Live to Tell

EPILOGUE

We’ve found a school for Evan. It’s full-time care in a family-friendly environment in southern New Hampshire. The kids live in actual homes, with trained caretakers serving as surrogate parents. The campus includes a lake, huge gardens, and neighboring woods. The curriculum combines a structured schedule with plenty of outdoor time, where kids get to breathe fresh air, learn to garden, and benefit from the healing powers of nature.

The school even utilizes meditative training to help agitated children improve their self-soothing skills.

Evan’s nervous, but not morally opposed. We can visit on weekends. If his behavior improves, he can come home for the holidays. It’s beginning to feel manageable. Yes, he’s on medication. Yes, he’ll be going away. Yes, we have many “learning opportunities” ahead.

But the school is beautiful. Evan’s calmer. And our family is healing again.

The DA decided not to press charges against Evan. Our lawyer argued Evan had been unduly influenced by Andrew Lightfoot’s now obviously violent tendencies. Prosecuting a child who’d just been kidnapped by his spiritual healer didn’t make for great headlines, so the matter was quietly dismissed. After another week at the acute care unit, a bit of tweaking with Evan’s medication, and the development of a long-term plan, Evan was allowed to come home to finish out the summer before heading to his new school.

It gave me time to heal and go back-to-school shopping with my daughter.

Last week, Chelsea visited Evan and me twice, Michael acting as chaperone. Evan became overexcited, slamming his fingers in the front door, then tripping over his own feet and knocking his sister into the TV. But Chelsea hung in there, I hung in there, Michael hung in there. The calmer we remained, the calmer Evan became. By the end of the second evening, we even managed a family game of charades. Chelsea won. When I gave her a congratulatory hug, she clung to me and cried. So I cried with her.

Sometimes, that’s just what you need to do.

The wedding has been postponed. More pressing matters to tend to, Michael told me, and I thought I saw some of the old familiar heat in his gaze. I know I felt it in mine.

I’m thinking of returning to interior decorating. I’m thinking of prizing every single second I have with my children. I’m thinking of being me again, independent, beautiful, and strong.

And I think if I do that, Michael doesn’t stand a chance.

D.D. loved it when a case came together. Andrew Ficke, aka Andrew Lightfoot, died at the scene, bleeding out after severing his femoral artery. Evidence, however, had a life of its own, and they found plenty of it.

A military-grade Taser was found on the front seat of Lightfoot’s car. Tests determined it met the voltage requirements of the Taser used to attack Patrick Harrington, Hermes Laraquette, Danielle Burton, and Victoria Oliver. The Taser also contained custom cartridges, apparently available on the black market, that powered the device’s twin wires without leaving behind any traceable confetti.

A search of Andrew’s Rockport home also revealed a package of zip ties, same size, color, and durability as the ties used to subdue Danielle Burton and the Oliver family. Then there was the duffel bag in his car trunk, which lit up like the Fourth of July when tested for bodily fluids. The bag revealed three different blood types, most likely cross-contamination from once containing clothing stained with the blood of multiple murder victims.

Andrew Lightfoot was a known associate of all the victims. The police found no alibis for him on the nights of the murders, and security cameras showed him entering the hospital the evening Lucy was hanged. Fire investigators recovered fifteen smoke bombs in the ventilation system; latent prints recovered Andrew’s prints from several of the devices, tying him explicitly to the emergency evacuation.

As far as D.D. was concerned, that was a wrap. Andrew had taken his world of spiritual interplanes a bit too seriously, convincing himself that the fate of his father’s soul was more important than the continued corporal existence of various individuals. He had murdered A, believing he was saving B. Or more likely, he had just wanted to terrorize Danielle Burton after she rejected him.

Naturally, Alex argued with her. “He was a spiritual healer. Man did good work, according to his clients-”

“Converts.”

“Clients. You don’t go from being a respected shaman to a mass murderer overnight.”

“He was obsessed with Danielle. She wanted nothing to do with him. How much rejection can one man take?”

“According to her testimony, he wanted her to save his father’s soul. How does killing two entire families accomplish that?”

“It didn’t accomplish that,” D.D. pointed out with a shrug. “Poor problem-solving skills. Definition of a murderer right there. Some guy wants a divorce, but doesn’t want to lose half of his assets, so he kills his wife instead. Did he have to kill her? Were there other options that might have ended his marriage while preserving his bank account? Of course. But murderers don’t see other options. That’s why they’re murderers.”

They were sitting in D.D.’s office. The other taskforce members had left. Case was closed, not to mention they’d heard this same conversation a couple of times before. That didn’t stop D.D. and Alex.

“Yeah?” Alex continued now. “And where in business school and shaman studies did he cover how to slaughter an entire family? Single killing blow to a grown woman, as well as an athletic teenage boy? Not to mention how stone cold you gotta be to chase a screaming girl down the hall, then drag her back to her death. Or shoot a young girl in a dog bed. Or suffocate a baby in a cradle.”

