Until the Day You Die Page 3

  The hairs on my neck prickled to attention. I turned around and looked into the living room. Nothing. At the same time, I heard a groan coming from Dana’s bedroom. Not a sexual kind of groan. Then I saw what had alerted my sixth sense: the front door was unlocked. I had locked it behind me. Fear gripped my heart with an icy hand.

  I turned the bedroom doorknob, slipped inside, and locked that door. My heart pounded as I turned around.

  What I saw didn’t make sense, not at first. Something was on the bed, something grotesque, misshapen … not human. My body stiffened even as my thoughts clicked into place. It was human. And if it was, then it had to be—

  “Oh, my God, Dana!”

  I stumbled toward the bed, falling to the side of it. I couldn’t say anything else, could only take in the sight of her. The swollen skin around her eyes left them as slits through which tears streaked down. Her face, upper chest, and neck were mottled with red and blue marks. Her nose, her mouth, distorted. She looked like a monster in the old late night movies we used to watch as kids. A blood-splattered blanket covered her from the chest down. I could see her trembling beneath it, curled into a semi-fetal position. There were no sheets or pillowcases on the bed. And most odd, she was wet.

  I grabbed for the phone and dialed 911, my brain cells finally realigning. “I need”—words wouldn’t push through my constricted throat—”I need an ambulance. My sister’s been beaten.”

  “Is the person who assaulted her still there?”

  I thought of the unlocked door again. He’d been here. In the house when I’d come in. But he’d left. The unlocked door meant he was gone. “He left right after I got here. We’re locked in the bedroom.”

  She verified the address. “We’ll send the police and an ambulance right away. Is your sister conscious?”

  “I think so. But she’s hurt bad.” Those words clogged my throat.

  “Try to get her to respond, but please stay on the line.”

  Numb shock had turned into automatic action. I set down the phone and turned to Dana, wanting—needing—to do something for her.

  “They’re coming. Hang on,” I told her, seeing no response in her glazed eyes.

  She was breathing through her mouth, necessitated by a nose that was clogged with dried blood. I sat gingerly on the bed beside her. “Can I get you anything?”

  She only stared.

  “Who did this to you? Blink once if it was Colin Masters.”

  She did blink. Was it an answer? She tried to speak. First, only a garbled sound. And then one word huffed out. “I …”

  I leaned closer, holding my breath. I didn’t know whether to encourage her to speak or not. She wanted to say something, though, so I waited. I wanted her to tell me who had done this to her. I wanted to hear his name.

  “I d-d-deserved it.”

  “No.” That took me by surprise.

  Her eyes closed on my protestation. I panicked for a moment, afraid she was dying. But her chest rose and fell in a steady but shallow rhythm. “Dana, you didn’t deserve this. Do you hear me?”

  I picked up the phone. “Where’s that ambulance? Dammit, get it here already!”

  “They’ll be there in approximately two minutes.” She asked me questions about Dana’s condition. As I answered, I took in the room, seeing the broken chair and shards of her porcelain lamp lying on the carpet. Blood was splattered across the headboard and wall. Not in life threatening amounts. Just a little, but all over. God.

  Only then did I think of the biggest violation a woman can suffer. I searched her face, down her bruised neck and shoulders until the blanket blocked my view. I couldn’t handle finding out if … no, not yet. She was naked, though, beneath the blanket. Her clothes were on the floor, in shreds. My stomach clenched, and I swallowed back my nausea.

  As the sound of sirens penetrated my consciousness, I noticed something: though specks of blood were everywhere, I saw none on her except the accumulation in her nostrils.

  Wet. No blood. I shivered at the deduction: he had bathed her.

  The police came first. One officer checked the house and the other took photographs of Dana and the bedroom. The woman tried to explain that it was necessary so that the scene could be preserved before the medics disturbed the evidence. I felt Dana’s humiliation with each flash, one right after the other, even if she gave no indication of it.

