Ol’ Freddy grabbed his cell phone from the dash and hit the menu button. The screen came to life and Freddy’s heart sank.
A red battery icon flashed zero percent.
“Goddamnit!”
Jake watched with his head cocked as his master began to dig frantically through the glove compartment.
CHAPTER 93
The warm glow from aromatherapy candles perched along the rim of the bathtub cast wavering shadows on the bathroom walls. The soothing fragrance of lavender and vanilla, and soft music from Anna’s iPod, infused the air with tranquillity.
Anna lay chin-deep in the warm soapy water, eyes shut, in a state of absolute relaxation. She almost felt weightless, formless, as if the bathwater had dissolved her body away, leaving nothing but pure thought.
Anna pondered the life growing inside her, the life that she and Martin had created, and this thought filled her with perfect joy. She thought about fun ways that she could reveal the wonderful news to her husband. Maybe she’d bake his favorite chocolate cake and inscribe it with a special message, or maybe she’d buy him one of those cheesy T-shirts that said Soon to Be the World’s Best Dad. Maybe she’d do both. As Anna lay there dreaming up endless possibilities, her thoughts descended gently into sleep.
* * *
The Handyman, gun held ready, ascended the stairs carefully, pausing to test each step before committing his full body weight. A single creaking misstep might alert the woman to his presence; then things could get sloppy real fast. The Handyman didn’t do sloppy.
Finally reaching the top of the stairs, the Handyman tiptoed down the upstairs hall. When he passed the master bedroom, just to be thorough, he peeked inside. The room was empty, as expected. He continued down the hall. As he approached the closed bathroom door, he could hear music playing inside. It was a Sigur Rós piece called “Untitled #3.” It was on the playlist he listened to while jogging every morning at five a.m. The tune was very relaxing, transcendental even. Perfect music for dying.
The Handyman pressed his ear to the door and listened. There were no sounds of sloshing water or of wet feet on tiles or of magazine pages flipping, just the coaxing rhythms of “Untitled #3.” The only explanation was that the Grey woman was either fast asleep or already dead. He smiled at his mental joke. Could this job get any easier?
Leading with the pointed gun, the Handyman twisted the doorknob and eased the bathroom door open. A pleasant aroma greeted him as he crept through the doorway. The sight of Anna Grey, her head tilted slightly, sound asleep in the tub, brought another small smile to his face.
Two more careful steps, and the Handyman was looming directly over Anna. Through the dissipating bubbles he could see her lovely naked body. For a second he entertained the idea of using her for sexual relief, but his professionalism would not allow him such an indulgence. Especially not on an ASAP job.
As “Untitled #3” reached his favorite part, the real quiet part at the end that sounded like the soul leaving the body, the Handyman cocked his gun and took aim at Anna Grey’s temple.
The Handyman’s finger was about to squeeze the trigger when he heard something, an odd musical note. He had listened to “Untitled #3” dozens of times and knew this note was wrong. Then he heard it again and realized with some alarm that the odd musical note wasn’t coming from the iPod, it was coming from downstairs.
The doorbell chimed again, this time followed by loud banging and a shouting voice. “Mrs. Grey, it’s the police. Open the door.”
The Handyman saw Anna Grey stir drowsily. He had to act now before she woke up.
* * *
Another series of loud bangs and Anna lurched awake. She spun around in the tub and gasped at what she saw.
The bathroom door was wide open. She didn’t remember leaving it that way, but maybe she—
Loud pounding and shouting startled Anna.
“Mrs. Grey,” a muffled voice boomed from downstairs, “it’s the police. Please open the door.”
What the hell? Still foggy from sleep, Anna’s mind whirled. “I’m coming,” she shouted. She climbed out of the tub and grabbed her robe.
A moment later, barefoot and dripping all over her living room floor, Anna snatched open the front door. She stared, baffled and more than a little alarmed, at the two uniformed police officers standing on her doorstep. The older officer was white, the younger one appeared to be Hispanic. Both had their hands resting on their sidearms.
“Anna Grey?” the older officer asked.
The first thought that sprang into Anna’s mind was that something awful had happened to Martin. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice edged with fear. “What happened?”
Ignoring the question, the two officers peered over Anna’s shoulder into the house. They craned their necks trying to glean as much as they could from the doorway.
“Is everything okay here, ma’am?” the older officer asked.
“Yes. Fine.”
“Anyone else in the house?”
“No, nobody.”
While the younger officer pivoted and glanced around the front yard, the older officer looked at her. “What about Mr. Grey? Is he home?”
“No, he’s out of town.” Anna’s tense shoulders relaxed as if shedding a heavy cloak. The officer’s question about Martin meant that this odd visit had nothing to do with his trip. Anna brushed away dripping water from her neck. “So what is this about?”
The older officer pinned Anna with a conspiratorial stare and dropped his voice to a whisper. “If someone’s hiding in the house, blink twice.”
Now Anna was really getting freaked out. “Look, I was just taking a bath. I’m here alone, I swear. Would you please just tell me what’s going on? You two are starting to scare me.”
The two officers settled down. “Sorry, ma’am,” the older officer said. “Just doing our job.”
