by Karen Rose
A young woman sat on a sofa, her clasped hands between her knees. Olivia sat next to her while Noah searched Mary’s room. “Do you know where she is, Helen?”
Helen shook her head. “We aren’t friends. We don’t talk. Mary keeps to herself.”
“Any visitors?”
“Her boyfriend, mainly. She was really upset this week.”
“Upset? How so?”
“Cried for hours. I could hear her through the wall. Joel died Monday. Car wreck.”
“Does Mary have family in the area, anywhere she’d go?”
“She has a father and a brother who’s some doctor. I think her mother died.”
“Detective Sutherland.” Noah was standing in the hall. “You need to see this.”
“Wait here,” Olivia said to Helen, then went to Mary’s room and looked inside the bureau drawer Noah had opened. “Two glass balls,” she said, “and baby diapers. That’s where she got the gel she used to keep the glass ball from cracking in the fires.”
“And look at this.” Noah lifted the lid of a small box. “Found it behind some books on the top shelf. It wasn’t hidden well, almost like she’d tossed it up there.”
Olivia sighed. “Her stash.” There was cotton and syringes and two worn metal spoons that bore the marks of being heated again and again. “She’s a user.”
“Let’s get her permanent address and send out a unit. She might have gone there.”
“Mary was at the fire,” Olivia said. “It was probably Albert on the dock and at the school. Which means Albert killed Kane.” Again she pushed aside the rage. “But we still have no connection to Barney Tomlinson or Dorian Blunt. It makes no sense.”
“We need to talk to Tomlinson’s wife. But first, let’s see if we can figure out where Mary would go. How did David know about her?”
“I’ll call David and find out.”
“And I’ll call in the BOLO on Mary O’Reilly.” Noah started dialing. “I’ll make sure the airports are also notified in case she decides to buy her own ticket on Air France.”
Wednesday, September 22, 1:30 p.m.
“Thanks for seeing me,” David said, settling into a chair next to Truman Jefferson’s big desk. He’d been shown in by a young woman who’d announced him as Mr. Smith, then discreetly closed the door behind them. “I know it was short notice.”
“Always a pleasure to meet new clients,” Truman said broadly, then winced when he saw David’s chin. “That’s quite a shaving nick you got there. Must hurt like the devil.”
“That it does.” It still hurt like hell and he was still dizzy if he moved too quickly.
His mother had been very upset when he’d tried to leave the house, going as far as to take his keys. The only way he’d managed to get here at all was to allow her to drive. Of course Glenn had come and the two of them sat in the front seat of his mother’s car, waiting for him to conclude his business with Lincoln’s brother. Then they were going to the hospital to see Jeff, who was finally conscious and taking visitors.
“So, how can we help you, Mr. Smith?”
David studied Truman’s face, his eyes. The family pictures on his desk. If he was schizophrenic like Lincoln, he masked it well. “Actually, my name isn’t Smith. It’s Hunter. David Hunter. I’m a firefighter. Yesterday your brother broke into my friend’s house.”
Truman’s brows snapped in a snarl. “What’s this about? If you’re planning to sue—”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Sir, your brother is not well.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Truman said bitterly. “They say he set fires with that terrorist Preston Moss. The FBI came to our house, upset my mother…. Please leave my mother out of this. She’s not well either.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” David said. “I’m not here to cause your family pain. I’m here because I need to know who helped Lincoln find me yesterday.”
Truman’s eyes flickered in nervous fear. “Who said anyone helped him?”
“I’m not going to sue,” David repeated. “But I have a family, too. Lincoln came to my apartment house, asked a tenant where I lived. She told him I lived in a friend’s cabin. The owner isn’t listed in the phone book, but Lincoln managed to find the cabin quickly.”
“He’s not stupid,” Truman protested.