  As soon as the medics arrived, one of the responding officers escorted me from the house and started questioning me. Before he’d asked more than my name, a tall man in plain clothes approached us. His bulbous eyes took in the scene as though he were taking pictures with his brain.

  “This is the vic’s sister, Maggie Fletcher,” the officer told him. “She found her.”

  I knew it was human inclination—and laziness—to shorten words, but it still bristled. I shook hands with Detective Antoine Armstrong, who specialized in sexual assault cases. With him was Detective Steve Lanier, whose fish-belly white skin was a stark contrast to Armstrong’s dark-chocolate skin. Lanier stepped back as Armstrong took charge.

  “Colin Masters did this,” I said before he could even ask one question.

  “Hold on, let’s start from the beginning,” he said, though he did write down the name.

  I couldn’t keep my gaze from the front door, wanting to be with Dana but knowing I’d just be in the way. When medics wheeled her out of the house on a stretcher, I insisted on accompanying her in the ambulance. I wasn’t sure if Dana was conscious, but I couldn’t let her wake up without me being there.

  “There won’t be room for you,” Armstrong said. “Let me drive you. We can talk on the way. The more information I can get, the faster I can apprehend this guy.”

  “Drive fast.”

  “You seem sure this Masters guy attacked your sister,” he said as I followed him to his vehicle.

  “He’s the son of a bitch who’s been stalking her.” It came out in a mindless rush of words on the way to the hospital—the open doors, the bed being made, the blink, and the diary I knew she kept. I was only cognizant of one thing: being very certain about not repeating what Dana had said.

  Armstrong escorted me to the emergency area and waited while I asked about my sister’s condition. No news yet, and no, I couldn’t see her. I knew that, but I’d had to ask. I dropped into a chair, feeling like a bag of bones, and finished telling Armstrong about Dana.

  He’d written everything in small, neat script. “I’m going to need you to come down to the station and give a taped statement. But we can start with this.”

  When he stood, I sank into dark thoughts, imagining what Dana had gone through. I caught a glimpse of her in the back area and heard Armstrong talking to the nurse about questioning Dana while they waited for the x-rays. I was surprised when he asked me to accompany him.

  “It may help her to talk to me.”

  In the fluorescent lights, Dana’s injuries looked starkly brutal. But her eyes were open, and I saw a change in them when she saw me, a flash of relief or gratitude maybe.

  “Hi, honey,” I said, giving her a smile that felt ridiculously empty. I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid to hurt her. “This is Detective Armstrong. He needs to ask you a couple of questions. Remember how you blinked when I asked if Colin attacked you?”

  Armstrong took over. “Dana, I want to get this guy so he won’t hurt anyone else. Blink once if you understand me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she blinked.

  “Good. Do you know the person who assaulted you?”

  Another hesitation, but she blinked.

  “Was it Colin Masters?”

  She blinked again.

  “Okay. That’s good. That’s what we need to bring him in.” He kept his gaze on her eyes, never letting it drift to her damaged body. I was grateful for that. “I know this is tough to deal with. You’ve been through a lot already. But we need your help to lock this guy up. We don’t want him to do this to anyone else. You can stop him, Dana.
And we’ll help you every step of the way. Do you understand?”

  Dana didn’t blink. In fact, I saw terror in her eyes, which she shifted to me.

  “You just scared her.”

  “Be a lot scarier if this guy gets away with this because she won’t testify. Happens more than I care to contemplate.” His nose was flat, his nostrils big enough to fit marbles into. I noticed that they flared as he’d said that. He flipped his notepad closed and slid it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll see you later.”

  I gave Armstrong a cursory response, but my focus was on Dana. “We’re going to fight this together. Through that and whatever comes afterward. I love you, sis.”

  I couldn’t say any more; my throat had tightened, holding back the tears. A nurse approached and asked that I return to the waiting area. I kept my gaze on Dana until she was out of sight. Only when I saw all those strangers in their own states of agony did I think of Marcus and Mom. I slumped into a chair in the corner of the room and called them. After I hung up, I stared at the yellow walls. Was yellow for hope?

