Long after Rich retreated to his bedroom, Rachel stayed in the living room. One by one she gathered up her treasures and returned them to her hatbox. These precious few things, including the damning yearbook, were the only mementos she still had of her son.
The last thing she picked up was the Disneyland snapshot. Staring at the photo, she recalled that whole day as if it were yesterday. They’d started with breakfast at the hotel, where David had been thrilled with his Mickey Mouse–shaped pancakes. Yes, there’d been crowds. Yes, they’d had to wait in long lines for the most popular rides, but none of that had mattered. She’d still had her precious David back then, and she and Rich were still in love, or at least they seemed to be. It was a day that Rachel now wished could have gone on forever.
For the first time since March, since the day Tonya had delivered the banker’s box to her doorstep, a series of wrenching sobs escaped Rachel’s lips as she grieved for all the things that had once been and would never be again—her son, her marriage, her life. In the end, rather than returning the photo to the hatbox, she carefully slipped it into her purse, right next to the Ruger. For tonight at least, that seemed like the best place to keep it.
Once she’d returned the hatbox to its accustomed place on her closet shelf, Rachel went back to the living room. The TV was still blaring behind Rich’s closed door. She could hear muffled sounds of gunshots and sirens as some police drama or other played out in his room, but she doubted the racket bothered him. The man could sleep through anything.
Sitting there in her familiar living room, the enormity of what Rachel was about to do finally hit home. She’d done nothing in the preceding weeks and months but plot the archbishop’s death. She’d gone to great lengths to frame Jack Stoneman for the crime, even sending that anonymous tipster letter to the detective. Although her letter couldn’t possibly have arrived, according to the latest news the cops had already placed Jack under arrest. With a shock Rachel realized that framing Jack was no longer of any concern to her, because she had stopped caring about getting away with the crime. That no longer mattered to her—only succeeding did.
Out of force of habit, she tried logging on to the archbishop’s social media accounts. The feeds were back online, but only in minimal fashion. Each one now carried the same message: “Due to a medical emergency, all posting is currently suspended.”
Had it not been for that chance encounter with the priest outside the hospital entrance, Rachel would have had no way of knowing that Archbishop Gillespie planned to officiate at Andrew O’Toole’s funeral. What would he do after that? What if the archbishop disappeared from public life in the same way he’d abandoned his social media? If that happened, how would she find him? In fact, his appearance at the funeral might well be Rachel’s last opportunity to finish the job, and this time there would be no possibility of escape. That meant there were only two choices left—Rachel could die in a hail of bullets in a shoot-out with cops or spend the rest of her life in prison. Which would it be?
For the first time ever, she understood how David must have felt when he found himself staring ahead into a bleak future where the eventual outcome would most likely mean a slow, agonizing death from AIDS. No wonder he’d opted for what must have seemed the faster and seemingly less painful solution of an opioid overdose. And here was David’s mother at a similar crossroads. Given a choice between the two—death or prison—Rachel would choose door number one. Either she would commit suicide by cop or she would turn the Ruger on herself. Those were her options.
So Friday would be it—her deadline, as it were, her last day on earth. Once Rachel was gone, the house would still be here. Rich would still be here.… Thinking about Rich stopped her cold. He had barely survived the death of their son. How would he endure the ensuing scandal once he realized his late wife had turned into a stone-cold killer? And how would he ever manage on his own without her there to take care of things? Rich had no idea how to run the washer and dryer or even the dishwasher. He never bothered cleaning up in the kitchen or vacuuming the living room. As for his buying groceries? Never.
And just like that, at one o’clock in the morning, Rachel decided that Rich had to go, not because he would be crushed by the aftermath of her death but because he posed a real liability to her endgame.
He’d been following her movements for who knows how long? Now that he knew the truth about David’s death, what would happen if, between now and the funeral on Friday, he somehow made the connection between her daily stops on Lincoln Drive and what had happened there on Tuesday night? What if he decided to go to the cops and blow the whistle? If he turned her in, David’s death would go unavenged. No, Rachel simply couldn’t let that happen. And so, with no further premeditation on her part, she set about doing what had to be done.
She took the loaded weapon from her purse and carried it down the hallway to her room. Once in the master, she undressed before donning her nightgown and robe along with a pair of bedroom slippers. Only after removing her makeup did she head for Rich’s room with the deadly Ruger nestled in the right-hand pocket of her robe.
She made no effort to conceal her fingerprints. They landed wherever they landed. Only two people lived in the house. When homicide investigators finally turned up, they would know exactly what had happened and who had done what to whom. She paused for a moment in front of Rich’s closed door before reaching for the knob and turning it. As she pushed the door open, it creaked a little on its hinges, but Rich always slept with his ceiling fan turned on high. Between the noisy whirring of blades and the blaring TV, the tiny creak of the door barely registered.