“No, but he’s mentally ill and at the moment, off his meds. I don’t believe he found my friend’s cabin alone. If you helped him, I need to know and I need to know why. If you didn’t, I need to find who did. If there’s another zealot out there who thinks I’ve besmirched the name of Preston Moss, I need to protect my family. If Lincoln had gone to my loft first, he would have found my mother, not me. He had a gun, Mr. Jefferson.”
Truman’s eyes fixed on David’s face, then looked away. “I want to say Lincoln would never hurt anyone. But obviously that’s not true.”
David frowned, then understood. “He didn’t do this,” he said, pointing to his chin. “This happened on the job.”
Truman sagged. “Thank God. I’ve been afraid of this, but getting him to take his meds… I even gave him a job here so that I could watch over him, but it’s hard. It’s killing my mother. I made her agree to let the system handle Lincoln this time.”
“Did you help him, Mr. Jefferson?” David asked. “Please, I just need the truth.”
“Yesterday Lincoln called me. He needed to find a man named Glenn Redman. He said it was about the Web site, that he needed to pay. Lincoln does Web site work for me. I thought this was about a bill.” He shrugged helplessly. “I was busy and told Mary to look it up. She gave me the address, I called Lincoln back, and the next thing I knew my mother was calling me crying because he’d been arrested.”
It took a second for the detail to sink in, but when it did David lurched to his feet. “Your secretary is Mary? O’Reilly?” Truman stood as well, uncertainly.
“Why yes, of course. Mary Fran’s been with me since last summer. Why?”
Without answering, David threw open the office door. “Oh my God.” Glenn lay lifelessly on the floor, blood oozing from his head. Truman’s secretary leaned over him, pushing at his body, but at the sound of the door opening she wheeled around, her face white. She held a gun in her hand.
David leapt after but she scrambled back, and holding the gun in both hands, fired. The shot went wide and she ran from the office. David ran after her, then ducked behind a car when she fired a second time. The shot pinged off the car next to him, wide again.
“Stop!” he shouted and barreled forward, but she was fast.
Then sheer terror grabbed his throat when she wrenched open the passenger door of his mother’s car and jumped inside. Mary looked straight at him as she put the gun to his mother’s head. He saw her mouth move. A single word. “Drive.”
His mother shrank back, but Mary shoved the gun harder and the car began to move. “No. Mom, no!” he screamed and hurled himself at the back bumper.
And came up with a handful of air and a mouthful of gravel. He pushed himself to his feet and ran, but the car was screeching out of the parking lot.
He had no keys. He had no car. He spun around and ran back to Truman’s office, where the man knelt next to Glenn, openmouthed and in shock.
“Your keys. Goddammit, give me your keys!”
Stunned, Truman handed them over and David ran outside, yelling, “Call 911.” He started Truman’s car and took off after them. Pulse hammering, he fumbled his phone as he punched the gas, fishtailing in the road.
He couldn’t see her car. Goddammit, he could not see his mom’s car. Hand shaking he dialed 911, driving faster and cursing himself for even allowing her to come.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“My mother has been kidnapped. She’s in a green Ford Taurus, heading north toward 35W.” He pictured his mother’s car in his mind and recited the license plate. “Her name is Phoebe Hunter. She’s been taken by Ma
ry O’Reilly who has a gun.” His head was pounding but he managed to keep his voice level. “We also need a rescue squad at Presidential Realty. Sixty-two-year-old man, head wound. He’s unconscious.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“Chasing my mother’s car,” he said, his voice cracking. “Just hurry, and inform Captain Bruce Abbott and Detective Olivia Sutherland.” He came to an intersection and realized he had no idea which way they’d gone. “I don’t see them. Not anywhere.”
“Sir, please return to the scene. I have help on the way.”
David pulled into a gas station. He covered his mouth with his hand, unable to think. Unable to breathe. He stared at his phone, willing it to ring, jumping when it did. Olivia.
“Oh God,” he said weakly, staring at the intersection in front of him. “She’s gone.”
“Who’s gone?” Olivia asked sharply. “David? What’s wrong?”
