‘For what?’
‘To find that evidence you mentioned earlier.’
‘So you’re not going to let it go?’
Sydney shook her head. ‘No. In fact, what happened here has made me all the more determined to see it through.’
Twenty-Nine
Sydney felt it the moment she stepped through the door. On two previous occasions over the past few days she had sensed an inexplicable shifting in the air, as if someone uninvited had been inside her home. Nothing overt, nor missing, or even out of place that she was able to discern. A tingling sensation prickling her skin; that animal instinct warning her of something amiss. Dismissing it as an echo of her father’s presence, she had thus far brushed her concerns aside. This time, the impression was both palpable and overwhelming.
Benton was already heading home to his family when she entered the house. They had taken her Dodge to visit Nathan Rains, and after the confrontation with Alanis, Sydney had driven them back to the bungalow. Neither suggested he linger, so she waved him goodbye from her doorstep.
On the way in, her attention had not been snared by any unfamiliar vehicles out on the road close to the property, and hers was the only one parked up on the driveway. Nonetheless, Sydney was struck by the sudden realisation that if somebody had been inside her home, there was a manifest danger of them still being there.
Front door ajar, one hand clutching its edge, she stood absolutely still and listened intently for the sound of someone rustling about. She heard nothing other than her own laboured breathing. Prior to leaving the house she had locked her gun away, and there was a lot of open space between her and the bedroom safe box. The wisest course of action was to step back outside and call Benton. Not because she was scared, but for backup. Only, what would she say to him? That she had a bad feeling? It sounded feeble even to her own ears.
Shaking it off and drawing upon her resolve, Sydney moved deeper into the house. Using long strides, she silently edged her way around the living area and walked into the kitchen. Her eyes flitted between her chosen path and corners behind which someone might be lurking. From the top drawer next to the sink, she retrieved a carving knife sharpened every weekend by her father for the better part of two decades. Controlling her breathing, Sydney began to search each room and closet.
It didn’t take long. It was not a big house and there were not a lot of places in which an intruder could secrete themselves. She checked behind doors, threw open closets, yanked back the shower curtain in the main bathroom, searched beneath the beds. All the while her heart beat out an uneven tattoo and blood thundered in both temples.
Less than five minutes later, confident she was alone in the house, Sydney put the knife down on the kitchen countertop. Her senses remained heightened and alert to every sound and movement, because she was convinced that somebody had entered her home while she and Benton were out. So intense was the feeling, so certain was she, that she began to zero in on each individual item in every single room, believing that something had to have been disturbed.
When she finally discovered it, Sydney’s breath caught in her chest, causing a mild stab of pain.
It was in both the first and last place she had looked. Or rather, the absence of it was.
Her laptop was sitting on the dining table where she had left it. Sydney realised she must have noticed upon entering the bungalow what she now saw more clearly: the small red light built into the device’s model name on the lid was not winking. That meant the laptop was powered down. The only time she ever switched it off was when turning in for the night. At all other times, when she had finished using the device, she closed the lid and allowed the operating system to go into hibernation.
Someone else had inspected her laptop.
When they were done with it they must have instinctively powered it off, assuming that was how they had found it. The speed of Windows 10 made it difficult to tell the difference between booting up and waking up, especially if the user’s attention was diverted elsewhere at the time. She imagined their eyes sweeping the area, intent on anything but the screen for those first few critical seconds.
The model was not her work device, but Sydney had it password protected all the same. That would hopefully have thwarted any attempt to access it. Still glancing anxiously around, she flipped open the lid and pressed the circular power button. Seconds later the system asked for her user credentials. Fingers paused over the keyboard, a training session delivered by a solemn-looking young man from the Bureau IT division flickered across her mind.
If you think there is even the remotest possibility that your machine has been compromised, do not access the device. It may be that whoever used it without permission installed a key-logging application so that your every keystroke is captured. Perhaps they also installed mirroring software, so that from the moment you log on, someone else is able to monitor everything you do on that laptop, no matter where they are in the entire world. The more malicious offender might well ensure that the act of logging on either corrupts or destroys the hard drive.
Sydney was both in awe and terrified of technology. There was no way of telling by merely looking at the machine whether somebody had bypassed her security, and accessing the desktop without knowing for sure was a huge risk to take. Standing by the table, her hair hanging down over the laptop, a terrible thought struck her.
The laptop was not the only computer in the house.
Dashing into the room her father had used as a home office, Sydney found his computer with the logo screensaver moving idly across the monitor’s screen; exactly as she had left it. This machine did not hibernate after a specified period of non-use, but instead fell into snooze mode and required the password entering to reawaken. This would have been more obvious to an intruder, so there was no real way of knowing whether they had accessed this device, either.
Except for one thing.
The security app her father had insisted she have a copy of on her phone.
In his more paranoid days, her father had installed spy cameras in two specific locations: his business office and his work office. Sydney had never used the app before, but it was still on her phone and she saw no reason why it would not work. Knowing she was alone in the house made her feel less edgy. She poured herself a glass of white wine and sat down at the dining table before taking out her cell and stabbing the app icon with a shaking finger.