Rachel didn’t bother switching on a light. The glowing television screen gave her all the illumination she needed. After pausing for a moment, she walked over to the window and closed the blinds, then she pulled the drapes and blackout curtains shut as well. In case any of her neighbors happened to be out and about when it all went down, Rachel didn’t want them to catch a glimpse of a sudden flash from inside the room.
For as long as Rachel and Rich had been married, he’d preferred to sleep on the left-hand side of the bed. She stood over him for a time, looking down at him. He lay on his back as he always did, snoring a blue streak. Since he often watched TV in bed, the remote was within easy reach on his bedside table, and a mound of discarded pillows lay on the floor where he’d shoved away all the extras when it came time to go to sleep.
Rachel used the remote to raise the volume on the TV even higher, although since a noisy commercial was on at the moment, turning up the volume was hardly necessary. Everything Rachel Higgins knew about becoming a successful killer had been learned either by scouring the Internet or by watching true-crime programs on TV. Some people insisted that shooters could use pillows to help muffle the sound of gunfire. Others said the presence of a pillow made no acoustical difference whatsoever. Just in case it might work, she picked up one of the discarded pillows.
Unlike her demeanor outside the archbishop’s residence, this time Rachel was implacable and utterly resolute. Standing at Rich’s bedside, the hand that held the pistol didn’t tremble, not in the slightest. She draped the discarded pillow over both the hand holding the gun and the weapon itself. Then, pressing the barrel of the gun to Rich’s forehead, she pulled the trigger. Despite the pillow, the sound was still much louder than she expected—loud enough that she was sure the neighbors must have heard it.
There was no need to turn on a light to examine the damage. She knew that Rich was dead. Dropping the pillow over his face, she stepped away from the bed, used the remote to turn the volume back down to a normal level, and left the room, closing the door behind her. Surprised by her total sense of calm, she slipped the pistol back into her pocket. Only later would she realize that she had accomplished her exit in a fashion that came straight from a CSI textbook. Killers known to their victims tend to cover bodies and/or faces so they don’t have to witness the damage they’ve done. That was exactly why she’d left the pillow on Rich’s face. She had shot him dead, and she didn’t want to see it.
With no sign of tears or hysterics, Rachel returned to the living room, where without turning on any lights she peered outside through the blinds over the front windows. Up and down the street, porch lights flipped on as alarmed neighbors spilled out of houses and into the street. Rachel waited long enough to allow more time for a crowd to gather. When several folks showed up on the sidewalk at the far end of her driveway, Rachel left the Ruger on the entryway table and hurried outside to join them.
“What was that?” she demanded breathlessly of her exceedingly nosy next-door neighbor, Margaret Bendixen, who stood at the end of her own driveway clutching her obnoxious and perpetually shivering Chihuahua, Chico. “It sounded like a gunshot to me.”
“To me, too,” Margaret agreed, “but Ed says it was probably nothing but a backfire.”
“Could anyone tell where it came from?” Rachel asked.
“Ed’s out there talking to people, but so far no one seems to know,” Margaret replied.
“Has anyone called the cops?” Rachel inquired. She was surprised that her voice sounded completely normal—alarmed and anxious, true, but normal nevertheless.
“I dialed 911 first thing,” Margaret replied. “Someone’s bound to be on their way. I don’t understand why it’s taking so long.”
“I don’t either,” Rachel returned, “but since it’s cold out here, and since I’m not exactly dressed to be out in public, I’m going back inside. I just hope no one’s been hurt.”
With that, Rachel took herself back into the house, where she could unobtrusively keep tabs on what was happening out on the street through her darkened living-room windows. A squad car turned up a few minutes later. A pair of cops hopped out and then walked around the neighborhood, seemingly questioning concerned onlookers. They were there for half an hour or so. Then, having found nothing, and to Rachel’s immense relief, they got back into their squad car, turned off the flashing lights, and drove away.
As for Rachel? At a little past two, and still too wound up to sleep, she seated herself at the kitchen table and used one of her remaining three-by-five cards to set forth the broad outline of a to-do list for what was destined to be her last full day on earth, starting with the word “Birdhouses.” Yes, that part of Rich’s life had to be dealt with, and they would be.
Next on the list was “Spa.” Rachel wanted to go out in style, so a spa visit was definitely in order. It was years since she’d had a full-meal-deal spa treatment, complete with a haircut, facial, mani-pedi, and massage. In addition to a splurge at a spa, she wanted a new outfit to wear on Friday. So the next word up was “Shopping.”
What will all of that cost? Rachel wondered.
