39

The Devonshire Acres mental-health facility sat on a gentle slope in a small town in southeastern Pennsylvania. In its glory years, the huge fieldstone and mortar complex had been a spa and convalescent home for wealthy Main Line families. Now it was a state-subsidized long-term warehouse for lower income patients who required constant supervision.

Roland Hannah signed in, declining the escort. He knew his way around. He took the stairs to the second floor one at a time. He was in no hurry. The institutional-green hallways were ornamented with cheerless, time-faded Christmas decorations. Some looked as if they were from the 1940s or 1950s: jolly water-stained Santas, reindeer with their antlers bent and taped and repaired with long-yellowed Scotch tape. One wall held a message misspelled in individual letters made of cotton, construction paper, and silver glitter:

         

H A P P Y H O D L I A Y S !

         

Charles no longer came inside the facility.

ROLAND FOUND HER in the common room, near a window overlooking the rear grounds and the forest beyond. It had snowed for two days straight and a layer of white caressed the hills. Roland wondered what it looked like to her, through her young old eyes. He wondered what memories, if any, were triggered by the soft planes of virgin snow. Did she remember her first winter in the north? Did she remember snowflakes on her tongue? Snowmen?

Her skin was papery, fragrant, translucent. Her hair had long ago spent its gold.

There were four others in the room. Roland knew them all. They did not acknowledge him in any way. He crossed the room, removed his coat and gloves, put the present on the table. It was a robe and slippers, both lavender. Charles had meticulously wrapped and rewrapped the gift in festive foil paper featuring elves and workbenches and brightly colored tools.

Roland kissed her on the top of her head. She did not respond.

Outside the snow continued to fall—huge velvety flakes that lilted silently down. She watched, seeming to select an individual flake from the flurry, following it to the ledge, to the earth below, beyond.

They sat, not speaking. She had said only a few words in many years. The music in the background was Perry Como’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

At six o’clock they brought her a tray. Creamed corn, breaded fish sticks, Tater Tots, along with a butter cookie with green and red sprinkles on a Christmas tree made of white icing. Roland watched as she arranged and rearranged her red plastic silverware from the outside in—fork, spoon, knife, then the reverse order. Three times. Always three times, until she had it right. Never two, never four, never more. Roland always wondered by what internal abacus this number had been determined.

“Merry Christmas,” Roland said.

She looked up at him, eyes the palest blue. Behind them lived a universe of mystery.

Roland glanced at his watch. It was time to go.

Before he could stand up she took his hand in hers. Her fingers were carved ivory. Roland saw her lips tremble, and knew what was coming.

“Here are maidens, young and fair,” she said. “Dancing in the summer air.”

Roland felt the glaciers of his heart dislodge. He knew it was all Artemisia Hannah Waite remembered of her daughter Charlotte, and those terrible days in 1995.

“Like two spinning wheels at play,” Roland answered.

His mother smiled, and finished the verse: “Pretty maidens dance away.”

ROLAND FOUND CHARLES standing next to the van. A dusting of snow sat on his shoulders. In years past, Charles would look into Roland’s eyes at this moment, searching for some sign that things had improved. Even to Charles, with his innate optimism, this was a practice long since dropped. Without a word, they slipped into the van.

After a brief prayer, they drove back to the city.

THEY ATE IN silence. When they were finished, Charles cleared the dishes. Roland could hear the television news in the office. A few moments later Charles poked his head around the corner.

“Come here and look at this,” Charles said.

Roland walked into the small office. On the television screen was a shot of the parking lot at the Roundhouse, the police administration building on Race Street. Channel Six was doing a remote stand up. A reporter was following a woman across the parking lot.

The woman was young, dark-eyed, attractive. She carried herself with a great deal of poise and confidence. She wore a black leather coat and gloves. The name under her face on the screen said she was a detective. The reporter asked her questions. Charles turned up the volume on the television.

“—the work of one person?” the reporter asked.

“We can’t rule that in or out,” the detective said.

“Is it true that the woman was mutilated?”

“I can’t comment on specifics related to the investigation.”

“Is there anything you’d like to say to our viewers?”

“What we’re asking for is help in finding the killer of Kristina Jakos. If you know something, even something that seems insignificant, please call the Homicide Unit of the PPD.”

With this the woman turned and headed into the building.

Kristina Jakos, Roland thought. She was the woman they found murdered on the bank of the Schuylkill River in Manayunk. Roland had the news clipping on the corkboard next to his desk. He would read more about the case now. He grabbed a pen and wrote down the detective’s name.

Jessica Balzano.