by HN Wake
48
Directing the flashlight beam a foot in front, Dom took off at a jog across the neighbor’s damp lawn to the Lowrance estate. Within minutes, she came to the towering stone wall and banked left, jogging deeper into the funereal woods and the back of the estate. The undergrowth was thick with spiked ferns and groping branches. Overhead, the straining limbs of trees interlaced like bony arms stretched tight. Blackish primeval moss blanketed the forest floor. Occasionally a thin shaft of bluish moonlight cut through the trees and into deep, shadowy gloom. Ignoring the pain in her toes, Dom kept a pace that was brisk and controlled.
Fifteen minutes out, she reached the northeast corner of the estate and flashed the light against the wall. Stacked stones glistened. She doused the light and slid the flashlight into a jacket pocket. Reaching high above her head, fingers felt for a slippery hold in the cold damp stone. Slowly, using only a sense of touch, she scaled the fifteen-foot-high wall and hoisted herself onto the foot-wide berm. After pulling out the flashlight, she cast a beam into the estate’s woods like a lighthouse beacon against a sea of inky foliage.
She dropped the flashlight on the ground below and lowered herself. Resuming a jog, she weaved through trees in a diagonal route to the center of the estate.
After ten minutes, the woods thinned and a tree line emerged. Beyond, an overgrown meadow stretched from the border of the woods to the edge of a manicured lawn. Within the eastern portion of the lawn, the windows of the tennis clubhouse glinted in silvery moonlight. In the center of the lawn, lights from a swimming pool shimmered eerie blue against the pool house. To the west, rows of shadowy scraggy trees resembling goblins marched toward the darkened three-story manor that dominated the center like a dark medieval fortress against a moonlight sky.
“Yvette, I’m here.”
She jogged along the edge of the woods north of the pool to the top of the orchard. The cracked and shattered windows of a greenhouse glistened in the moonlight. Neat rows of gnarled trees led down a soft slope, their buckled branches spread overhead in a thin canopy. Across soft damp earth, she moved slowly down a row. Near the manor she found a stunted tree with a droopy overhang of branches and a solid line of sight to the tennis court, the lit pool, and the pool house. The gravel path that led to the greenhouse passed within ten feet of the stunted tree. She pushed the branches aside, knelt into the space, hunkered to sit cross-legged, and trained the binoculars on the back of the mansion.
Fontaine would call in the cavalry at sunrise. She had four hours for Yvette to make a move and lead her to Hettie. “Yvette, I’m right here.”
An hour later, a cicada clicked from a nearby tree, and an owl hooted from the woods. The moon, high in the sky, cast a bright glow across the damp meadow and lawn. The swimming pool swirled with phosphorescent aquamarine phantoms.
Dom had imagined Yvette inside the dark house lying in a huge canopied bed, her pale hair and perfect face resting on a satin pillow. Was Yvette so delusional that she believed she could get away with hiring an assassin to murder Micah Zapata and kidnapping her own daughter? What level of moral corruption, what variation of pure depravity, had driven this woman to such demented acts?
Dom unwound herself from under the gnarly tree, stood, and stretched against stiff, aching muscles. Toes throbbed. She began a slow walk up the row of trees to the greenhouse, making sure to frequently look back at the darkened manor. The damp soil smelled of charcoal and fertilizer as the trees gave way to an overgrown vegetable garden, wild with haphazard weeds. The glass panels of the greenhouse glinted in the weak moonlight. Was Hettie inside, tied up and terrified? Dom glanced over her shoulder at the manor. How long would it take to clear the building?
If Yvette chose that moment to visit Hettie, perhaps to another building, Dom would miss her only opportunity.
“Damn you, Yvette.” She turned and headed back to the small gnarly tree lookout.
Forty-five minutes later, the moon disappeared behind a cloud bank and cast the manor and the grounds in a deep black cover. Something small scurried past the stunted tree. Dom felt her brain slowing and stifled a yawn. She cracked her neck and gulped some water, but still her lids flagged and her eyes burned. She unbent herself from the gnarly tree, shook her arms, and bit hard on the inside of her cheek. A flash of pain followed by the iron taste of blood brought back memories of the Cleveland basement.