She had her single Rich-approved credit card in her purse, but that was seldom used, since he’d declared it was only for emergencies. She worried that if a bunch of unexpected charges began appearing on the balance, the bank’s fraud department might shut the card off entirely. Not only that, there was always the possibility that in the unlikely event the cops did manage to identify her between now and the funeral, they might be able to follow her by tracking her credit-card purchases. No, rather than relying on the card, she’d need to go to the bank and actually cash a check so she’d have real money in hand. Therefore “Bank” was the next thing on the list.
At the end of the day, she wanted to treat herself to a nice dinner and maybe even indulge in a glass or two of expensive wine. One thing was certain: She had no intention of spending Thursday night in a house where Rich lay dead in his bedroom. No, in the morning, once she turned the A/C in the house as low as it would go and drove away, she’d be leaving behind the place she’d called home for the past thirty-plus years. But, just in case, she wanted her final departure to be as normal as possible, so as not to arouse any suspicions.
After adding “Room Reservations” and “Dinner Reservations” to her list, Rachel rose from the table, went down the hall, and packed a small overnight bag, filling it with a few necessities—underwear and cosmetics mostly, along with one of the wigs she’d purchased months earlier and never worn. Once the bag was zipped shut, she rolled it into the entryway so that it would be ready to go in the morning. Then she returned to the kitchen table one final time. With her to-do list handled, she sat down to write out what Rachel regarded as her last will and testament.
It wouldn’t be a real one, of course. Those had to be signed in front of witnesses in order to be valid. As far as she knew, the official ones she and Rich had drawn up in the aftermath of David’s death were still in effect. Each had left everything to the other. In the event they both died at the same time, the remainder of their combined estate would go to Rich’s younger brother, Les, assuming he was still alive. The last time Rachel had seen Les and Molly Higgins in the flesh was when they’d flown in to Phoenix for David’s funeral. Once they went back home to New England, they might just as well have dropped off the earth. At this point, however, where the remainder of their estate went was of no concern to Rachel. Since she couldn’t leave it to David, she didn’t give a damn where it went.
No, the will she intended to leave behind was of another sort entirely, and once again it was written out on three-by-five cards:
I, Rachel Irene Higgins, being of sound mind and body, do attest and proclaim the following:
Rachel paused for a moment and studied the words she’d written. She was of sound body, but was she really of sound mind? Could someone who wasn’t crazy calmly shoot her husband and then sit down at a kitchen table to write out a to-do list and a confession? So maybe she was wrong about being of sound mind, but someone else would have to sort all that out later. It wouldn’t be up to her to decide.
I alone am solely responsible for the events that have occurred in recent days, as well as the one that will occur on Friday. My husband, Rich, is in no way to be held accountable for any of my actions, all of which have been done and will be done entirely of my own volition.
My husband and I entrusted our beloved son, David, to the care and teachings of the Catholic Church by having him attend St. Francis High School in Scottsdale. While there, he suffered incalculable abuse at the hands of a convicted pedophile named Paul M. Needham. What happened to our son damaged him in such a way that he never recovered. Unable to deal with what had been done to him, he took his own life.
As for Jack Stoneman? I had planned on using him to cover my tracks, but that was when I still intended to get away with doing what I must do. That is no longer the case. I’m under no illusions that escaping the consequences of my intended actions is remotely possible.
I want the world to know that I hold Archbishop Francis Gillespie entirely responsible for my son’s awful outcome. It was the archbishop’s lack of judgment, as well as lack of oversight, that allowed the cancer of sexual abuse to flourish at St. Francis, damaging my son and many others.
It is far too late to help my son. He is gone forever, but I am willing to give up my life to guarantee that the archbishop never allows a similar travesty to be visited on some other innocent child.
Yes, my husband is dead at my hands. He betrayed our son by not being willing to stand beside me and fight for justice for David. Father O’Toole should not have died the other night. The bullet that killed him was intended for Archbishop Gillespie.
I regret none of my actions. I will go to my death with my head held high and vengeance in my heart. And if God has mercy on my soul, no one will be more surprised than I am.
When she finished writing those final words, Rachel signed her full name with a flourish. Then, her work done, she put down her pen. Arranging the cards in a neat stack, she slipped them into her purse, right next to the Ruger. She didn’t bother with a clear plastic bag. Concealing her fingerprints was no longer necessary. When she finally made her way back down the hall, she didn’t bother pausing at Rich’s door or even glancing in that direction. She simply went into her own room, stripped off her robe, and fell into bed.
She expected a restless night. Instead she surprised herself by immediately sinking into a deep and dreamless sleep. Now that she’d made up her mind, there was nothing left to worry about and no reason to toss and turn. She would do what she’d decided to do, and nothing was going to stop her.