“Merely proves how compartmentalized he was. Think about it: The man had two lives-Ficke the investment pro, Lightfoot the soul saver. Ficke was definitely not nice; he fucked women and screwed friends, all in the name of high finance. Then one day, Ficke up and reinvented himself as the kinder gentler Lightfoot. Maybe in the beginning he honestly believed he saved his friend’s life. Maybe, given some of the accounts of his work, he lived the life of woo-woo. But think about it: Healing is its own power trip. Next thing you know, the New Age adrenaline rush triggered his old predatory instincts. Andrew begins defrauding the state, taking advantage of overwhelmed mothers, and feeding his inner ego. Lightfoot returns to being Ficke, this time armed with a bunch of spiritual mumbo jumbo for manipulating the masses.”

“He wanted Danielle,” Alex said.

“Absolutely. All comes back to Danielle. The girl his father had once saved. The woman who still wouldn’t do what Andrew said. Andrew wanted her, and Andrew always got what he wanted. Or no one else did.”

“Meaning one stubborn woman can drive a man over the edge.”

“It’s a gift,” D.D. said modestly. “Now case is closed. Perpetrator is dead. It’s seven p.m. I haven’t slept in four days. Why the hell are we still at work?”

“Because you haven’t said yes.”

“To what?”

“To the chicken marsala I’m planning on making you. With a side of Italian bread, and a bottle of Chianti.”

“Is there tiramisu for desert?” D.D. asked.

“Vanilla bean gelato.”

D.D. looked at him. Alex looked at her.

She sighed, took off her pager, set it carefully on her desk.

“Alex, take me home.”

According to the police’s final report, Andrew Lightfoot allegedly went crazy and murdered twelve people in his quest to gain my attention and save his father’s soul. They used the term “allegedly” because murdering twelve people is a complicated way of saving someone’s soul. Or perhaps that’s why they ruled him crazy.

I didn’t contradict anything they said, though I had my own opinion on the subject. Nothing I could prove. Frankly, until a month ago, not even something I believed. But I work with children, and children are a powerful litmus test of human nature. At one time, kids loved Andrew. They responded to him. Even if I didn’t consider myself a mumbo-jumbo sort of gal, I’d seen some of his results.

I don’t think a madman could’ve helped those kids, particularly the hypersensitive ones, who would’ve perceived the taint. I think Andrew used to be Andrew. And I think, somewhere in his exploration of the celestial superhighway, he encountered a negative energy beyond his control. He met my father’s corrupt soul, hoping to use him to learn more about his own father. Unfortunately, my father’s spirit used Andrew to hunt me down in order to finish what he’d started twenty-five years ago.

There are things I’ll never know. When carrying me into Evan’s house, Andrew urged me to open my heart, to find the light. Was that the real Andrew pushing through, trying to help me survive? Or did my father simply assume that if he could get me to visit the land of interplanes, he could hurt me, too?

Don’t know.

Is my father back in the abyss, even now waiting for the next corporal existence? I know I saw him that night, his eyes shining from Andrew’s face. And I know I felt my mother, Natalie, Johnny, even Sheriff Wayne. Or maybe I just wanted to feel them. Maybe it was the illusion of seeing them that gave me strength. Then again, I found the gun. Surely that argues for my father’s involvement, or I had a way-lucky guess.

I go back and forth, a thirty-four-year-old skeptic, discovering late in life that some part of her wants to believe.

I feel different these days. I remember my family more often, and with less pain. I’ve lost my mother and siblings, and yet they’re still with me.

Maybe there really are angels? Or maybe I’ve finally completed the five stages of grief?

Don’t know.

What about Andrew? Assuming his soul was hijacked by my father’s, did the end of corporal existence finally set him free? I asked Evan one day. He told me Andrew is an angel, and he talked to him just last night. Evan seemed relaxed about it, so I let it go. Evan’s word is good enough for me.

The state buried Lucy. We took up a collection to pay for the marker. I ordered it shaped in the form of a sleeping cat, though the granite guy thought I was nuts. After her funeral, a giant rainbow appeared on the horizon. Strictly speaking, rainbows are a matter of light hitting water particles. I decided to view it as Lucy’s spirit, granting us one last smile.

Maybe I do know.

I have a date.

He’s handsome, solid, and currently unemployed. Karen fired Greg four weeks ago, saying his violation of unit policy left her no choice. Greg’s thinking of either returning to school to become a psych nurse like me, or establishing a full-time respite-care business. In the meantime, he’s busy assisting various families and soon, of course, he’ll be even busier having sex with me.

I have moments when I’m still angry. I hate how easy it is for a parent to destroy the life of a child. I still see cases that break my heart. And I still make sure I walk way around any sewer grates.

But I get up each morning. And I find myself making the same vow each night.

I’m going to live with more light in my heart. I’m going to continue my work with troubled kids. And I’m going to fall in love with a really good man.

I’m the lone survivor, and this is what I’ve lived to tell.