She had clasped the trembling Darlin to her chest, tiny hands entangled in her ponytail. “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”
She turned to the door just as the man on the floor groaned. Tiny arms squeezed.
“Don’t you worry about him, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’m going walk us out of here.”
In the darkness of a long dank hallway she carefully found her footing and walked slowly to the stairs and the anemic light from the landing above.
Heavy footfalls smacked across the floorboards overhead.
She took the wooden stairs slowly, crushing the tiny girl against her chest.
Above them, an agent appeared the doorway.
“I’ve got her. I’ve got her.”
It was only later, after Darlin had been handed over to a victim specialist, after the Cleveland team had called it a success, and after all the navy windbreakers had gone home, that Domini Walker rested her forehead against her arm and cried deep neck-straining sobs for the children they saved and the ones they let slip away.
In the orchard, she blinked.
“I’m here, Hettie. Hold on,” she whispered.
The Hettie Van Buren case was supposed to have been easy. A rich girl partying in Las Vegas. It was not meant to have been the case given to a Special Agent under investigation by the Office of Professional Responsibility for unprofessional conduct during one of the FBI’s grisliest cases.
Her phone vibrated. Hiding the screen within the folds of her jacket she read the message from Lea. Fontaine was here. The AG called him. Quote: Tell Walker to move faster.
Shit, shit, shit. She glanced at the dark manor. How was she to move any faster if she was forced to wait for Yvette to show her maniacal self?
From somewhere beyond the orchard, deep in the woods, swiftly moving footfalls rustled leaves. Adrenaline shot through her veins. Holding her breath, she followed the trajectory of the runner. Branches broke, bushes swished. Whoever it was, they were moving deep into the woods.
49
Rapid blinking woke Mila. Even after she opened her eyes to the dark, the twitching of the muscles continued for seconds. In the dream, she had been standing on the corner near the elementary school, waving to Jimmy as he raced away. Lightning had burst across the sky, and a swirling ash cloud had appeared over the horizon, moving quickly toward them. She yelled to Jimmy to hurry inside the school, to get to safety. His little legs scissored faster, bright yellow tennis shoes whirling over the gray sidewalk. He glanced over his shoulder, the white of his rabbit teeth radiant against the gray of the storm. She had screamed as dust enveloped him.
She must have been blinking in her sleep. Night noises emanated from the window—a passing car, the tinkle of a dog collar, the soft traffic from Houston Street. The clock read four am. What was Special Agent Domini Walker doing at the Lowrance estate? Had she found Hettie? Had she found her alive?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the loud creak of an old step on the stairwell two floors below. Her neighbors were quiet folks. Who could that be at this time of night?
She held her breath. A second stair squealed as someone placed their heavy weight on it. A big person was climbing the stairs two floors below. The steps were methodical, one after another.
The heavy boots rounded the landing one floor below. Clomp, clomp. The boots strode the hallway below.
Under a single sheet, naked except for a T-shirt, her skin froze. The curtains ruffled in a slight breeze as moonlight lit the room. Her eyes cast across the darkened room to the white door. Surely this intruder wasn’t going to come up the last set of stairs. No one e
ver came up to the fourth floor.
A heavy thud landed on the first step of the final set of stairs. She sat upright.
Clomp, clomp. The heavy boots climbed.
This couldn’t be good. Whoever it was, whoever this terrifying intruder was, it couldn’t be good.
The realization slammed through her in an instant. She had forgotten to use an encrypted service to send the email to the precinct chief. The dirty cops had tracked the email back to her ISP location. Terrifying Dirty Cop was here to silence her.
In a shot, she was out of the bed and slipping thin legs in shorts. She jammed her cell phone in the short’s pocket and yanked a hoodie from a chair, zipped it quickly.
