We're almost done here, Mrs James. Please sit back down.'

Olivia sat. Clasping and unclasping her hands. Withers had said he was almost done. She just needed to hang on a little bit longer.

‘It's the dog, that's what's got me bothered,' Detective Donnie said.

Something about the offhand way Withers asked the question made Olivia wary, brought a cold edge of anxiety to the back of her neck. She told herself not to worry. That her state of mind was working for as well as against her – she might have trouble thinking straight, but she was also shielded from this man's perceptive smarts by his expectations – her twitchy distractedness would be put down to shock, grief, and extreme anxiety for her child.

Olivia clenched her jaw. How much longer would this go on? How long before she could go back to her room? What if she just got up and left?

‘What
about
the dog, Detective? I don't know what you want from me. I don't get what you
mean
.'

Detective Donnie smiled as if that were exactly what he'd been waiting to hear her say. He opened a file and put two police reports on the table, lining them up side by side with care so that she could read them both.

‘The description of the mysterious dog you saw the night Teddy disappeared. It's an exact match for the description of the dog that disappeared along with your sister, Emily, all those years ago.' He picked up a swatch of paper. ‘German shepherd, tan and gray, black face, brindle markings. Unusual description for a shepherd, and it strikes me, you know? That this dog you saw looks exactly like your family dog, Hunter.'

Olivia gave herself a moment to think. ‘Except for the limp. The one I saw had a crippled back leg.'

‘True. Except for the limp. It's my experience, Mrs James, that a good liar sticks close to the truth when they start to spin a tale.'

Olivia felt the heat rise in her face. Her cheeks going red. ‘You're saying I made up this dog? For what possible reason?'

‘I'm saying it's time you told me what really happened the night Teddy disappeared. Come on, Olivia, for God's sake, this is your little girl, and we have two people dead at your house. Tell me what's going on.'

‘I'm not the only one who saw the dog,' Olivia said. ‘One of your own officers found a neighbor who saw him.'

‘You mean that Ackerman woman?' Withers curled his lip and gave her a mean little smile.

And Olivia thought, yes, that Ackerman woman, who had somehow become her last hope. That Ackerman woman was going to have to help her somehow, because there wasn't anybody else. Withers was useless, useless, all his efforts spent questioning her, instead of finding her little girl.

‘I want to go back to my hotel,' Olivia said.

‘Call me,' Withers said, pressing one of his cards into her sticky palm. ‘When you can't stand it anymore, when you're ready to tell me what happened to Teddy, when you want some peace in your heart.'

Olivia knew, then, that Detective Withers had given Teddy up for dead. It took all her strength just to get to her feet.

‘I want to go back to my hotel.'

When the uniformed officer dropped Olivia off outside the lobby, she went to Hugh's room instead of her own. The police had been there, ransacking the room, while she and Detective Withers had talked. Hugh's briefcase was in the center of the bed, canted to one side, flap open.

Hugh loved that briefcase, a vintage reproduction mailbag he'd bought through the J. Peterman catalog. It had cost him the earth. Olivia noticed the jumbled look of the papers inside. The police had gone through it thoroughly, leaving the contents askew – Hugh was habitual and organized, he would have been so pissed. His phone charger was in the briefcase, in a zipped compartment, so the police would be on the hunt for the Blackberry. Olivia plugged the charger into the phone and an outlet by the side of the bed, her hands shaking hard.

She went into the bathroom, splashing water on her face. Avoided looking in the mirror. She touched the handle of Hugh's toothbrush, the razor he would no longer need. She knew she was preparing herself, gearing up for whatever Hugh had recorded. She left the clean white shirts hanging in the closet, and put on the soiled one Hugh had worn on the plane because it smelled of the shaving soap Hugh always used. She was ready now.

Olivia sat on the edge of the bed, working the Blackberry, bringing up that final video. She took a deep breath and pressed play.

The screen filled with Hugh's face.

His mouth was open. Olivia could see the back row of his teeth. His scream mingled with the grind of an engine. He was in the upstairs hallway of the house, right under the attic fan.

Hugh's head jerked back. As if he were being dragged.

‘
No. God damn you.
' He flopped sideways, like a fish on a hook. ‘
Love you. Olivia. Love you, love you Teddy, love you love you.
'

The angle of the camera showed the right section of hallway at the top of the stairs, and the outside of Olivia's bedroom. Olivia could see, right at the edge on the left, when Hugh suddenly swung up in the air. She trembled hard, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
Hugh
, she tried to whisper, but she could not talk. Her chest was hurting, her throat tight and dry.

Hugh laughed abruptly, and dropped to the floor. ‘
You're not going to win, you son of a bitch.
'

The red leather belt swung into view, dropping in front of the camera from the ceiling fan.

‘
Son of a bitch
,'
Hugh said. ‘
You son of a bitch.
'

The last was a sob.

Olivia jammed her fist into her mouth.

The lights in the hallway began flashing on and off. Olivia could hear a dog in the background, barking hysterically. Hugh was up in the air again, as if lifted by a giant, invisible hand. He made a noise in the back of his throat, a harsh gurgling moan, suddenly cut off. Hugh's feet cycled frantically, then stilled, dangling heavily, loose. The loafer on one foot was half off, and it fell from his foot, rolling sideways.

