8
Heather Flynn had moved from Belham to Rowley, a town located thirty miles north of Boston and about as different from Belham as you could get: nicely kept suburban homes on ample-sized lots. She lived in a well-maintained white Cape with a two-car garage. Tiny white Christmas lights, the kind a lot of people now used all year round, had been artfully arranged on the branches of a bare tree in front of the house, the neighbourhood – the whole town, really – giving off the bucolic vibe she associated with rustic New England: farmhouses and fields, no Dunkin’ Donuts and ATMs on every street corner, the streets quiet, pristine and undisturbed.
Darkness was creeping into the sky and a light snow had begun to fall when Darby pulled into the driveway. She had no idea if Heather was home, and she hadn’t called ahead to see if the woman would be. After her conversations with Mickey and, earlier, Kennedy, who had told her that Heather practically all-out refused to talk to the police and reporters – anyone – about what had happened to Claire, Darby had the feeling she screened her phone calls, even more so today, the eleven-year anniversary of Claire’s disappearance. Still, Darby needed to talk to her, had to try. It was always harder to say no to someone in person.
Darby rang the doorbell, and she felt slightly relieved when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Now came the hard part.
For half a second, Darby didn’t recognize the woman who had opened the door. Heather Flynn had blonde highlights now, her hair cut short and styled with a product that gave it a messy, just-got-out-of-bed look. And, while she had never been heavy, the woman had been carrying an extra twenty or so pounds when her daughter had disappeared. Now she, looked emaciated, her cheekbones more prominent.
The pleasant expression on the woman’s face turned to surprise, then annoyance.
‘My name is Darby McCormick. We met when –’
‘I know who you are.’ Her gaze flicked past Darby to the rental car parked in the driveway, then to the street.
‘I came here alone,’ Darby said. ‘I was hoping I could speak with you.’
‘I don’t want to rehash what happened to my daughter – especially today. You do know what today is, I hope.’
‘I do. And I didn’t come here to speak about what happened to Claire.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘May I come in?’
Heather Flynn weighed the question on her cold scales, tapping her thumb against her thigh. She wore stone-coloured khakis and a white shirt. Darby had the distinct feeling the woman had been expecting someone else.
‘I don’t have a lot of time, Miss McCormick, so you’ll have to be quick.’
The warm foyer was eerily quiet. A rolling black suitcase sat next to the foot of the stairs.
‘Going someplace hot, I hope,’ Darby said.
‘Sounds nice.’
Heather shut the door and motioned to an archway that led into a small living room. Heather immediately took the chair, sitting ramrod straight as she crossed her legs and folded her hands across a knee, looking like a woman who had just been asked to give a deposition in a room full of hostile men.
Darby didn’t take off her jacket. She unzipped it, though, and sat on the stiff couch. Everything in this room and the adjoining one looked stiff and unused, everything neat and clean, no dust. This house didn’t look like anyone lived here on a daily basis. It didn’t look or feel like a home either, no family pictures, nothing. It looked staged.
‘Someone’s coming by to pick me up and take me to the airport,’ Heather said.
‘Looks like I arrived just in time.’
‘I’m not normally home when Claire’s anniversary rolls around. I can’t deal with all the well-wishers and friends dropping by, to see how I’m doing. The phone calls. Then there are the reporters and such who stop by unannounced wanting to ask their questions.’ People like you, her eyes said.
‘What about Mickey?’ Darby asked. ‘Are you two still in touch?’
‘He usually calls every year, on the anniversary date. Although I haven’t heard from him yet.’
‘I saw him today – a couple of hours ago, as a matter of fact.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I understand you saw Father Byrne this morning at St Stephen’s.’
She visibly stiffened.
‘Did anything happen?’
‘Yes,’ Heather said coldly. ‘The son of a bitch held the door open for me.’
‘Is that all he did?’
Heather considered the question. ‘He was standing there with this … this sick grin. He said, “You’re looking well, Heather. Life in Rowley must really be agreeing with you.” Then he held the door open for me.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I told him that I hoped he was in a lot of pain and that he would rot in hell.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘I didn’t stick around, for reasons I’m sure I don’t have to explain.’
‘Have you shared this with Mickey?’
Heather Flynn recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were heated with insult. ‘Why would you say such a thing to me? You think I want to torture him with what happened to me with Byrne today, on the anniversary of our daughter’s abduction?’
‘No, I don’t think you want to torture him. I only asked because –’
‘Mickey has a restraining order against him. If he gets anywhere within a hundred feet of that … thing, they’ll arrest him. That’s our great legal system at work.’