“What job? Like I told you, I’m fine. I have no idea why you’re here. I didn’t call the police.”
“No, ma’am. Someone else did.”
“And what, they told you to come to my house?”
The officer nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The DA’s office received an urgent call from your attorney, a—” The officer checked his notepad. “Glen Grossman. Mr. Grossman explained that you were a witness in one of his cases and that there had been a threat against your life.”
Anna stared. Nothing the officer said made any sense. “What? That’s—”
The older officer raised a calming hand. “No need to get alarmed, ma’am. Usually these types of threats are baseless. But if you don’t mind, I would like my partner to take a look around your house. Is that okay?”
Anna didn’t know how to reply. If Glen did call the police, she didn’t want to get him in trouble by exposing his lie. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine any reason why Glen would do such a thing. He wouldn’t.
“I’ll be real quick, ma’am,” the younger officer said. “Just a walk-through for our report.”
Anna shook her head. “No. Hold on. Glen Grossman isn’t my attorney. He’s my husband’s law partner. And I’m not a witness in any case. There’s been some kind of mistake.”
The two officers exchanged confused looks. The older turned back to Anna. “This Grossman character is not your lawyer? You’re not one of his witnesses? You’re sure?”
“Of course. I told you, he’s my husband’s partner. This is very strange. Maybe someone’s playing a prank.”
“A prank? This would be a very serious prank, ma’am. Your husband’s partner the kind of person who would do something like this?”
“Who, Glen? No. Never. He’s—” Anna was interrupted by Glen’s Grand Cherokee screeching to a stop at the curb. Glen’s sudden appearance added another spin to the mystery, because it meant only one thing: Glen really did call the police. In a fog of puzzlement, Anna pointed and
said, “That’s Glen right there.”
Anna watched Glen jump out of his car and hurry up the walk. She had never seen Martin’s best friend look so anxious. Glen spotted her behind the two officers, waved, and called out, “Anna, thank God you’re okay.”
“Hold it right there, sir.” The two officers stood shoulder to shoulder on the walk, cutting off Glen from Anna. Both had their hands on their weapons.
Glen froze. “Hey, it’s cool. I’m Glen Grossman. I’m the one who called—”
“We’re aware of that, sir,” the older officer said. “Are you aware that making a false police report is a felony?”
Anna held her breath waiting for Glen’s response.
“But it’s not a false report,” Glen said emphatically to the glaring officers. “I’m really glad you’re here. Anna’s life is truly in danger.”
Anna gasped.
* * *
After they had moved inside, into the living room, Glen explained everything to Anna and the two police officers. How less than an hour ago he had received an odd telephone call from a man in West Virginia named Fred Tynan. This man claimed to have found a note handwritten by Martin Grey that was left under a rock in the middle of an abandoned highway. The note contained instructions for the person who found it to contact attorney Glen Grossman in New York City and warn him that Anna Grey was going to be murdered that very day.
When Glen was through with his story, the two officers did not appear very impressed, but Anna was terrified. It wasn’t the threat to her life that frightened Anna; it was Martin’s life she was worried about. Anna had no doubt that the letter was real; it was just too crazy, just too random to be a fabrication. The fact that the letter was found in West Virginia and not Washington State also did not comfort her; in truth, she had no idea where her husband was. All at once, Anna’s fears about the mysterious rafting trip, about what really happened to Donald Jackson, about the hatred and fear that she saw in Mrs. Jackson’s eyes—it all came clawing back to the surface.
Verging on panic, Anna said to Glen, “Martin’s in trouble.”
Glen frowned. “I think you’re right. But wasn’t he supposed to be on the West Coast?”
Anna shook her head. “None of that matters. Glen, I know he’s in trouble. I know it.” Anna whirled to the two officers. “My husband’s in trouble, you have to do something. Please.”
The officers appeared equal parts doubtful and confused. The older one scratched the back of his neck. “Ma’am, this supposed letter, it’s about you, not your husband.”
“I don’t care what the damn letter says,” Anna snapped. She was beginning to sound frantic and she didn’t care. “You have to call somebody. You have to find him. His life is in danger. I know it.”
“Okay, ma’am. Just settle down. Please. I want you to explain to me very carefully how you know that.”
“I can’t,” Anna said, tears welling in her eyes. “I just—I just know.”
That’s when telephones began to ring. The cell phones in the pockets of both police officers, Anna’s cell phone upstairs in the bedroom, and the phone in the living room, simultaneously began to ring, chime, and buzz.
As the puzzled cops grabbed their phones, Anna crossed to the coffee table and picked up the wireless handset. She brushed tears and hit the talk button. “Hello?”
The male voice on the other end had a stiff, formal clip. “This is Agent Rivers with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Am I speaking to Mrs. Anna Grey?”
“Yes.” Anna’s heart began to race. “Yes, this is she.”
“Can you confirm for me that there are two NYPD police officers in your home at this time?”
“Yes, they’re right here. What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain everything at headquarters, Mrs. Grey. Please follow the officers’ instructions. Good-bye.”
“No, wait.”
There was a click followed by a dial tone.
