Sound of a Furious Sky: FBI Agent Domini Walker Book 1

by HN Wake

  She sprinted down the aisle.

  51

  Dom sprinted through the wobbly door into the fresh night air and froze. As if conjured from a dream, Yvette stood at the edge of the pool like a translucent phantom in the swirling lights. Dropping to a low crouch, Dom drew the binoculars to her eyes. Yvette’s magnified face was tight with lips in a clamped straight line. Her features were perfect even in the eerie light.

  “It’s about time, Yvette,” she whispered.

  Dom knew firsthand the traits of a psychopath with antisocial personality disorder—charm, extreme arrogance, compulsion for dominance, exceptional manipulators, and lacking remorse. None that she had met ever came close to the complexity of Yvette.

  At their very first meeting, Yvette misdirected the investigation toward Micah Zapata. She said, “My side, the Lowrances, have been a family of privilege ever since my great- grandfather discovered oil. We must protect our family. I’m not happy she’s wrapped up with a man who may not have her best interests at heart.”

  Dom asked, “Why do you think he may not have her best interests at heart?”

  Yvette said simply, “His family does not have money.”

  In that one beautifully crafted line, Yvette acted the part of the proud mother while casting suspicions on the gold-digging boyfriend.

  In the shimmering aquamarine light, Yvette cast her eyes to the pool house and walked around the pool’s edge. A heavy canvas bag smacked against her leg.

  Dom held the binoculars steady. Hettie was in the pool house.

  During their second meeting, Yvette reverently stroked a leather photo album and shared intimate details. “People used to remark that we act more like friends than mother and daughter.” She had utilized physicality to display fear—touching her neck, wrinkling her face, and closing her eyes. The facade was immaculate.

  Swinging the binoculars, Dom skimmed the back line of trees for any movement from Moose. There was nothing. She searched the tree line around the estate, but there was only stillness. The Rangers were following orders—hold for her signal. Arms bent, she returned the binocular focus to the pool house.

  At the door of the pool house, Yvette stopped and listened to the night noises before slipping into the dark building.

  During their final meeting, Dom asked her, “Does your husband bully Hettie?”

  “Oh, yes,” Yvette replied.

  “Regularly, small and large?”

  “Oh yes. And my Hettie is very quiet—she is not able to stand up to him.” She finished her cocktail with a final gulp, a desperate woman pushed to drink.

  “Mrs. Van Buren, do you think your husband may be involved in Hettie’s disappearance?”

  Yvette’s gray eyes glazed over as she set down the glass and whispered, “I’m sure I can’t answer that.”

  “Mrs. Van Buren, if it would help find your daughter… I believe you must answer it.”

  In the final stage-crafted act, as if mentally disconnecting from a horrible reality, Yvette whispered, “Our world is different. You do not understand our world,” and walked as if she was in a trance from the room. At the time, Dom thought Yvette was losing her mind. But now, Dom realized Yvette was playing her.

  An owl hooted from the woods. Dom swung the binoculars around the tree line, but still the Rangers held fast. The front windows remained dark. Inside, Yvette was either working in the dark, or she turned on a light in a back room where the windows were curtained. Was she talking to Hettie? Was she feeding her? Had Yvette heard that the FBI were on their way? Was she hurting Hettie?

  In the pool house, a ghost floated past the front windows, and Dom straightened. Yvette emerged into shimmering blue light. Dom gripped the binoculars.

  Yvette had almost gotten away with her crimes. That’s right, my Dom, almost. Stewart Walker whispered. But she hadn’t counted on you. Yvette was not prepared to go head-to-head with a special agent whose tenacious grit grew out of a father’s suicide and a mother’s exodus.

  Yvette slid the door closed, strode around the pool’s edge, cornered the hedgerow, and disappeared into the manor.

  Go time. Dom slung the binoculars to the ground, surged to her feet, and shot down the path. As her feet spun gravel into the air, her soles hit the damp pool deck with loud slaps. Yanking open the pool house door, she raced inside and snapped on the flashlight. The beam traced across the front room—two couches, a coffee table, a pool table, a pinball machine, and a huge television on a wall.

