The Head killed Alethia, too. Pushed her down the stairs. He was at Bexter that night, as well.
And now. He’s luring me to his house.
I open my eyes.
He’s luring me to his house?
I clunk my boots down the to the floor and grab my coat. Absurd. The Head can’t hurt me. My car will be in his driveway. I’ll call Josh and tell him where I am. I slam one arm through my coat sleeve and shrug the coat into place. I’ll call Franklin and leave a message. I’ll call Maysie. Detective Joe Cipriani. J.T. Shaw. There’s a whole list of names I could call.
List of names. The names.
What if the others circled on Dorothy’s list had the same secret as Fiona and Randall?
I wrap my long knitted scarf around my neck, then loop it again, thinking.
Where did Fiona say she gave up her daughter? The—Center?
The Services. I loosen my scarf and, coat still on, sit back down at my desk, telepathically communicating with my computer to hurry up and get me Google.
“Adoption services Boston.” I say it out loud as I type. My search takes .38 seconds. And first on the list is “The Services,” Edgemere Street, Boston. Another click shows me a quietly dignified Web site, dark blue and soft green, all twisty vines and scrolled leaves and muted graphics. A simple logo that looks like a swaddled baby encircled by loving arms. There’s a boldface quote across the top: “For 75 years, we’ve served those in need. Confidential. Caring. And Compassionate,” says Executive Director Joan Covino.
I almost fall off the chair, digging into my purse for my notebook. I nearly tear the pages, searching for my notes from Dorothy’s files. I need to see the name, but I don’t really need to confirm it. I remember the Bexter board member who recommended Harrison Ebling for the job. Whose letter indicated he’s done a “successful” long-term project for the Services.
Joan Covino is on the Bexter board. She’s the executive director of The Services. Sure, Harrison Ebling did a wonderfully successful job on their fundraising. What a windfall when the Bexter job appeared. All he had to do was scour The Services’ confidential adoption files, then cook up a little extra fundraising on the side. For himself.
He manipulated frightened victims into telling their spouses a concocted story about a nonexistent drug scandal, knowing they’d pay anything to protect their children. Their real goal was to keep their past a secret.
Dorothy discovered his circled list of targets. She took it. And she confronted him with it. First he made the phone calls to frighten her. And then he killed her.
He killed Alethia, too. Maybe he knew Dorothy had told her his secret. Maybe she showed Alethia his circled names. She was the next to get a phone call. She was the next to die.
Still wearing my winter coat and wrapped in my scarf, I stare at my computer screen. I stare so long that the screen goes black. I stare into the darkness as a particularly menacing picture begins to take shape in my imagination.
I’m the next one who saw the list. And what did I do? I showed it to Harrison Ebling. And sinking deeper into my own quicksand, I told him I’d circled the names myself. He’s the only person left in the world who instantly knew that was not true.
No wonder Ebling never called me back with the information. And then Josh asked about the drug scandal. Which, of course, was Ebling’s own fabrication. He must suspect I’m on the trail. And so is Josh.
I have to tell the Head.
Even in my coat, I’m suddenly chilly. I draw my woolly scarf closer. Why isn’t there an undo key in real life?
“Hey, gang, where is everyone? Josh? Penny? Annie? Whoever gets this, call me on my cell, okay?” I’m holding my cell phone between my ear and my scarf while navigating the treacherous reverse curves of Storrow Drive. Rows of balconied brownstones, blocks of Back Bay mansions on elegant side streets speed by as I dodge belligerent Boston motorists who don’t want to let me merge into their too-narrow lanes. Across the shimmering Charles River, a constellation of lights forms a twinkling outline around the historic buildings of MIT. It’s all a blur. All I care about is finding a real person and not an answering machine.
No one answers at home. Josh is not answering his cell. Penny’s not answering hers. Not even Annie is picking up.
It’s past eight o’clock. Where is everyone?
I need to tell Josh to stay away from Harrison Ebling. He’s already killed two people who got in his way. What if Josh is next in line? What if they’re together now? What if Josh is Ebling’s next target? My insistence on investigating what happened at Bexter has put my darling Josh in danger. And he has no idea. Undo. Undo.