When Anna turned around, she saw Glen gaping at the two officers, who were moving now with great urgency. Both men had their weapons drawn. The younger officer opened the front door and scanned the exterior of the house while the older officer approached Anna, gun lowered at his side. He addressed her with laser-like focus, as if Glen weren’t in the room.
“We have an emergency, ma’am. I need you to get dressed as quickly as you can and come with us.”
“Just one second,” Glen said. “You can’t just—”
The older officer stifled Glen with a stare. “Mr. Grossman, you’re welcome to accompany her, but do not interfere.” Glen deflated. The officer pivoted back to Anna. “I’m really going to have to ask you to hurry, ma’am.”
“First you have to tell me,” Anna said, “what’s happening. What’s happened to Martin?”
“Honestly, Mrs. Grey, I do not know. All I can tell you is that I just got off the phone with the director of the FBI himself. Whatever it is, it’s damn important.”
* * *
After climbing out the upstairs bedroom window and shimmying down to the Greys’ backyard, the Handyman had no trouble slipping back to his parked car without being noticed.
The smart thing would have been to drive away, but the Handyman was frustrated, so instead he sat there and watched. He watched the two cops talk to Anna Grey at her front door, he watched Grossman drive up like there was some big emergency, and then he watched all of them leave in the cruiser.
It was obvious to the Handyman that someone had tipped the police off to Anna Grey’s hit. But who? Ultimately it didn’t matter. The bottom line was that he had failed.
The Handyman sighed and picked up his iPhone. Now he had to endure the unpleasant task of reporting his failure to the client. Not only would he not be paid; his professional reputation would be damaged.
The Handyman dialed the number; no one answered. This had never happened before. Day or night, the client always took his call. The Handyman dialed again, and again no answer. The phone just rang and rang.
Something had changed.
As the Handyman killed the call, he felt an odd sensation, one that he didn’t recognize at first. This feeling clouded his thoughts and made it difficult for him to decide his next move. Should he wait for another opportunity to kill the Grey woman; should he wait to hear back from the client; should he go off the grid? He just wasn’t sure.
Then it came to him. Fear, that’s what the feeling was. Something big had changed, and now the Handyman was afraid.
CHAPTER 94
Martin Grey peeled open his eyes and squinted at the blinding white light. The light flicked back and forth from eye to eye.
“Wake up,” an unfamiliar male voice called. “Time to wake up.”
“Stop,” Martin groaned. He turned away from that annoying light. His head felt like it weighed a ton.
The light shut off and he heard the voice again. “Good morning. Can you tell me your name?”
Martin squinted up at the man staring down at him. He was African American, about Martin’s age, and he was wearing a white coat. Martin realized that the man was a doctor.
“What’s your name?” the doctor repeated. “Can you tell me your name?”
Martin’s lips were dry, and there was a nasty taste in his mouth. “Martin,” he answered hoarsely. “Martin Grey.”
The doctor smiled. “That’s good. How old are you? Do you remember that?”
His vision clearing, Martin could read the name tag on the doctor’s white coat. It read Dr. Gordon Hudson.
“Mr. Grey,” the doctor pushed, “tell me how old you are.”
“I’m thirty-three,” Martin said. “Where am I?”
The doctor smiled. “You’re at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta. My name is Dr. Hudson. You’ve been in an induced coma for four days. Welcome back.”
“Four days? But—”
As Martin tried to absorb this, images and memories began flying back, like pieces of a puzzle coming together. Then all at once he remembered everything. “Anna!” Martin cried as he shot up. Dr. Hudson and a nurse pounced immediately to hold him down. The nurse secured the IV tubing and monitoring cables tethered to Martin’s body.
“You must calm down, Mr. Grey,” Dr. Hudson said firmly.
“But Anna— They’re going to—”
“Your wife is safe, Mr. Grey. She’s right here.”
Martin blinked at Dr. Hudson, not sure that he had heard right. “What? Where?”
Dr. Hudson didn’t answer. Instead he just stepped back and allowed Anna to step forward.
Martin couldn’t believe his eyes. It was really her, it was Anna, staring down at him. There were tears streaming down Anna’s face but she was smiling and so, so beautiful.
Anna threw herself onto Martin and they shared a hug so long and so tight that finally the doctor had to intervene. “Easy, you two. We have to be careful of that shoulder for a while.”
As they parted, Martin grabbed Anna’s hand. “That place, Forty Acres. It was horrible. It’s—”
“I know,” Anna said. “Martin, everybody knows. I think the whole world knows what you did.”
Confusion leapt onto Martin’s face. “What I did?” Martin remembered the trapped slaves. He remembered time ticking away. He hesitated, afraid to ask Anna the question. “You mean . . . they’re okay? The mine didn’t explode?”
Anna shifted sideways to allow another person to approach the bedside. The young woman wore a pink patient’s gown. Beneath the gown Martin could see that her entire torso was wrapped with bandages. Her long, strawberry-blond hair was tied back in a ponytail.
It was Alice. She was alive. Which meant that they were all alive. Martin reached out and squeezed Alice’s hand, and Alice squeezed back. They shared a warm smile and Alice wiped tears from her cheeks.
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