  “Hettie?” she hissed. “Hettie, it’s FBI. Are you in here?”

  Sprinting into the back room, the smell of pungent flowers hit her nostrils like the overly sweet scent of burned sugar.

  52

  At the entrance of Elizabeth Street Park, Terrifying Dirty Cop’s silhouetted rattled the iron gate. The chain jangled, but the lock held. A shaft of light from a heavy-duty flashlight sliced through the dark. Mila pressed into the shadows of the bushes as the beam swept inches away. The light sliced out across the lawn and statues, casting ominous shadows like awakened souls in a ghoulish cemetery. The flashlight clicked, and the park went black. The hinges of the gate creaked under a heavy load. Fiendish Partner was climbing the gate. To come get her.

  She crawled through the underbrush to a tall statue, stood, and peered into the gloom. If she made it quietly over the damp grass to the back of the park, she could climb to the top of the gardening shed and swing herself over the back wall.

  At the gate, Fiendish Partner grunted as he dropped to the gravel.

  She sprinted across the cold damp grass, arms slicing, feet racing.

  Behind her, the high-powered beam blazed into the night sky.

  Weaving through statues, she veered around an unruly flower patch and hit the gravel path at full speed. Small stones slashed the skin on her soles.

  The beam methodically sliced left and right, dipping under bushes like a hunting dog rattling out a rabbit.

  Racing across the path, the stones slicing her skin, she reached the far side of the park. Lungs pulled in air. Against the back wall, the gardening shed with its rickety roughhewn plank walls was bathed in a pale moonlight. The roof of the shed was low—only seven feet high—and precariously flimsy. Would it hold her weight? Cracked earthen planting pots sat on bench set against the foot of the shed. When she set her right foot on the bench, pain flashed. The bench wobbled but held. In a swift move, she heaved her weight up on the bench, her lacerated soles burned like a lit flame against skin. She stretched for the roof edge and grasped the damp wooden planks. She hung, the relief instant in her feet, for only a second before she threw her right leg up--a movement she had used with her bike a thousand times—and hooked the ankle. The heel dragged across wood, driving splinters deep into her skin. Breath caught in her lungs. Thrusting the leg straight, she shoved her knee over the lip and onto the roof. With a mighty last pull and a grunt, she pitched her full body onto the planks.

  The beam flashed on a nearby tree.

  She dropped her forehead to the damp wood and panted against mildew.

  Close by, heavy feet crunched gravel.

  She rolled across the damp wooden slats away from the roof’s edge and flattened herself against the wet bricks of the wall. Her hands and feet burned, and slats dug into her shoulder blades.

  The flashlight sliced over the shed.

  She held her breath.

  The shed door blasted open with an enormous crack, and the thin walls shook. She froze, eyes wide against the pitch black as adrenaline surged. Heavy breathing from inside the shed as the flashlight sliced left and right, a wolf hunting prey. Light flashed through the cracks of the thin planks, the glimmer casting across her skin.

  From the other side of the wall on Mott Street, a sound approached. Clink, clink, clink.

  Below, in the shed, the light was doused.

  On Mott Street the noise moved quickly. Clink, clink, clink.

  She recognized the sound. It was the scraping of a shoe clip on the
pedal of a bike. A lone biker was riding in the night, his clip scraping against cement on every rotation. Clink, clink, clink.

  The sound passed down Mott Street. Clink, clink, clink.

  From inside the shed, the Fiendish Partner waited for the sound to recede before crunching across gravel into the park.

  She released her lungs.

  Soon, there was only silence.

  The moon peeked from behind clouds as her heart rate returned to normal. Maybe it was the adrenaline in her bloodstream or the near brush with capture, but the air that filled her lungs felt silky and new. Against the burning pain in her feet and hands, tears of frustration crept from the corners of her eyes and slipped off her cheeks to the rotting wood. Who sends an email outing corrupt NYPD officers from a trackable wifi? A rookie sleuth, that’s who. One who was now being stalked by Terrifying Dirty Cop and his Fiendish Partner.