“Moron!” I yell, in frustration and fear, at some idiot in a white Ombra. He swerves around me, pulling ahead of my Jeep with inches to spare. My brain swerves, too. That Ombra is like Annie’s. Where are Penny and Annie?
Driving with one hand and punching in speed dial, I try every number again. Home. Josh. Penny. Annie. Nothing. No answer. No one.
“Call me,” I say over and over. “Call me. I’m going to the Head’s.”
I’m going to tell him all I know. I hope I’m right.
“Come in, it’s open.”
I lift the ornate lion’s head, the brass knocker on the Head’s lacquered front door, and tap it twice. Byron Forrestal’s distinctive accent filters through the heavy door. Within moments, I’m inside. With a turn of a knob and a soft click, the door closes behind me.
“Mr. Forrestal?” Standing, tentative, in the soft light of the foyer, I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to wait or follow the Head’s voice into the house. The cottage smells of cinnamon, and the woodsy burn of a newly lit fire.
“In the living room, Miss McNally.” An instruction, not an invitation.
Three or four steps down the hallway, my boots muffled by the muted Oriental rug, the fragrance of the fire is more pungent. As I reach the elaborately filigreed archway leading to the living room, I remember it all. Sconces. Candles. A comfortably elegant couch, two burnished leather club chairs opposite. A decanter of brandy and a silver tray of biscuits on the mahogany coffee table. Crouching in front of the fireplace, his back to me, the Head is using a poker to stir the logs that are stacked, snapping with blue-orange flames, in the oversize redbrick fireplace. He’s in his usual herringbone blazer.
“Mr. Forrestal?” Standing on the edge of the room, I’m not quite sure what to do. The “where are they now” story I oh-so-cleverly fabricated is about to disintegrate into the lie it always was. But the Head will forget about that once I warn him about Ebling’s treachery.
The Head rises from his crouch and turns, fireplace poker in hand.
But it’s not the Head. It’s Harrison Ebling.
A smiling, supercilious gray-haired killer with a hot poker in his hand.
In the Head’s living room?
Of course. He and the Head are in it together. One had the idea, the other had the access to information. One had the plan, the other had the opportunity. One needed a job, the other needed the money. And if any outsider began to suspect one of them, the other could instantly cover it up.
They’re a deadly double team. And now I’m their biggest threat.
“Hey, Harrison,” I say. I attempt an expression that’s somewhere between polite and curious, all the while scouting to see if I should make a dash out the front door. I glance down the hall to see if the Head is creeping up behind me with some sort of deadly weapon. As if a guy with a hefty cast-iron poker isn’t threatening enough. I consider my personal weaponry. I could clonk him with my purse. Stab him with a lip liner. Spray him with hair spray. Pitiful.
“I was supposed to meet the Head here,” I say, backing away. The front door is looking pretty tempting. My only real weapon is deception. “But if he’s not here, I can always come back tomorrow. I told Josh I’d only be here for a little while, so…”
Ebling surprises me. He replaces the poker in a brass and wrought-iron holder in front of the crackling
fire, then waves me toward the couch, the picture of a pleasant and gracious host. It’s difficult to imagine this rabbity middle-aged pencil pusher as desperate extortionist and murderer.
“Oh, please, Miss McNally,” he says. “Hope you didn’t mind my little joke. Byron always gets a kick out of my impersonations. The Head is upstairs. I’m to offer you biscuits and brandy. You know Byron. That’s his tradition.”
Byron? That seems off. Maybe I’m wrong.
“Now, take off your coat and sit, please. I was just going, but Byron didn’t want me to leave you alone. As it happens, I have that list of names and addresses from the fundraising report for you,” he continues.
He pats the breast pocket of his jacket, then pulls out a piece of white paper, folded in thirds. He flips open the paper, holding it up so I can see it. It does look like typed names and addresses.
Am I wrong about Ebling? I take a tentative step or two toward the couch, slowly unwinding my scarf and placing my coat and purse on the upholstered cushions. If he’s actually going to give me the list—is he?—he’s not the blackmailer. But if it’s not Harrison Ebling, or Harrison and the Head, then who made the phone calls? Who killed Dorothy and Alethia?
