by Carla Norton
She freezes and her pulse jumps in her throat as the man walks toward her. She searches vainly for cover. Cold rain drips off her head into her eyes. Why did she come here? What is she trying to prove?
He reaches the van, opens the driver’s side door, and climbs inside. His face is hidden, but his yellow poncho glistens beneath the dome light, bright as a lemon drop.
A fresh CD starts up, brassy and loud. The man climbs out of the van, visible for a second before his yellow hood dips out of sight. Then, after a long pause, Reeve hears the clunk of wood on wood as he returns to his task.
She exhales and looks back toward the gate, tempted to return to the safety of the Jeep and the warmth of her hotel room. Nick Hudson’s warning taunts her—“you’re out of your depth”—and she stops.
Now or never. Shrugging off caution, she moves forward, keeping the van’s bulk between her and the man who is busy at the woodpile. She moves stealthily, gauging distances as she angles toward the front of the house, which seems empty, with black, lifeless windows.
She creeps up next to the van, pausing in its shadow, and orders her thoughts: Grab the rifle. Watch for people. Find the basement.
What if she startles someone inside? Better to move slowly, or to make a dash?
Her fingertips brush the van’s wet side as she hears engine noise coming in fast behind her. She glimpses headlights and drops to the ground, scooting under the van, pressing her belly to the cold ground, not daring to look up as beams sweep the yard.
The other vehicle crunches up behind the van, stops. The headlights switch off, the engine dies. A door opens and slams shut.
SIXTY
Six of the twelve trained and fit members of the Hostage Rescue Team spill out from the back of the horse trailer, gear on, a quarter mile shy of the target. While they hike toward the house, the rest drive slowly on, Agent Yolanda Martin riding shotgun, an agent named Harris at the wheel, and four others geared up and ready in back.
A few minutes later, the Red Team radios that they are in position. Harris steers expertly around a corner and maneuvers up the rutted driveway. He parks the pickup in front of the house, with the horse trailer strategically angled toward the barn.
Agents Martin and Harris, wearing loose civvies over their body armor, climb out and approach the front door. Martin carries just a few sheets of paper in her hands, while the rest of the Blue Team takes their positions in the shadows around the barn, guns ready. The Red Team is already in place, watching the back entrance and rear windows, out of sight.
Martin, knocks, waits.
A porch light comes on and a gray-haired man cracks open the door. His gaze flits from one face to the other.
“Sorry to bother you, mister,” she says, trying to sound casual, “but we’ve got a horse we need to sell. Heard that J.J. Orr might be interested? Is he here?”
He gives a quizzical look, opens the door wider. “Well, I don’t know where you woulda heard that.”
He takes a step halfway out the door to peer between them at the gleaming horse trailer parked in his driveway. Martin watches his hands. One rubs his chin, the other goes to his pocket.
“Last thing I need is another animal needs feeding,” he says, stepping back inside.
Martin hears the implication, winces. “You’re J.J. Orr, sir?”
“In the flesh.”
“You have a son, sir? Is he here?”
He snorts. “I kicked him out. Junior’s a lot more trouble than feeding a horse, I’ll tell you.”
SIXTY-ONE
Reeve stays rock still. The music beats overhead and the galoshes of the man stacking the wood—Mr. Orr, probably—step into view.
“Hey, see there? You didn’t need to check up on me.” The voice has a high, nervous pitch. “See? I’m restacking it, like you said.”
Footsteps crunch on the gravel to her left. “Good job, Orr-ca,” a deep voice says.
The cheerful bluegrass music reaches a crescendo, then stops.
“Hey, you don’t need that.” Orr’s nervous voice sounds loud in the sudden silence.
“Let’s go take a look.”
The galoshes don’t move.
“I said go.”
The music starts up again with a mournful tune. The galoshes turn around, and from beneath the van, Reeve watches both men march toward the woodpile. Raindrops flash through the van’s headlights and splash in puddles as they walk. The man with the deep voice wears black, heavy boots and has a long, slightly pigeon-toed stride.