  The inky darkness of the sky looked miles away. The universe was not ready for Mila Pascale to disappear. Stars blinked like millions of beacons just for her. It was not time for Mila Pascale to disappear. No way. The universe wanted Mila Pascale to hone her skills, become an FBI agent, and find Jimmy. That’s what the universe wanted.

  She wiped away the tears.

  53

  In the back room of the pool house, the flashlight beam slashed over a large white bed and blonde hair splayed across a white pillow. On a nightstand, medicine bottles and syringes lay next to a timer set for three hours. She had found Hettie.

  Dom leaned in to Hettie Van Buren’s still face and whispered, “I’m here, Hettie. I’m here.”

  Behind closed lids, eyes rolled. Hettie was barely conscious. Yvette had been immobilizing her daughter with pharmaceuticals.

  Dom positioned the flashlight on the table and placed both hands on either side of the young woman’s face. “It’s the FBI, Hettie. I’ve come to save you. You’re going to be okay. Try to open your eyes, Hettie. Just try for me.”

  The lids fluttered.

  “That’s it. You almost got it.”

  They fluttered and opened to unfocused blue corneas with dilated pupils.

  “That’s it, sweetheart. I’m here.

  Hettie’s cracked lips shuddered, trying to speak through the haze of drugs.

  Her will was still strong, she was fighting. “I’m going to make sure you’re okay now, Hettie. It’s going to be okay now.”

  Dom slid her hands to Hettie’s throat and felt a steady pulse. Her temperature felt normal. Brushing the sheet off Hettie’s shoulders, she smoothed her hands down both arms checking for injuries. There were none. Below the sheet, Hettie was dressed in a clean white nightgown that ended at pale bare ankles. Below the nightgown, Hettie’s torso was distended, and Dom pressed softly to discover that Yvette had wrapped her in adult diapers.

  Dom shifted to Hettie’s face where tears streamed and looked into her blue eyes. “I know. I know, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay. Your body looks okay. You hear me?”

  Hettie moaned one syllable: an unmistakable, “no.” The tears streamed faster.

  Hettie was getting her strength back by the minute. “I know, sweetheart, it’s going to be okay.”

  Hettie’s head twitched, and she moaned against the paralyzing drugs.

  “You keep fighting, Hettie. That’s good. Can you nod for me?”

  Hettie groaned, but this time her head wobbled.

  “That’s it, my girl. Good job.”

  Hettie’s head rocked back and forth as the groans grew louder. Suddenly, Hettie went still. Tears streamed onto the pillow as blue eyes stared at the ceiling.

  Dom moved in front of Hettie’s eyes. “You know what, Hettie? I know a secret. Something you don’t know. Do you want to know what it is?”

  The eyes focused on Dom’s face.

  “I know that you are strong. I know all about you. I know everything you have done over the last few months. I know you saw the protest at the museum gala. I know you went to CAN and learned about what happened in Rapoosa. I know you suspected your father’s company. I know you and Micah went down to Rapoosa to confirm your suspicions about Rittenhouse’s investment. I know you are planning to testify at the trial in Canada. Because you are strong, you are courageous, and you’ll even take on your father for justice. See, Hettie, I know you are strong. Because you are strong.”

  Hettie blinked, and the tears slowed.

  “That’s it, my girl. Now I’m going to get under you and lift you up. Then you and I are going to get the hell out of here.”

  Hattie’s head wobbled. Yes.

  “Okay. Now I’m going to get underneath you, and you’re going to concentrate. You’re going to help me, because we both know you’re strong.”

  Hettie mumbled. It sounded like a yes. The tears had stopped.

  “That’s my girl.”

  Dom flicked off the flashlight and shoved it in her jacket pocket, grabbed Hettie’s ankles, and shifted the pale feet to the floor. Leaning in, she wrapped Hettie’s arms around her neck. With a quick breath, Dom grabbed Hettie’s waist, hoisted her to a stand, and jammed a shoulder under Hettie’s armpit. Hettie’s full weight bore down on her, heavy but manageable. “That’s my girl. Okay, Hettie, you lean against me. Use that strength to lean against me. We’re going to walk right out of here.”

  Hettie grunted, and her head canted forward.

  Dom took a step, and Hettie’s feet dragged behind, but Hettie shifted weight to Dom. “That’s it. Just like that. You lean on me, stay stiff. That’s it, Hettie.”