The dog stopped barking. The lights in the hallway switched off one more time, then back on. Olivia held the screams in her chest and watched another six minutes of the shoe in the hall before turning the video off.

O
livia wakened the next morning to the patter of rain. She had spent the night curled up in Hugh's bed, grateful for the light of the bedside lamp, cold, but unable to crawl beneath the covers, unable to get up and go to the bathroom when she felt the urge. Eventually the numbness had come, and she had slept.

It was dark out, a little before six a.m. Too early to knock on Patsy Ackerman's door, but she could sit outside the woman's house and wait.

It took a day and a half of off and on vigilance before Ackerman, exasperated, agreed to meet with Olivia the following evening to talk things out, if she'd please for God's sake go home and stop leaving messages on the phone.

Olivia headed for Ackerman's house right at dusk. It was still raining, hard and steady, but traffic was thin, and it took Olivia twenty minutes to get to Bearden from the hotel downtown. She was still staying in Hugh's room, sleeping in his tailored white shirts, wondering how long his credit card would last and if she should be the one to shut things down. She knew he'd made her executor of his estate.

Olivia was stronger now. Armed with information. Full of purpose, and frayed but steady hope.

She took the long way round, passing Forest Heights and turning left on Westwood. That way she did not pass by the house. She hit a dip in the road and water sprayed from beneath her wheels, and she took the Jeep slow and steady on the curves. Hugh had warned her how easily a Wrangler could flip. McTavish had applied pressure and she had her Jeep, two cars now, her own and Hugh's rental. She'd have to take the rental car back, eventually, so many things to do ahead, details, but not now. Teddy was her focus. Find Teddy. Anything else was noise in her head.

It was dark enough out, with the rain falling, that Olivia could distinguish the glow of light from inside Patsy Ackerman's house. She parked out front, tucked a large brown envelope into Hugh's briefcase, which had now become her own. She wedged it securely in the pouch next to her laptop, where Hugh's Blackberry nestled, safe and secure, and snapped the flap into place. The leather should keep everything safe from the rain for the few seconds it would take to dash to the house.

Ack had been watching for her, and she opened the front door just as Olivia made it up onto the porch.

‘Right on time,' Ack said. ‘Come in.'

Olivia ditched her wet shoes and left them on the mat by the door. She was dressed for comfort. Favorite worn jeans, and Hugh's black cashmere sweater. She wore thick socks which felt slippery on the dark pine floors.

‘Thank you for this,' Olivia said.

‘Sure. You've been camped on my doorstep for the last two days, so it was either this or call the police.'

Olivia looked at her feet.

‘Any news on your daughter?'

‘Nothing yet.'

Patsy sighed, and looked away. ‘Sorry. Really. Look, let's do this back in the studio. I've got espresso on the boil, that okay with you?'

Olivia nodded. It was somehow easier not to talk.

The studio had been cleaned up a bit, and there were none of the sketches of Hugh on the easel. Olivia wondered what Ack had done with them. She did not want to know.

The parrot gave Olivia the benefit of his noble profile, then tucked his head under one wing. He was quiet today, almost sleepy. Maybe it was the rainy afternoon.

Ackerman was wearing gray sweatpants and a Vandy football jersey, and she too had on ridiculously thick ugly socks. She sat down on the leather loveseat in front of the coffee table and waited for Olivia to set everything up. Ackerman was different today. Edgier maybe. Focused. Like me, Olivia thought, when I see a client at work.

Olivia turned the Mac on, then took the bootleg copy of Hugh's autopsy report out of the envelope and handed it over.

‘McTavish got that for me this morning.'

Ackerman began to flip through the pages.

‘You'll see that two of Hugh's fingers were broken and his left thumbnail was torn out.' Olivia settled on the couch beside Ack, tilting the computer screen. Then she was up again, walking to the window, looking out. ‘There's a circle of contusions on his right ankle,' she said, over her shoulder. She looked out at the magnolia tree, watching the droplets of water slide off the heavy waxy leaves. ‘One of his ribs was cracked. Left side again, like the fingers. Death caused by hanging. Strangulation, a slow asphyxiation. He didn't break his neck. If you look, you'll see the medical examiner made a note of that.'

Patsy Ackerman set the papers to one side of the coffee table. ‘You saw him? Right after it happened?'

‘Yes. I helped cut him down.'

‘But you saw where it happened?'

‘Yes. In the upstairs hallway of my house. He was hanging from the support struts over the attic fan from a red leather belt, just like . . . just like the threat.'

‘What else did you notice?'

Olivia turned away from the window. ‘Two of the spindles on the railing in the hall were broken in half. And one of Hugh's shoes had fallen off. It was sideways by the wall.'

‘And that's when you picked the Blackberry up?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you haven't shown it to the police?'

‘No.'

‘He recorded it? The death?'

‘Yes.'

Ackerman rubbed her forehead. ‘Bear with me a minute, I'm trying to picture this.'

‘You don't have to picture it, you can watch.'

‘Start it up then. You can go in the kitchen, if you'd rather. You don't have to see this right now.'

Olivia settled down beside Patsy Ackerman on the couch, as far to her side as she could go. She owed it to Hugh to watch, as many times as it took, felt compelled to watch the video time and time again, taking note of how long those legs had kicked, timing exactly how long Hugh had suffered at the end of that red leather belt.