As Orr approaches the woodpile, the other man says something she can’t make out. Orr spins around so the two men are facing, and now Reeve can see almost all of him, his bulbous nose, his weak chin, his ample waist. Rain drips off the yellow slicker and his fists knot in wet leather gloves.
The other man takes a stance in his heavy boots, and his voice rumbles out like a bass line. Orr responds, his voice higher, pinched. Back and forth. Fast, indistinct, arguing.
From beneath the van, Reeve cranes her neck to see whether anyone is coming out of the house to join the fight, but sees no movement, no light except the van’s headlights reflecting in puddles.
She turns back to see the big man stride up to Orr, who shrinks away, his face twisted in fear. Fiddles wail overhead. The big man steps closer and smacks him hard on the chin with one gloved hand. He wears a black, hooded poncho. Other than that, Reeve can only see his wide back and the huge handgun he holds at his side.
The music suddenly drops away. She hears “—the girl—” and sees Orr glance furtively toward the house.
A hard shiver goes through her.
The music starts up again, singers drowning the men’s angry voices in the opening chorus. She swallows. She wants to scream, wants to cry, but pushes herself up onto palms and toes, then spiders out from beneath the van.
SIXTY-TWO
Reeve rises into a crouch and sprints away from the music and the men, dashing through the shadows toward the house. She’s across the yard and onto the porch in a flash. She glances back, sees no one, and finds the door unlocked. It creaks open and she moves quickly into the dark house.
The room seems empty. An eerie light plays on the ceiling, backwash from the outside glare. Not daring to flip a light switch, Reeve fishes the small flashlight from her pocket and clicks it on, casting its weak beam around the room, searching vainly for the rifle.
A gunshot explodes outside, the loud blast jolting her bones.
She’s frozen by an animal instinct, but then shakes herself, forcing her feet to move, stumbling through the house, flinging open doors and whispering fiercely, “Hello? Anybody?”
Toward the back of the house, she finds a sturdy door locked with a padlock and pounds it with the flat of her hand. “Anyone there?”
A voice responds, “Who is that?”
“Hannah? Abby? Is that you?”
“It’s Hannah.” The voice comes closer. “Who are you?”
“Where’s the key?”
“He’s got it. What’s happening?”
Reeve rushes to the back of the house, where beams from the van stab through the windows, illuminating overstuffed trash bags strewn across the floor. She gropes along the wall, searching for a key rack, scanning countertops. The inane music continues to gush from the van. Out the side window, she sees Orr slumped and bleeding against a stack of wood and longs for a weapon, thinking bitterly of the puny screwdriver in her pocket, wondering if the other man might—
Another earsplitting blast shakes the walls.
Reeve spins around and rushes back to the locked door. “Hannah, Hannah! Is the key on a ring? Hung somewhere? Did they jingle?”
“No, it’s a single key, I’m pretty sure. Hurry!”
There’s movement at the back porch and the light seems to flicker. Hannah mutters incoherently. Reeve squeezes her eyes shut, trying to think.
She shakes herself, lifts up on her toes, and drags her fingertips across the top of the door frame until
she touches metal. She plucks down the key, pinches it between her fingers, and fumbles it into the lock, wrenching it right and left until the lock pops open in her trembling palm.
She pulls the lock from the hasp and opens the door. A single bulb illuminates a small figure and Reeve gasps, seeing her own ghostly image in the pale girl caught in that dim wash of light.
Eyes wild, Hannah pulls a blanket tight around her. “Is he dead?”
“Come on, hurry!”
As Hannah steps into the hallway, heavy footsteps sound on the back porch. Reeve turns to see a backlit figure looming outside. Hannah moans as Reeve quickly shuts the door and snaps the padlock into place. She tosses the key, and with a rush of adrenaline, scoops the girl up in her arms and sprints across the floor. They are out the door and onto the porch in a heartbeat. Strident banjo music pours from the van, blocking out all other sound as Reeve carries the girl down the dark steps and sets her on her feet.