“See if this is what you need.” Ebling hands me the paper, then fills two crystal snifters with overly generous portions of the amber-colored brandy. He sets the cut-crystal decanter back onto an ornate silver tray.
“Oh, no brandy for me,” I say, perching on the edge of the couch. There are only two names and addresses on the list. Fiona Dulles. And Randall Kindell. The people I’ve already talked to. This is no coincidence. Is it? My cell phone is in my purse. I could look at my watch and pretend I had to make a phone call. I could use the phone on the end table. Then get the heck out of here.
“Don’t be silly,” Harrison says. He’s holding one snifter toward me. The other is cupped in his hand.
If the Head is on his way down, why are there only two glasses? Ebling said he was about to leave. So why did he pour himself a megashot of brandy? Or maybe that’s for the Head.
I give the decanter a dubious look. I take the glass he’s offering me and put it on the table. No chance I’m drinking one bit of this stuff.
“To your ‘where are they now’project.” Ebling lifts his snifter toward me, toasting.
So that glass isn’t for the Head. Where is he?
Ebling takes a sip of brandy. I don’t. The only sound is the hissing crackle of the fire. If the Head is now tiptoeing downstairs with a gun or something, I’m outnumbered, outmaneuvered and potentially out of luck. And farther away from the front door than I was just minutes ago.
Or I may just have a way-too-vivid imagination. From working in TV news too long.
Be that as it may. It’s not my imagination that two people are dead. I don’t want to be next. I reach across the couch for my purse. I’m heading for the door.
“You may be wondering about the rest of the names,” Ebling says. Smiling, he sits down on the couch, between me and my purse, and pats his pocket again. This time, he pats a different pocket. “We have those, too.”
We? What if the Head is waiting by the front door? To—somehow—stop me from leaving? If I run I could be in even more trouble.
Ebling’s so close I can smell the fragrant brandy he’s swirling his glass. See the gray stubble on his cheeks and chin. See a few tiny reddish-brown spots on his yellow tie. I place my glass on the coffee table and stand, moving toward the fire.
“Chilly,” I say, edging away from him. This is not good.
“True,” he replies. He stands up, coming elbow to elbow with me in front of the fireplace.
He’s too close. The fire is too hot. I loosen the scarf around my neck. Call me. Call. Me. I send ESP messages to Josh, to Penny, to Annie, to everyone I called. All my dear ones who I’m beginning to fear I may never see again. My eyes well, and it’s not the heat.
“I suppose you’re wondering about Byron,” he says. He takes another sip of brandy.
“As a matter of fact, I was.” I’m trying to back up but I’m trapped between the couch, the coffee table, the fire and a mousy accountant who seems to be developing into another kind of animal altogether. A scary one.
“Truth is,” Ebling says, “he is indeed upstairs. However. He will not be coming down. Our Byron was so despondent that you discovered his secret little financial stratagem that he killed himself. It’s very sad,” Ebling says, as if he’s relating the plot of a movie, “because he could never have regained his reputation, let alone abide for the rest of his life in prison for three murders. He went upstairs to his room. And used his little antique pistol. Such a tragedy.”
He pauses. With a flourish, he hands me my brandy glass, urging it on me like a gracious host from hell.
“So I fear you won’t be having your meeting about your little project.”
I instantly recognize his voice as “Carter the temp.” And Ebling did a perfect imitation of the Head. I guess he’s right. He’s good at voices.
Oh. Which allowed him to hide his identity when he made the phone calls. And he said “three” murders.
Three. Did he and the Head kill Josh?
Am I next? I’m next. My throat closes. My brain spins, racing to get ahead of whatever is about to happen. Do I run for the door? Couch, coffee table, fire, Ebling.
“But now,” Ebling continues, sounding like himself again, “the least I can do is show you that list of names you wanted so much.”
He gestures at the snifter I’m holding.
“Byron did have one last glass of his very nice brandy,” he says. He steps toward me. “Which you may also want to do.”