  I did have hope. That Dana would pull through this in one piece. That Colin would go away for a long, long time—without Dana having to testify. I couldn’t imagine her on the stand.

  Marcus arrived at the hospital first, and when he pulled me into his arms, I collapsed under a wave of tears. Before he could extract what had happened, Mom arrived. I had to tell her not only about the attack but also the stalker. Dana had made me promise not to tell her.

  “I could have been praying all this time if I’d known.” Mom pulled her sweater tight around her, stretching the woven red yarn, and sat several chairs away. I felt anger and hurt radiating from her, but it paled in comparison to my guilt.

  If only I’d taken the phone into the bathroom with me. I was sure that Dana had called to tell me about some suspicious sound she’d heard. I could have gotten there in time to save her from most of this. And worse … what tore into my heart, was that I had doubted her.

  Marcus made me sit down, taking the seat beside me, holding my hand. He’d thrown on one of his starched shirts, though his hair was tousled.

  Mom started praying in a rapid-fire whisper, just as she had when my father was here after a construction accident. I had prayed with her until my mouth had gone dry, but he’d still died. Everything happens for a reason.

  I kept staring into the back area, and then, when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I looked at a scuff on my white shoe that I hadn’t noticed. I quelled the urge to spit on my finger and rub it out. I went back to my worry curl instead.

  A few minutes later, the doctor, who looked a lot like June Cleaver, walked into the waiting area. Marcus and I stood in unison, though my knees barely kept me upright. “Mom,” I called, rousing her.

  Dr. Jameson gave us the gentle look meant to soften bad news. “Right now Dana’s resting under sedation. She’s suffered broken and fractured bones, including two fingers and her right elbow; several contusions; a possible concussion; and severe bruising and swelling. Her nose was shattered. No severe internal injuries. Oddly enough, no defense wounds. Usually we see evidence of a woman putting up her arms to protect her face, skin beneath the nails where she scratched the assailant. But here, nothing.”

  I couldn’t breathe yet. “Was she …”

  The doctor slowly nodded. “This was the most vicious sexual assault I’ve ever seen.” Even she seemed to have trouble saying it, but not as much trouble as I had hearing it. “She was raped. The trauma was severe enough that it tore through the vaginal wall. She gave me nonverbal permission to collect evidence for the rape kit.”

  Mom broke into tears. I’d forgotten she was standing beside me.

  Dr. Jameson waited as I stroked my mother’s arm and tried to hush her before continuing. “Physically she’ll recover. The emotional damage will take longer. We’ve done what we can for now. We’ll continue to monitor her. You can go in and see her if you’d like, but only for a few minutes.”

  It all twisted my stomach so badly I nearly gagged. I’d already thrown up twice reliving those minutes in her house. There was nothing left.

  “Maybe it’s God’s punishment,” my mom whispered. “She worked in that heathen new-age place.”

  “She didn’t do anything to deserve this,” I growled, making her wince. Dana’s words, though, echoed in my mind. She’d thought she deserved it. Why? I’d get the answer soon. “Bad things happen to good people. Haven’t you heard that expression? Good things happen to bad people, too. Why does it always have to be punishment with you?”

  But I knew. When Mom was a girl, she had stolen a doll from the general store. The next day a stray bullet killed her father during a robbery when he returned the doll. Suddenly she believed everything her mother had been telling her about sin and punishment. And she’d never let that belief go.

  Mom’s legs were wobbly as she walked toward Dana’s room, but she didn’t look back at me. I let her go alone.

  More inane platitudes bounced around my brain as I waited for Mom to come out. Too much of anything can be a bad thing. Time heals all wounds. I didn’t believe any of them.

  Raped. The word thumped down hard on my chest. I couldn’t help but think about it, imagining the pain, the torture. A cry escaped my throat, and I pressed my face into Marcus’s sleeve. “Make Colin Masters pay for this.”

  I could tell him that. He was Rockingham County’s attorney. And never before had he been so much my knight on a steed.