She didn’t know. Dispatch wouldn’t have had time to call her. “My mother. She’s been abducted.” His voice sounded thin, unreal. “By Mary O’Reilly.”
“What? Where are you?”
“I don’t know.” He looked around, saw the signs, drew a breath and gave her the intersection. “I have to go back. Glenn’s hurt.”
“David. Stop and talk to me.”
But he was turning Truman’s car around and heading back. “Did you get my message before, about Mary O’Reilly?”
“Yes. We’re looking for her. How did you find out about her?”
“Why are you looking for her?” he asked dully, blinking hard to focus on the cars.
“How did you learn about her?”
She hadn’t answered his question and his blood went even colder. “Lincoln is the webmaster for that Moss Web site I found. Mary O’Reilly paid his Web expenses.”
She was quiet a moment. “Okay. Where did you find Mary?”
“I went to visit Lincoln’s brother, Truman. He helped Lincoln find Glenn’s cabin yesterday. Mary is his secretary.” He’d arrived back at Truman’s realty office, his body numb. “Glenn’s hurt. I don’t know how bad. I have to go. I called 911.”
“All right,” she said calmly. “Where are you?”
“Presidential Realty.” He stumbled through the door. Truman knelt next to Glenn, pressing a towel to his head. “I have to go.” Blindly he set his phone aside and pressed his fingers to Glenn’s neck where an unsteady pulse stuttered.
David rolled Glenn to his side. And saw what Mary had been trying to get.
“Her purse,” Truman murmured. “Your friend grabbed her purse. Why?”
David shoved the purse aside. “Tell me about Mary O’Reilly. Pull her personnel file so you can give it to the cops when they get here.”
Shaking, Truman did as he was told, opening a file cabinet, removing a folder. “She applied for a job last summer. Our old receptionist died unexpectedly. One day Mary showed up to fill out an app. I was relieved. I didn’t even have to place a want ad.”
David’s blood ran cold. “Your receptionist died? How?”
“She fell down some stairs. She was older. Lost her footing.” Truman’s eyes grew more fearful. “Why? Mary’s always been a good worker and she’s good with Lincoln.”
“How was she good with Lincoln?”
“She calmed him when he got agitated. Sometimes on a slow day, they’d talk.”
Keeping pressure on Glenn’s head, David made himself think. “What did they talk about?” Although he bet he could guess. Preston Moss.
“I don’t know. I was just happy Lincoln was quiet so I could work.” Truman sat back on his heels, bewildered and afraid. “This is about Lincoln. What’s going on?”
David could hear sirens. “That’s what we all want to know,” he said grimly.
The medics rushed in. “What happened?”
Truman pointed to the floor near Mary’s desk. “I think she hit him with that.” It was a trophy for sales performance. It had traces of blood on one side.
Giving the medics room to work, David searched the desk without touching anything. “Glenn must have come inside. He can never sit still. He must have seen this.” It was a pay stub, with Mary’s name clearly visible. “He knew it was her.”
Truman was staring at the desk phone. “She had the intercom on, listening to us. She knew you were asking about Lincoln. What the hell is going on here?”
David stared at the pay stub, terror stealing his breath. “She’s got my mom.”
Wednesday, September 22, 2:00 p.m.
Phoebe clenched the wheel and tried to stay calm. Difficult when a gun was pointing at her head. The woman was young, early twenties. She’d run out of the realty office only to realize she was parked in. Phoebe had been ready to move her car when the woman jumped in, pointed a gun, and told her to drive.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Shut up and drive,” the young woman snapped.
“Are you going to kill me?”
The young woman laughed bitterly. “Do you want me to?”
“Not particularly. My friend was in there with my son. Did you hurt him?”
“I didn’t kill him, but if you don’t shut up, I will kill you. Up here, turn right.”
Phoebe obeyed, her eyes darting around for any way she could stop the car.
“I don’t recommend you do that,” the woman said quietly. “Really.”
Phoebe drew a breath. “I’ll give you the car and my phone. I won’t call the police.”