“Don’t look back,” Reeve warns, but as they dash through the rain toward the gate, she glances once to where Orr is sprawled against the woodpile, eyes open, blood rinsing off his yellow slicker.
They make the gate, turn on asphalt, and rush downhill and away from the cabin, Hannah hobbling on bare feet while rain drenches them like a baptism.
* * *
Hannah wears Reeve’s jacket and the heat is cranked up all the way, but she’s still shivering.
“I need to get you to a hospital,” Reeve says, trying to sound in control as she navigates down the steep turns. She checks the rearview mirror. “We’re not being followed, at least.”
“What?” Hannah wrenches around to peer through the back windshield. “Can’t you go any faster?”
Reeve has no idea where they’re headed. Her first priority is to put distance between them and the cabin. Now, after ten minutes of this bumping, winding road, they seem to be going deeper into uninhabited wilderness. The windshield wipers beat back and forth. The low gas icon glows yellow.
“Check my cell phone again, okay?”
Hannah fumbles with the phone. “No service yet.”
Something up ahead glints in the Jeep’s headlights. A stop sign. Reeve breathes silent thanks and turns onto a road with honest-to-god white lines painted down the middle. She accelerates while Hannah pulls down her visor, angling the mirror so she can watch the road behind them.
“Are you getting warm yet?”
Hannah shakes her wet hair, then wraps her legs in the blanket and tucks them up on the seat. “Who are you?” she asks, peering at Reeve with a strange intensity. “How did you find me?”
Reeve takes a deep breath and struggles to come up with answers. By the time they find the freeway, Hannah has stopped shivering.
“Feeling better?” Reeve asks.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I need to get you to a hospital.”
“No, I want to go home, not to a hospital,” Hannah says firmly. “Please? Just take me home, okay?”
The Jeep splashes through the night, and midway across the bridge over Jefferson Lake, the yellow gas icon on the dashboard begins flashing red.
“Okay, I’ll try,” Reeve replies distractedly, searching for signs of a gas station up ahead.
They cross the long bridge and the freeway angles up through the forest, seeming to climb toward the clouds.
SIXTY-THREE
Before spending time with any of his girls, Duke usually calls her keeper on a cell phone that he uses only for this purpose. The phone chronicles every visit. It’s like an electronic diary. He had to destroy the phone he used to contact Vander-dolt, but he has the other two phones with him. He plans ahead.
With Tilly out and blabbing, and now Hannah inexplicably missing, he has no choice. Still, the very idea of the coming sacrifice is like a knife twisting in his gut.
It’s raining steadily when Duke pulls up in front of the house where he has secured the girl with Simon Pelt. He parks his vehicle and puts on supple black gloves made of lambskin.
This time, Duke hasn’t brought his own special sheet or his toy box. Instead, he carries only his favorite Glock.
Before getting out of his vehicle, Duke unfolds a fresh black poncho and carefully slips it on. It will protect him from the rain and the blood spatter.
He climbs the porch steps with his heavy boots and knocks, all polite.
Simon Pelt opens the door and his eyes go wide. “Hey man, I’m sorry, but she’s not ready. I wasn’t expecting you.”
He sees the Glock.
“Hey man, what’s going on?” Pelt puts up his hands, walking backwards, stumbling.
Duke leaves the door open and follows him inside. He orders Pelt to sit on the sofa.
Pelt is blubbering, but Duke doesn’t listen. He looks around and positions himself behind an ottoman, where his pants and boots will be protected from the spatter. Then he aims, fires three well-placed rounds in Pelt’s chest, and watches him die.
This time, there’s no reason to collect the casings.
Killing the girl would be counterproductive, Duke has decided, so he leaves Abby Hill locked in the basement. He checks the time and pulls the front door shut behind him.
He carefully removes the poncho, refolds it, and puts it in a plastic bag before getting back into his vehicle, taking off his gloves, and driving off through the rain, taking a shortcut toward his next destination.