Clomp, clomp. Terrifying Dirty Cop was only a few stairs below.
Rookie mistake, Mila. So dumb. So freaking dumb.
Darting to the table, she grabbed the kitchen chair, raced it to the door, and jammed it under the doorknob on a reckless angle.
You freaking ridiculously dumb rookie sleuth.
Out in the hallway, the climbing stopped. Raw fear washed over her spine. Terrifying Dirty Copy was on her landing, on the other side of the flimsy door, listening.
Clomp, clomp down the hall.
She spun, grabbed the key to the park below, and raced to the window. The curtains undulated in the bluish moonlight. There was only one escape route—through Elizabeth Street Park.
The door shook with a huge bang as a thick fist crashed against thin wood.
She dove through the window onto the cold metal of the fire escape. Four stories below was a black canyon ready to swallow her should she stumble, should she careen off the slippery metal. Grabbing the railing, scratchy with rust, she inched bare feet across to the platform to the first leg of ladders. Tremors gripped her hands. Facing the ladder, she gripped the rail and set one bare foot down followed by the other. She descended to the third floor platform. Clutching the rail, she shuffled past her neighbor’s dark window. Descending the next leg of the ladder, she did not to look into the yawning darkness below. On the second floor, she glanced down. The drop into the darkness was alarming. If she jumped, she would surely break a leg. Shuffling to the far end, she grasped the hook on the final piece of the ladder—a straight length to the ground—and yanked for its release. Nothing moved. She put both hands on the hook and jerked. The ladder held tight. She yelped into the night. The intruder would surely follow her here. This last straight ladder must release to the ground.
A cloud gliding in front of the moon doused the park in blackness. Shaking fingers clamped on the hook. With a mighty yank, the hook squealed open. The ladder slid to the ground.
Blindly she set one bare foot on the first rung and leaned her weight on it, the metal digging into her arch. The ladder wobbled. The ladder stilled and held. She set her other foot on the rung. Foot over foot, hand over hand, she slowly descended into the dark emptiness. The moon broke through the clouds. The ground was ten feet below. She took shallow breaths, leaned back off the ladder, and let go.
The grass met as she tumbled onto her backside, hands digging into damp ground. She scrambled to the shadow of bushes.
Above, her apartment windows were black. Was Terrifying Dirty Cop looking out? Could he see her? You freaking ridiculously dumb rookie sleuth.
Jumping up, she sprinted across the grass, past shadowed bushes, demonic statues, and stone carvings. She would escape through the park gate. Moonlight streamed white on glistening grass. Ten yards out, her feet hit the gravel path and sharp rocks cut through her flesh. She yelped. Her fingers clutched around the gate key in her pocket as she raced to the gate.
Ahead, a silhouette appeared. On the other side of the gate.
Mila skidded into a dive off the path into shadowed bushes.
Terrifying Dirty Cop had a partner. And they were here to silence her.
50
Dom squinted through binoculars into the deep shadows of the woods. Thirty yards out, a dark figure dressed in black moved quickly to the back of the estate. Shit all over my surveillance, who is that?
She took off in a slow smooth jog through the orchard and into the woods, leaving a wide berth between herself and the black figure. Low bushes grabbed at her jeans, and leaves brushed her cheek, but her controlled jog didn’t falter. The black figure slowed to a walk and approached the tree line north of the pool. He had a distant but clear line of sight across the entire estate.
She circled behind him deep into the woods and stopped.
The black-clad figure stood inside the tree line, confidently staring down over the manor, unaware of her presence. His hands rested calmly at his sides below broad square shoulders with a professional poised stance. A holster on his right leg held a sidearm.
She slowly clicked open the latch of her holster, slid out the Glock, and silently clicked off the safety. Silently, she moved up behind him. With each step, she nestled her foot into leaves on the wet forest floor before pressing her weight into the stance. Silence.
Fifteen feet behind the intruder, she sighted the Glock on his leg and hissed, “Freeze. FBI.”
