word coinage ever.” Khadijah grimaced and turned to Becca. “But that’s what we were wondering, baby. Is there any chance this maniac broke into your kitchen that night?”
“Then why am I still alive?” Becca’s voice was dull. “No one robbed this place. Why would Voakes have shot my parents and left a witness? I was sitting right out here.”
“This could have been his first time, if he broke in here,” Marty said gently. “Maybe just to rob the place. He sees your parents, freaks out, shoots them. Out the kitchen door he goes. He wouldn’t have even known you were in here. You wouldn’t have seen anything.”
“I wouldn’t remember anything, if I had seen it.” Becca rubbed her eyes. “I don’t remember anything from that night, except my folks arguing, my mom handing me that damn doll.”
“He raped two of the women, Becca. And your mother just said…” Marty looked away, and Jo remembered the last message with an uneasy chill.
Becca rubbed her eyes hard. “Is Voakes even still alive? Maybe we can skip over to the state pen and ask him about all this.”
“Well, here’s the thing.” Those bitter lines formed around Marty’s mouth again. “Voakes never spent a day in the pen. He was judged innocent by reason of insanity. He’s been hospitalized at Western State since nineteen eighty-three.”
“No, here’s the thing.” Khadijah drew a deep breath. “Your mother said you’re in danger, Becca. There’s no way she could know this, but…Voakes won’t be at Western much longer. He’s getting out.”
*
The muted clicking of Jo’s laptop bothered her. The low purr of the static from the radios provided a partial cushion of white noise, but Jo didn’t like disturbing the cathedral quiet of the living room. Becca, Marty, and Khadijah were sprawled on the couch and the floor in various postures of oblivious sleep, and she didn’t want to wake them.
Jo straightened her legs beneath the low table and stretched silently. The blue glow of the screen provided the only light in the dark space, save for the ongoing flicker of the muted television. Xena episodes played on in a constant loop, a welcome backdrop to Jo’s work.
Dawn was probably two hours off, but she couldn’t sleep now if she tried. Her blood still hummed with the thrill of this study. She had examined the recording of the dinner at the Healy house second by second, and picked up no other messages—or at least no other words. She would have to tell Becca about the almost subliminal sounds that surfaced briefly at random moments throughout the recording; a woman’s soft weeping.
She looked down at Becca’s blond head, cushioned by the arm of the sofa a foot from her elbow. There was no need to dread telling her of those mournful sounds. Even relaxed in sleep, even given the harrowing nature of the last few days, there was a certain strength in Becca’s features. Jo knew there was courage in her, or she wouldn’t attempt this daunting project at all.
She gazed at Becca’s sleeping profile pensively and turned back to the keyboard. She flipped past the graphs and charts mapping tonight’s whispered message, the readings from the Spiricom, to the narrative portion of her notes.
RH continues cooperative.
Becca’s conscious bond to her mother is ambivalent, given her anger at her perceived abandonment.
Her father remains a cypher to me. It’s relevant that I have spent time in the company of Scott Healy’s daughter, his brother, sister-in-law, and therapist, and I’ve learned virtually nothing about the man.
Jo glanced at the television and her fingers stilled on the keys. The episode was “Many Happy Returns,” a silly offering of the last season, but the ending scene was moving. The warrior and the bard seated together on the cliffs at sunset, Gabrielle reading aloud from the scroll Xena had given her. Jo reached for the remote and paused the image.
Jo stared down again at Becca’s still face. She moved
“Then why am I still alive?” Becca’s voice was dull. “No one robbed this place. Why would Voakes have shot my parents and left a witness? I was sitting right out here.”
“This could have been his first time, if he broke in here,” Marty said gently. “Maybe just to rob the place. He sees your parents, freaks out, shoots them. Out the kitchen door he goes. He wouldn’t have even known you were in here. You wouldn’t have seen anything.”
“I wouldn’t remember anything, if I had seen it.” Becca rubbed her eyes. “I don’t remember anything from that night, except my folks arguing, my mom handing me that damn doll.”
“He raped two of the women, Becca. And your mother just said…” Marty looked away, and Jo remembered the last message with an uneasy chill.
Becca rubbed her eyes hard. “Is Voakes even still alive? Maybe we can skip over to the state pen and ask him about all this.”
“Well, here’s the thing.” Those bitter lines formed around Marty’s mouth again. “Voakes never spent a day in the pen. He was judged innocent by reason of insanity. He’s been hospitalized at Western State since nineteen eighty-three.”
“No, here’s the thing.” Khadijah drew a deep breath. “Your mother said you’re in danger, Becca. There’s no way she could know this, but…Voakes won’t be at Western much longer. He’s getting out.”
*
The muted clicking of Jo’s laptop bothered her. The low purr of the static from the radios provided a partial cushion of white noise, but Jo didn’t like disturbing the cathedral quiet of the living room. Becca, Marty, and Khadijah were sprawled on the couch and the floor in various postures of oblivious sleep, and she didn’t want to wake them.
Jo straightened her legs beneath the low table and stretched silently. The blue glow of the screen provided the only light in the dark space, save for the ongoing flicker of the muted television. Xena episodes played on in a constant loop, a welcome backdrop to Jo’s work.
Dawn was probably two hours off, but she couldn’t sleep now if she tried. Her blood still hummed with the thrill of this study. She had examined the recording of the dinner at the Healy house second by second, and picked up no other messages—or at least no other words. She would have to tell Becca about the almost subliminal sounds that surfaced briefly at random moments throughout the recording; a woman’s soft weeping.
She looked down at Becca’s blond head, cushioned by the arm of the sofa a foot from her elbow. There was no need to dread telling her of those mournful sounds. Even relaxed in sleep, even given the harrowing nature of the last few days, there was a certain strength in Becca’s features. Jo knew there was courage in her, or she wouldn’t attempt this daunting project at all.
She gazed at Becca’s sleeping profile pensively and turned back to the keyboard. She flipped past the graphs and charts mapping tonight’s whispered message, the readings from the Spiricom, to the narrative portion of her notes.
RH continues cooperative.
Becca’s conscious bond to her mother is ambivalent, given her anger at her perceived abandonment.
Her father remains a cypher to me. It’s relevant that I have spent time in the company of Scott Healy’s daughter, his brother, sister-in-law, and therapist, and I’ve learned virtually nothing about the man.
Jo glanced at the television and her fingers stilled on the keys. The episode was “Many Happy Returns,” a silly offering of the last season, but the ending scene was moving. The warrior and the bard seated together on the cliffs at sunset, Gabrielle reading aloud from the scroll Xena had given her. Jo reached for the remote and paused the image.
Jo stared down again at Becca’s still face. She moved
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