The silence he leaves behind drenches the house and fills the basement, where it floods against Abby’s ears.
She had braced herself the moment she recognized the heavy tread of the man’s boots. Listened to the floorboards creak, the muffled exchange of words, the sharp bursts that could only be gunfire. A fearful pause, and then the man’s heavy tread, leaving.
Now, curled up on the cot, hugging her knees to her chest, she is awash in a profound and terrible stillness. She waits, knowing that her caretaker is dead, that she is abandoned.
Entombed.
She moans once—a sad, low sound—and shuts her eyes to listen hard for any hint of movement. She cannot hear the rain, the house is locked in silence, and her terror beats like a drum.
SIXTY-FOUR
Hannah Creighton’s family whirls around her, and Reeve huddles on their living room sofa, feeling that she has stepped out of a rainstorm into a hurricane. A weeping, joyous opera has unfolded—punctuated by ecstatic six-year-old twins and three barking dogs—while Reeve has rolled through so many emotions that she’s literally dizzy. It’s almost like watching her own personal history being replayed, and it’s all so damn weird that it can only be called cathartic.
But this is not the time or place for Reeve to share this observation. Dr. Lerner is caught up in his own whirlwind, coming out of Hannah’s bedroom with one wet-eyed parent or the other, heads bent in conversation. Patting backs, murmuring reassurances. And barely giving Reeve a word, despite that she was the one who insisted he be called.
“He’s a psychiatrist,” she’d repeated to the Creightons. “Which means he’s a medical doctor, an MD, and since she doesn’t want to go to the hospital—”
“He might be the best of both worlds,” Mr. Creighton had said to his wife. “Don’t you see, honey? He could be exactly what Hannah needs.”
So, they had called Dr. Lerner, who had rushed straight over from the hotel. And now he’s in his element, dealing with an emotional crisis, the kind of man who knows how to ask the right questions, a trained physician whose tone soothes, whose presence comforts. And gradually, the entire household seems to slip past shock and joy, settling into a hushed thankfulness.
Hannah’s return is a kind of miracle. And Reeve, who has delivered her, is hugged and thanked in an almost reverential way. She has never been on the receiving end of so much gratitude.
Now she rests alone on the sofa, cocooned in warmth and compassion. She closes her eyes and drifts. Her breathing deepens, heavy with fatigue.
And then phones begin to ring, and her trance wavers.<
br />
She hears voices—whispering, harsh, urgent—and she sits up, wondering what is wrong.
Dr. Lerner takes his cell phone into the kitchen.
Mrs. Creighton grasps her husband’s arm and they confer, nodding sharply, before disappearing through their daughter’s door.
Reeve gets to her feet and heads toward the kitchen, where Dr. Lerner pockets his phone and looks at her with a pinched expression.
“Brace yourself,” he says, “all hell is about to break loose.”
“What? Why?”
He opens his hands in a helpless gesture. “Protocol.”
* * *
Jackie Burke was the last person Reeve expected to see, but the moment the prosecutor bursts through the door, accompanied by four uniformed officers, it becomes immediately clear that the spell of sweet reunion is about to sour.
Two intense female officers drag black rolling luggage behind them as Mr. and Mrs. Creighton show them down the hall to Hannah’s room. The two somber male officers carrying large briefcases say nothing while Jackie Burke stalks over to Dr. Lerner, who ducks his head apologetically and leads them to a room at the other end of the house.
Everyone ignores Reeve, who is left standing alone in the living room, looking from one door to the other, pinching her damaged hand.
She considers calling her father. Or Nick Hudson, who still hasn’t responded to her text.
When the doorbell rings, she’s the only one nearby. Opening it, she finds two unsmiling men in dark suits. The shorter, more muscular of the two asks, “Reeve LeClaire?”
She nods and steps aside so they can enter.
But they don’t budge. “I’m Special Agent Barry Coulter,” he says, holds up his badge, “and this is Investigator Krasny. We have some questions for you.”