On opening, the software revealed a menu. Selecting the camera marked “Home” Sydney pushed out a deep breath when a further array of choices presented themselves. One option referred to dates and times, and once inside she saw a range of times across a number of days were available to her. Tapping the appropriate buttons, she began to play footage taken during the hours she had been out with Benton.
Little more than twenty minutes in, the already ajar office door opened further. A figure dressed in dark clothing and wearing a hoodie pulled tight to conceal their face, stood on the threshold for precisely seventeen seconds. The figure kept their head tilted forwards as it turned left to right. Sydney was unable to see their eyes, but the stranger’s attention lingered on the computer. She held her breath, expecting the figure to enter the room. Instead, they stepped back and pulled the door across to leave its original six-inch opening. The intruder never appeared again.
After installing the security system, Sydney’s father had explained to her that his requirement for a secure video reference uploaded twice daily to the cloud was purely professional, which was why he chose to put cameras into his offices and no other rooms. He had a healthy fear of the Internet’s capacity for exploitation, and had no desire to have his daily life captured on film for anyone to hack into. Sydney couldn’t decide whether she was relieved about his choice or not, but at least she had clear evidence of the trespass.
Remaining acutely aware of her surroundings, she realised something else about the system at her fingertips. It came with a guaranteed storage retention of ninety days, which meant that so
mewhere sitting on a server cluster most likely in a different country altogether, footage existed of her father’s last day on earth.
Sydney’s mouth felt as if it were lined with cotton wool. She took a long pull from the tall glass, swirling the Chardonnay around like mouthwash before swallowing it down. She wasn’t ready to watch that video, but there was time enough in the days ahead. The thought cheered her, and in turn forced her mind away from him and back to the issue in hand.
Who had broken into her home?
The why was obvious: by this time, many people in Moon Falls would be aware of her pact with Dexter Muller. Reason enough for any of them to snoop in an effort to discover what, if anything, she had uncovered since Wednesday morning. The name of officer Bobby Peavey lurched into her mind and loitered. The what was gaining – or attempting to at least – access to her laptop. The when was also apparent, as was the where. The how was not as important as the who, but it needed answering nonetheless.
Barefoot, Sydney padded across to the front door to inspect the lock. To her knowledge it had come with the door, and tens of thousands of uses had left the plate surrounding the jagged key slot scuffed and scarred with scratches. There was no obvious sign of damage, either. She spent the next twenty minutes examining every window, the back door, garage doors and the door leading from the garage into the utility room. Again there was nothing to suggest a break-in.
Experience of detective work in particular had given Sydney ample knowledge when it came to uninvited ingress. This was as clean an example as she had seen. There were many variables, but essentially such incidents boiled down to two main methods of entry: either lock-picking, or using a key. Blinking back a tear of anger at the unwelcome intrusion, she hoped it was as a result of the former. She dare not imagine what the latter meant for her safety.
The next question she asked herself was whether to call Benton. Her heart had no trouble in deciding that she should. There was no reason at all why she would not tell him about this incident. But her head, and the innate scepticism her character had formed like a thick scar over the years, insisted she at least consider the possibility that if Benton retained his doubts over her investigation, he could have arranged to have her home searched while they were out together.
He had made a phone call while he waited out on the drive by the Dodge for her to snatch up her bag and lock up behind her. She had a distinct memory of seeing him talking on his cell. She hadn’t asked who he had spoken to. It was none of her business, and she had assumed he had called home to tell his wife he would be back later than he’d thought. Now she wasn’t so sure, though she hated herself for being this cynical and suspicious.
Sydney’s practical side took over from the emotion. Even if he was not working against her, there was no point in telling him. Nothing to gain. The intruder’s face was covered and they wore gloves. From those vague images, Benton would discern nothing more than she already had. If he wasn’t involved, of course. She gave a single nod and decided this was something best kept to herself for the time being. Hank Stevensen was the only person whom she trusted enough to discuss the break-in with, but even he couldn’t help her.
Accessing her laptop remained a concern. After further deliberation with herself, Sydney made a call. Ryan Daniels worked in the FBI’s cyber security division in Sacramento. The two had collaborated on several cases together, and he was a laid-back, approachable guy. She hoped contacting him at the weekend was not overreaching.
Ryan picked up quickly and they exchanged warm greetings. Sydney apologised for calling him out of hours, but insisted she thought he would be able to help her within minutes, as opposed to the hours she would otherwise have spent researching online.
‘Fire away, Syd,’ he said. ‘I’m happy to help if I can.’
‘Thanks, Ryan. I know you tech guys must dread these type of calls, people like me looking for unbilled answers.’
His laughter rippled across the line. ‘Forget about it. There’s no way you’ll be as woeful as my mother. Sending an e-mail causes her to hyperventilate.’
Sydney laughed along, though without humour. She explained what she was looking for. Silence followed, but only long enough for him to gather his thoughts.