“Too late. Your old man already tried. But I will take your phone.” Mary pawed through Phoebe’s purse, found her phone, pulled out the battery, and threw it in the backseat. “Now they can’t track you.”
Phoebe thought of how many times her family had been in trouble over the years, how many times they’d nearly been killed. She’d always thought in some ways it had to be harder, to have to sit and wait for news. To pray. I was wrong. But her family had always kept their heads, had played it smart, buying time until help arrived. So will I.
She began to pray, silently mouthing the words that she’d said so often for others.
“What are you saying?” the woman snapped.
“I’m praying.”
“Well, stop. Nobody’s going to hear your prayers anyway.”
“I’ll know,” Phoebe murmured. “That’s enough.” They’d be looking for her, she knew. She wouldn’t let herself fear. Instead she’d focus on landmarks so that when she got away, she could find her way back.
The woman turned on the radio, tuning it until she found the news.
“Two college students were found dead today,” the announcer reported soberly, “one in his apartment, the other in his university dorm. Police are searching for Mary O’Reilly for questioning regarding these deaths. If you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of Mary Francesca O’Reilly, please call the police.”
Phoebe glanced at the woman. “I’m assuming you’re Mary.”
Mary’s jaw was taut. “Shut. Up. And. Drive.”
• • •
Wednesday, September 22, 2:15 p.m.
Olivia found David sitting on the floor of Jefferson’s realty office, his face pale beneath his tan. A nasty row of stitches lined his jaw. There was blood on his shirt.
She crouched beside him. “Are you all right?”
His eyes were blank. “Glenn saw Mary’s name on her pay stub and she hit him. I chased her and she shot at me. She’s not a good shot.”
Olivia touched his wrist, felt his pulse racing wildly. “David, are you all right?”
He closed his eyes. “I chased them, but I wasn’t fast enough. She took my mother.”
She slid her hand over his forearm. “Is this your blood on your shirt, or Glenn’s?”
“Glenn’s.”
“I thought you were on duty today.”
His mouth quirked bitterly. “If I had been, this wouldn’t have happened. Damn cat.”
“You’re not making any sense, Dav
id.”
“OTJ accident. Mom and Glenn picked me up at the firehouse. I was supposed to rest, but I didn’t listen. I got information on Lincoln’s Web site. He’s had it for ten years under a dead professor’s name.”
“You said Mary paid some of Lincoln’s bills. You tracked her credit card?”
“Yes. And then I called you with the information. Hours ago.” His tone took a slightly accusing edge and he looked away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“I know,” she said gently. “How did you know about Lincoln’s brother?”
“Lincoln called his cell yesterday.”
Oh. “You checked Lincoln’s cell log while you waited for us yesterday, didn’t you?”
He nodded, unrepentant. “Priorities. Yours was catching a killer. Mine was making sure there wasn’t another Lincoln out there to come to my place, hurt my people.”
He would do that, protect his people. “When did you find out Mary was the secretary?”
“Truman mentioned her name when we were meeting. I didn’t know before. I would have called you. I wouldn’t have put my mother and Glenn in danger.”
“I know. We’ve got the state police helicopter in the air, searching for her car.”
He pinned her with his gaze. “Why were you looking for Mary? Tell me.”
Olivia sighed. “We think she killed at least one of the arsonists, maybe all three.”
David closed his eyes, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “With the gun?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so. She couldn’t shoot worth a damn. That’s the only thing that’s keeping me going, knowing she’s not comfortable with that gun. Maybe she won’t…” He stopped, battling for control. “Oh God. She’s got my mother.”
“I know,” Olivia murmured. “We’ll find her.”
“Mary applied for the job here to get close to Lincoln. Truman says their last receptionist tumbled down some stairs.”
“Oh no.”
He opened his eyes, terrified but functioning. “She talked to Lincoln. That must be how she found out about the glass balls, about the VE scratched in the pole.”
“How did she find him?”
“Through the Web site, I guess. Let’s ask Lincoln.”