  He stroked my cheek. “They have enough to bring him in for questioning. Just having a suspect puts us farther ahead than most rape cases. I doubt there’ll be any problem making an arrest. I’m sure something will place him at the scene. Then hopefully he’ll confess, and it’ll be all over.”

  But I’d heard the stories. Marcus had once said that rape cases were the hardest to work. There was often a lack of hard evidence. The victim had to deal with so many layers: guilt, shame, trauma. Sometimes she refused to testify, and without her testimony, the case often fell apart. Dana wouldn’t testify. She wasn’t strong enough.

  Sometimes justice wasn’t served. And that was the most harrowing thought yet, that Colin could get away with this.

  CHAPTER 5

  “I don’t like leaving Dana.”

  Marcus squeezed my hand as he drove. “Your mom is there. She’ll call if anything changes. Nothing should at this point.”

  No. The worst was over. I ached for what my sister would still endure, though.

  The Portsmouth Police Station sat high on a hill, a former hospital that had been renovated to house some of the city’s civil services. We went to the second floor, an enormous room that seemed to house a hundred desks. Detective Armstrong led us to an interview room. It seemed strange, being there in the pre-dawn hour. It was quieter than it had been the last time I was here, though the smell of burnt coffee was just as strong.

  Marcus sat next to me, holding my hand as Armstrong asked questions. The camera was on a tripod, ready to take my formal statement. How was I going to say I’d been dozing in the tub while my sister was being brutalized? Or that I’d been at her house and decided not to stop in? Fear, anger, and guilt swirled inside me. Anger towered over the other two.

  I still felt clear on not telling anyone, even Marcus, Dana’s words about deserving what Colin had done to her. For all I knew, I’d misheard her. I didn’t want anything to be misconstrued.

  Armstrong leaned over and fidgeted with the camera. “Ready?”

  My voice trembled as I recounted the night’s events. “I called her; I guess it was a little after nine. She was fine. Too fine, I thought.” The wine? I laughed, shook my head. “I even told her to say the word banana if something was wrong. She didn’t.”

  No defense wounds.

  I deserved it.

  I was at the part where I had driven past her house when something popped into my mind. “I saw a man.”

  “What?” both Armstrong and Marcus asked.
br />   “I saw a man walking down the sidewalk, on the same block as Dana’s house. He looked tipsy.”

  Armstrong leaned forward. “Did you see his face?”

  “No, because … he was walking away from Dana’s house. But he may have seen my car and pretended to be going in the other direction. Maybe that’s why he looked off balance, and why his face was averted, hiding from me. I do remember he was tall, medium build; it was hard to tell because of his coat.”

  “That’s not going to do us much good if you didn’t see him.”

  After I was done with the video, Armstrong continued with his questions. “Maggie, had you ever seen Masters following your sister?”

  “I saw his car once. I walked up to it, but he wouldn’t stop.”

  “Did you see him inside the car?”

  “The windows were darkly tinted.”

  “So you never saw the guy lurking around?”

  “She saw him. He’d wait for her to go to work and then to leave. She was always looking for him. Paranoid.” I rushed on. “She’s clinically depressed but not schizophrenically paranoid.” I didn’t want to share the doubts I’d had about her observations. “She was scared of him.”

  Armstrong leaned back, wearing a troubled expression. “But you never actually saw the guy?”

  “No,” I said in defeat, unable to pussyfoot around the question anymore. “But she blinked. That counts as an accusation, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s enough to bring him in for questioning. Maybe to get us a search warrant, but that’ll be trickier.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Marcus said, “New Hampshire lives by its motto, live free or die, and it fiercely defends the fourth amendment concerning search and seizure.”

  “From your sister’s injuries, though, it looks like her assailant used a chain.” I quivered at that, and Armstrong gave me a sympathetic grimace. “That’s what we’re basing our request on; to find that chain along with any evidence of his stalking her. To go further, we’ll need more. She’s going to have to point him out and say he did it.” Armstrong looked over the notes again. “The two wine glasses bother me.”