‘I’m sorry, Heather.’
‘I don’t want your apologies or your prayers, even your kindness or sympathy. What I want is for you to leave.’ Heather got to her feet.
Darby remained seated. ‘They want me to speak with Byrne.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve had experience with men like Byrne. Belham PD thinks I –’
‘He won’t tell you anything.’
‘That’s the same thing Father Cullen told me.’
‘And he’s right. It’s rather arrogant, don’t you think, that you believe you’re going to be the one who’s going to get him to crack?’
Darby didn’t want to explain how Byrne had asked for her. Doing so might get the woman’s hopes up that Byrne might possibly be looking to confess what he did to her daughter and the other girls before he died.
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘He’s a monster,’ Heather said. ‘Beyond that, I couldn’t say.’
‘But you had interactions with him in the past, at church and when your daughter was attending St Stephen’s.’
Heather folded her arms and puffed up her chest – a subconscious, defensive gesture people often used when wanting to protect themselves, or to closely guard a secret. ‘My interactions with him were limited. A quick hello, nothing more,’ she said. ‘Did Mickey tell you that son of a bitch used to call the house?’
‘No.’
‘This was early on, before he became a suspect. He’d call and talk to me, ask me how I was doing. And I’d cry on the phone, he’d listen and offer me all sorts of wonderful sympathy and support. He even came by the house a few times. He was –’
‘Like he really cared,’ Darby offered.
Heather took a deep breath, swallowed. Nodded.
‘And after he became a suspect? Did he ever call you?’
‘Several times,’ Heather replied. ‘I never talked to him, because I never picked up the phone. But he’d leave messages saying he didn’t do it, to believe in God – all of that happy horseshit. The calls stopped when the news came out about him molesting girls. The police never told us about that; we had to learn about it from the papers and TV.’ Heather said the last words with acid.
Darby had come here to listen and learn, not to engage in a debate about the harsh realities of police work. She said nothing.
Heather had turned her head to the window. She stared at something outside, her eyes filmed with thought.
‘What?’ Darby prompted.
‘I was thinking about St Stephen’s. The playground. Well, it’s not a playground, just an area behind the school where the kids can run around. Byrne was always outside, watching the children with the other teachers during recess, and I always had this …’ She shook her head, focused back on Darby. ‘Forget it.’
‘Please. Finish the thought.’
Heather sighed. ‘Even before Claire vanished, when I saw him out there with the kids … he took an interest in the girls, and I always had this sense, this feeling, that he wasn’t watching to make sure they were, you know, safe.’
‘How was he watching them?’
‘Like he was sizing them up, trying to find their weak spots.’ She rubbed her forehead. ‘I’m probably not making much sense. In fact, I know I’m not.’
‘You’re doing fine. Why did you go to St Stephen’s this morning?’
‘To see Father Cullen.’
‘To say goodbye,’ Darby offered.
Heather eyed her coldly.
‘When are you moving?’ Darby asked.
‘When I get back from my vacation with my … friend. Did Father Cullen tell you?’
‘No.’
‘Then how did you know?’
‘It was just a guess. Your house has that showroom feel to it, everything perfectly staged. Does Mickey know? About your moving?’
‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business.’
‘It’s not. It’s absolutely none of my business,’ Darby said. ‘I only mention it because … Heather, you’re the last link he has to your daughter. And, while you two may not see each other any more, there’s still a part of him that’s comforted by the fact that you’re not that far away.’
‘That’s right, you’re a shrink. I remember reading that somewhere. A Globe article, I think, from a couple of years back – the one that talked about how you were fired from the police department.’
‘You should tell him, so he can prepare himself, is all I’m saying.’
‘I’d like you to go.’
‘The other two girls who disappeared,’ Darby said, getting to her feet. ‘What are their parents like?’
‘Why are you asking me this?’
‘I haven’t spoken to them yet and was hoping you could give me your general impressions.’
‘I’ve never met them.’
‘But you’ve spoken to them.’
‘No. Never.’
It was the emphasis Heather put on the word ‘never’ that took Darby by surprise, as though speaking to the families of Byrne’s other two victims was completely and utterly ludicrous. It must have shown on her face, because Heather said, ‘Did you expect us to, what, form some sort of support group?’
‘Victims of a violent crime often –’
‘My daughter is dead.’ Heather’s voice was flat, unemotional, but her eyes burned with the kind of pain and suffering Darby had seen far too often. ‘Richard Byrne isn’t going to tell you, God or anyone else what he did to Claire, or why, or where he buried her. She’s never coming home. None of those girls are.’