The black intruder stiffened.
“FBI. I have a gun aimed at the back of your leg. I’m a good shot.”
He didn’t move.
“On the ground.”
The black figure dropped to his knees, fell to a push-up, and laid on the ground. He spread his arms wide.
She approached with the Glock aimed at his calve. “Who are you?”
“Private security. Greystone.”
Shit on my surveillance parade. Claude and Runner had called in a team.
She stepped back and holstered the Glock. “You can get up. How many of you on the property?”
“Three of us.” He stood and brushed himself off. “They didn’t tell me Feds were here.”
He was tall, maybe six four with hair high and tight, regulation length. Former something—she guessed Ranger. “What’re your instructions?”
“Secure the mother. Find the girl.”
She didn’t trust Claude or Runner. In fact, she didn’t trust anyone related to the fucking Van Buren family or Rittenhouse Equity. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Secure the mother. Rescue the daughter.”
“And then do what with the daughter?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Did they tell you what to do once you have the daughter in hand?”
“Only to call it in. Await instructions.”
Innocent enough. He was here to help Hettie.
He said, “But my sense is the client is on their way. We are to secure both mother and daughter till the client arrives.”
Claude was on his way. Since he was coming from New York, it meant he would arrive between one and two hours. “What’s your name?”
“Moose.”
“All right, Moose.” In the dark she couldn’t make out an earpiece. “You got coms to your team?
“Affirmative.”
“What are their positions?”
He instinctively motioned right and left with two fingers. His guys were on either side of the house, outside the perimeter of the lawn and in the woods.
“I’m the point on this, understood? We hold until the mother leads us to the daughter. We hold until the mother comes out and leads us to the daughter. I do not want the mother to panic, maybe kill the daughter. Understood?”
“Copy that.”
With the three additional assets, she could clear the buildings. “In the meantime, you’re going to be my eyes. I’m going to check out the greenhouse first. If you see the mother heading to the greenhouse, secure her.”
“Roger that.”
“After the greenhouse, I’ll recon the pool house and the tennis house. In that order. The rules of engagement are the same. If you see the mother heading to either while I’m inside, you secure her. Understood?”
“Roger that.”
“Otherwise, you stand down till I make noise. Don’t worry, I
’ll make noise. Operational priority is retrieving the daughter. Once I do that, you are cleared to enter the manor and secure the mother.”
“Roger.”
“Okay, relay that to your team.”
He repeated the instructions softly into his neck mic. When he was finished, he nodded at Dom.
“You a former Ranger?” she asked.
He gave her a small smile. “How’d you know?”
“Gut feeling. Thanks for your service.”
He nodded.
They didn’t have much time till Fontaine called in the FBI cavalry. “Stay frosty. It’s go time.”
The greenhouse glass glinted in the fading moonlight. The glass panes rattled against steel frames as she threw open the wobbly door. Inside, the air was sweet and earthen. Underfoot, shards of glass crackled on tiles. A long row of wooden potting tables ran the center of the space, creating two outer aisles. She took the right aisle first, weaving through vines and brushing away stretched cobwebs. A bat dive-bombed her head, and she crouched as it buzzed past.
She moved further down the right aisle and hissed, “Hettie? Hettie? It’s FBI. Hettie?”
Nothing.
Between a row of wooden tables, broken ceramic pots lay shattered, their inhabitants long ago withered, their brown roots webbed around dry dirt.
“Hettie? Hettie. It’s FBI!”
Only silence.
At the back of the building, she crossed to the left aisle. In the tepid ray of moonlight through dusty glass, the area was empty. Her phone vibrated with a message from Lea. Fontaine was just here. Tell Walker I’m calling in our local squad.
The Philadelphia FBI Hostage Rescue Team would be here in thirty minutes, forty minutes max. Dom had to clear the pool and the tennis house immediately before the onslaught of sirens panicked Yvette into doing something dangerous to Hettie.
Shit on my surveillance stick. Time to move.