He reaches inside his pocket again.
Of course there’s no list. There’s a gun. Pointing at me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
C ouch, coffee table, fire, Ebling.
I’ve only got one idea.
The fire.
“No!” I yell. I crash the crystal snifter, hard as I can, into the crackling fire. With a hot whoosh of heat, the alcohol-fueled flames flare from the fireplace. Harrison leaps back, jumping away to escape the licking orange.
I grab the heavy decanter from the coffee table. With a cry of something that even I can’t translate, I smash the crystal toward him, hitting his neck and lower jaw. Sticky, pungent brandy spills from the bottle, dousing my hands and Ebling’s clothing and the rug beneath us. Ebling wails, outraged, and I hop in pain and surprise, frantically patting away spitting flames from the brandy spatters on his clothing.
I throw my scarf around his neck, pulling, pulling, pulling with every ounce of my strength. The soft loop of knitted fabric tightens, yanking Ebling off balance. Before he can untangle himself, I wrench the scarf, fabric straining and murderer howling, down toward the floor.
The heat from the fire is more intense than ever. It seems closer. Hotter.
The crack of Ebling’s head against the coffee table, a thunk of skull against solid mahogany, is as shockingly loud as the silence that follows.
The gun drops from his open hand. I kick it out of the way with a sweep of my boot. It spins across the rug and slides under the couch, just the barrel showing. Keeping my eyes on the motionless Ebling, I move to try to pick it up.
And then I see I have another problem.
The fire.
Rivulets of flame travel across the Oriental rug, devouring the tight weave and turning the elaborate maroon and emerald designs into monochrome crusting black. Some alcohol-fueled flames are licking at the pleated skirt of the upholstered couch. The camel fabric begins to streak with smoke. The air is a suffocating, thickening gray, sweet with the brandy fragrance, acrid with burning fabric. I stomp my boots at the flames, grabbing for the phone on the round end table.
“One Bexter Academy Drive. Emergency.” I say to the 911 operator. I struggle to keep my voice calm so she can understand me. “A fire. A big fire. And we need an ambulance. Someone’s hurt.”
&nbs
p; I glance at the still-motionless Ebling. Can I drag him out of here? And what about the Head? Who’s still upstairs? And maybe still alive?
“Operator?”
“One Bexter Drive. I understand, ma’am. Help is on the way. Now listen to me, ma’am. Are you listening?”
“Maybe we need two ambulances,” I say, ignoring her. “And the police, send the police!”
I can’t help it anymore, my voice sounds thin and frantic and terrified. I’m moving toward the front door. Through the increasing smoke, I see Ebling’s head lift from the floor. His eyes open, then close again. And his head drops back down.
Should I try to get him out? What about the Head? The cordless phone is still clamped to my ear, my hand clenched in a death grip around it. The dispatcher, urgent-voiced, is trying to tell me something. I know. I know the firefighters are coming. But what if it’s too late for the Head? I’m through the living room arch and into the front hallway. The stairway to the second floor is right here. I could race up, outrun the fire. Get to the Head. And when the firefighters get here, they’ll—
“Ma’am? Get out of the house. Now. Right now.” The dispatcher’s voice goes harsh, commanding, demanding. “Get everyone out. Now. Go.”
A piercing wail suddenly comes from every corner of the darkening living room. I freeze, baffled. Until I realize it’s the Head’s alarm system. The one guarding his treasures.
If he’s dead, the fancy alarm system won’t matter. Do I go upstairs?
And then I hear the sirens. Sirens from outside. Louder and louder and louder.
“He’s, he’s…it’s, it’s…” I jab a finger toward the living room, trying to explain everything at once, not able to compete a sentence, but the four black-suited firefighters, one carrying a huge silver cylinder, the others hefty axes and picks, don’t care about a coughing and babbling woman standing in the doorway. I flatten myself against the wall to get out of the way as heavy boots clomp down the hallway. Radio static cuts through the wail of the sirens. The four instantly take control of the fire, the living room, the now-motionless Ebling and me.
Drive Time Page 29