  As Dom shuffled toward the bedroom door, Hettie grunted.

  Dom shuffled them into the game room. “That’s it! Just outside now.”

  One step at a time they made their way across the room. Sweat dripped from Dom’s hairline.

  They passed through the open door and into the fresh night air. “Hettie, we’re doing it! We’re doing it!”

  Hettie moaned.

  Swirling blue lights washed over them. Did Moose see them? Did Yvette? At the corner of the pool house, Dom banked and shuffled them down the side of the building.

  Reaching the back, she leaned Hettie up against the wall. “I’m just going to set you down here Hettie—"

  Hettie wailed a thick-lipped “No.”

  “It’s okay, Hettie. I’m not leaving you. I just need to call in our backup.”

  The moan was small. “No.”

  “I’m just going to get reinforcements. You have to hide here for just a few minutes. I’m right here. Okay? Nobody will find you.”

  Hettie gave a limp nod.

  Sliding Hettie’s body into a seated position, Dom turned and sprinted from the shadows of the pool house out onto the damp lawn, clicked on the flashlight, and slashed the light across the sky. She opened her lungs and bellowed, “Move out! Move! Out !”

  From the impenetrable woods at the back of the estate, there was movement as the inky silhouette of Moose emerged. He signaled with two quick flashes from a flashlight. A second black shadow stepped onto the tennis court. A third dark shape jogged swiftly from the gloom of the orchard.

  Far in the distance, the faint wail of sirens pricked the night’s silence. The Philadelphia FBI Hostage Rescue convoy would be here in minutes.

  Dom yanked out her phone and dialed Fontaine.

  Like trained ninjas, the three dark shadows covered ground quickly to a rendezvous point at the edge of the pool.

  Fontaine picked up. “Hostage Rescue is on—"

  Dom barked, “There are private security on premises. Armed. Three. Moving on the house.”

  The black ninjas converged at the hedgerow by the pool’s entrance and formed a single line. The pool’s oscillating blue lights flickered over their dark forms.

  The sirens wailed closer.

  “I repeat,” Dom said. “Private armed security heading on the main house.”

  “Roger that.” Fontaine hung up.

  Across the pool, the three ninjas drew guns. Moose flicked two finge
rs by his ear and led the unit to the manor, guns drawn. The three disappeared into the silent house.

  Sirens keened.

  Dom jogged back to the pool house and sat by Hettie. “I’m back. It’s going to be okay.”

  Hettie’s breathing was louder, stronger. One of her hands squeezed Dom’s arm.

  Sirens blared as vehicles turned onto Monk Road.

  Dom slipped an arm around the young woman’s shoulders and pulled Hettie close. “It will all be over soon. You stay strong, Hettie.”

  Through the night air, the shriek of sirens blasted and flashing red and blue lights slashed across the brick walls of the manor, across the glistening meadow, and up against the thick ancient tree trunks. From inside the manor, a single gunshot cracked.

  54

  In the circular courtyard, white and red lights blinked frenetically against the spray of a fountain and flared across the manor’s brick walls. Light streamed from the open back doors of an ambulance where an EMT was soothing Hettie on a gurney. Two rescue agents in green camo and tactical vests, packing guns and ammo, questioned three Titus Hill staff on the portico. Three rescue agents took statements from Moose and his two ninja warriors by a black SUV. One of the ninjas had a bandaged shoulder where, during the initial breech, a panicked Yvette shot him. They subdued her quickly.

  Dom pushed off from the hood of a car, fatigue weighing like ankle anchors, and shuffled to the back of the ambulance. Her toes throbbed. Inside, the EMT was holding an oxygen mask across Hettie’s mouth.

  Dom leaned in. “Can I get a moment with Hettie?”

  He nodded and climbed out.

  Dom took his seat and gave the young woman a sad smile. “How you feeling?”

  Hettie nodded, her eyes clear and focused as she lifted the oxygen mask off. Her voice was scratchy from disuse. “Thank you.” A single tear dropped.

  “You’re welcome. I was very worried about you. I was always going to get you.”

  Hettie just nodded.