‘Okay, I think I know what to try first. You want me to talk you through it?’
‘Sure. I’m sitting at the laptop now.’
Listening closely, and following every sequence to the letter, Sydney allowed Ryan to walk her through restoring the system from a date prior to the one on which her machine may have been used by an intruder. It couldn’t have been before Wednesday, so she opted for a restore point listed on Monday evening. The sequence took a fraction over ten minutes, but the notification of a successful restoration of system files prompted a deep sigh of relief. For further peace of mind, he waited while she checked to see if software had been added, and to also run a malware check.
‘I’m confident that whatever was done to your machine has now been undone,’ Ryan said when everything came up clean. ‘There’s no access or mirroring software, so I think you’re good to go.’
Sydney offered her profuse thanks. Feeling better and more composed, she got changed and fetched herself another drink. As she sat back down at the laptop, her thoughts drifted and came to rest on who had entered her home uninvited and unwelcome. Her hope was that the intruder had sought information, and had neither the intention nor capability to do anything more than that. Even so, as she tipped her glass back and took a pull from the chilled wine, her mind idly asked further questions she was unable to answer.
Thirty
All homes reverberate to their own individual collection of sounds. From ticking clocks, to refrigerators kicking on and off; wind whistling through eaves, to floorboards popping as temperatures either soared or plummeted; vegetation and trees brushing against the exterior, to the nervous scuttle of uninvited creatures. The longer you live somewhere, the less such noises resonate with you. But stay somewhere for a short period of time, and do so bearing the accrued weight of stress and loss, then soon it isn’t only your ears that hear every single disturbance. Even the weakest imagination floods your mind with them, until you fear screaming silently as you drown.
Sydney had grown up in this bungalow. There was little inside it with which she was not completely accustomed. Yet, the time she’d spent living elsewhere had dulled her conscious awareness of the building and its surroundings, leaving her alert to the unfamiliar. As she tossed and turned in bed, trying to focus her thoughts on her conversation with Jordan that evening and the comfort of Bruce’s loud purring rattling down the phone line, Sydney realised she had failed to concentrate and instead was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.
The reason for her disquiet lay in the break-in. Of that she was certain. None of her many years’ experience of working for the police and FBI had sufficiently prepared her for such a complete violation. Not only of her privacy, but of her humanity. This intruder had not merely entered her home without invitation, he had encroached into her life and trampled all over her sense of security and trust.
Still she was unable to decide if it had come as a result of her connection with Dexter Muller, or if Gerry Kasper had discovered where she lived and decided to take a closer look at the woman he suspected of following him. Perhaps he regarded his trespass as equal to that of hers when examining his vehicle. They were not in the same category at all in her mind, but to that of a disturbed psyche it was more than possible. Even so, it was unlikely, as she couldn’t imagine how he had acquired her name and address.
Other than through the truck’s licence plate number, she realised.
If Kasper had a pal inside the police department, it would have been relatively easy for him to have requested a favour over a beer or two. A quick check through the data provided by the Department of Motor Vehicles would have led him to the bungalow, and in turn to her.
Exhausted, she pushed the thought aside and tried to empty her head. As sh
e finally drifted into the insubstantial twilight that exists between wakefulness and sleep, Sydney heard a faint whisper in the night. A mind slipping into blissful unconsciousness screamed at her to jerk herself fully awake, but she was too far gone to pull herself back from the precipice. The soft sound like a distant sigh was not that of a voice, but of a hushed movement; furtive footfalls on a carpeted floor.
Sydney’s flesh went cold, and her chest constricted as if somebody had tightened a tourniquet around it.
She was no longer alone.
Someone else was inside the house.
Out in the passageway leading to her bedroom door.
Her head foggy, Sydney raised it from the soft pillow and blinked rapidly in the darkness. Her eyes fastened upon the door handle, fearfully expecting it to turn at any moment. Every instinct within her tremulous body insisted she reach across to the bedside cabinet and pick up fifteen .40 calibre rounds of protection wrapped inside a Glock semi-automatic package. Yet flying in the face of all her training, expertise and experience of armed confrontation, she froze in place. A dead weight pinned her supine frame to the mattress, her limbs feeling as if they were cast from concrete. Helpless, she flapped like a landed fish, seemingly enduring a night terror.
Eyes widening and with a previously unheard child-like whimper escaping from the back of her throat, Sydney was unable to respond in any way other than watch in mute terror as a figure coalesced from nothing to something solid and substantial in the pool of darkness between her and the bedroom door.
A door that had not opened. Yet somehow, the interloper responsible for the stealthy approach along the passageway outside, now stood looming over her inside the room. The form appeared to float there at the foot of the bed, neither fully formed nor still. Indistinct, yet gradually recognisable to her as it shifted in place.
Only then did Sydney realise it had to be a dream. The hushed footfalls, the coalescing mass forming by her feet, all part of a vivid fantasy. Had to be, because she did not believe in the truly supernatural. She had simply fallen asleep after all, and this is where it had taken her.
Fifteen Coffins Page 21
