by Josh Lanyon
If Shipka was right, other people had disappeared for good on this island. Maybe the only reason Jason was still standing here talking to Barnaby was Barnaby.
Shipka. For the first time Jason considered the possibility that Shipka had followed him and then locked him in the crypt.
Why would he? What could he hope to gain?
But why would anyone lock Jason in? Looking at it from that angle, Shipka was as likely a suspect as anyone.
Barnaby was speaking in a nervous, huffy voice—as though he feared they were being overheard? “This kind of intrusion is absolutely intolerable. My lawyers will be contacting your supervisor in Los Angeles.”
“That’s certainly your prerogative.” Jason added a belated, “Sir.”
Barnaby had turned away, but the flashlight beam pinned Jason once more. “Furthermore, I’d suggest you don’t continue to wander around this island in the dark, young man. This can be a very dangerous place.”
Without further comment, he strode off through the gravestones. The dog, Ambrose, abandoned whatever he was grubbing for in the stand of nearby bushes to streak after him.
Watching the pale blur of the dog, the hair on the back of Jason’s neck rose. Ambrose had been snuffling around the bushes earlier that afternoon. Had someone hidden out there spying on Jason? Someone familiar to Ambrose and Barnaby?
Was that person watching him now?
Chapter Fifteen
“Hey. Just touching base,” Kennedy’s recorded voice said. “Wondering how your interview with Durrand went.”
Standing in the kitchen at the lodge, Jason listened to the messages which had stacked up in his voicemail over the course of the afternoon, and contemplated the dark windows of the cottage next door.
Kennedy made a sound that might have been an abbreviated laugh. “I’m taking it for granted you managed to corral him.” There was a pause as though he didn’t know how to end the message, and then he disconnected.
Jason glanced down at his phone. That was just…weird.
That was all too much like it had been back when they were whatever they were. Kennedy couldn’t think they were going to continue on as pals? Right? Mr. Hot and Cold couldn’t be that oblivious. That, well, insensitive.
Yeah, he could.
He was.
From Kennedy’s point of view, there was no logical reason they couldn’t be friends. At the very least, they could be friendly. Kennedy, by his own admission, liked talking to Jason, and surprisingly, until the past week, they did always somehow seem to have a lot to talk about. Jason had enjoyed their discussions and occasional debates. He had liked Sam in addition to being attracted to him. He had not imagined that he really understood him, and he sure as hell didn’t understand him now.
It was just not possible for Jason to switch his feelings on and off like that. Not this fast. Maybe at some point down the line, but not now. Now he was still hurt and disappointed and a little angry. And maybe it wasn’t logical—maybe it was even emotionally immature—but that’s how it was.
He could—and would—work with Kennedy, but he did not want to be friends. Scroll left, Jason.
He turned his attention back to the cottage behind the hedge. Not a single window was lit. Not one. Was Shipka napping? Was he still out interviewing the Patricks? Had he left the island?
It was odd.
He listened to the next voicemail message.
George simply confirming he’d received Jason’s message from the previous evening that he needed to stay over in New York another day.
Two messages from his sisters—double-teaming him. The message after those was from James T. Sterling, known to his friends as “Stripes,” returning Jason’s earlier call.
“Hi, Jay.” Stripes and Jason had gone to high school together. Although they’d ended up sharing every available art class at Beverly Hills High School—back then they’d both dreamed of earning their living as artists—they were never close. Stripes regularly made a point of letting Jason know he had “sold out” by working for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. “Got your message. Not sure what you’re really after. You can call me back.”
Click.
“Ass,” Jason muttered.
He didn’t think Stripes was going to be able to offer any real information or insight into Kerk’s death, but there was something uncanny about the way he always seemed to know all the juicy gossip before anyone else in town. One thing about Stripes, he was a good listener.
Jason listened to the rest of his messages, all having to do with other cases he was working.
He thought Shipka might have left word, but there was no message.
He glanced out the kitchen window again, but there was still no sign of life at the other cottage.
Had Shipka left the island without leaving word for him? It seemed strange. But the morning had been, well, a little strained after their conversation about Hickok. Jason knew his defense of Hick—even though it had really been more questioning than actual defense—had disappointed Shipka. Probably a number of things had disappointed Shipka. Which Jason felt sort of bad about, but it was probably better in the long run that Shipka understand Jason was not good boyfriend material.
Not right now, anyway. Not while he was still smarting over getting dumped by Sam Kennedy.
Even if Shipka didn’t feel like spending the evening with Jason, it was weird he hadn’t turned any lights on. Why would he choose to stumble around in the dark?
Was it possible he hadn’t made it back from interviewing the Patricks?
That was a worrying thought. Shipka didn’t strike Jason as the outdoorsy type. If he’d gotten lost or taken a tumble, he could be lying out there in the drizzly cold night right now.
Shit. Awkward or not, Jason needed to make sure Shipka was okay.
He shrugged back into his jacket and left his cottage, squelching across the expanse of frosty grass and mud until he found the opening in the hedge. Frigid rain stung his cheeks. The sound of the lake lapping against the pylons, the ghostly knocking of the boats against the dock seemed to fill the night. He crossed the little rocky beach and climbed the wooden steps to Shipka’s cottage.
Up close, the dark windows and resounding silence seemed even more unsettling. Jason rested his hand lightly on the butt of his Glock.
Something was not right.
He knocked firmly on the front door.
A long moment passed.
Jason knocked again, more loudly.
“Shipka?” he called. “Chris?”
Silence.
Jason tried the door handle. The latch clicked and the door swung open with a tiny squeak. Jason pulled his weapon. His heart was kettle-drumming in his chest.
“Shipka?” he called. “Are you there? It’s West.”
The hush was terrifyingly absolute.
Why? Maybe Shipka had simply gone out and left the door unlocked. Why assume the worst?
But Jason did. His scalp crawled with unease.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He brought his weapon up in high ready and took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. In recent years, the Bureau’s handgun training had focused heavily on tight quarters and close-range shooting scenarios. At least sixty-five percent of law enforcement officers were killed by assailants from less than ten feet away. Even so, it was a very long time since he’d had to make a dynamic entry—and never on his own. On your own was always a bad idea.
But with backup at least half an hour away?
“FBI,” he yelled. “Show yourself.” Using his free hand to push open the door, Jason stepped across the threshold, scanning as much of the interior as he could see—which was not much. The room was unlit, full of black angles and deep shadows. He could make out the bulky outline of furniture. No entry hall. The front door led straight into the living room.
Even standing outside, Jason could feel a rush of heat. The cottage was unnaturally warm. Like the temperature had been cranked to high.
He
flattened himself to the door entry point, hugged his way around the jamb to “slice the pie” with his pistol, and entered the room. Now that he was in motion, it was easier. His training kicked in, and he was moving automatically, punching that first, deep corner, flipping around and clearing the opposing corner.
He swept the room with his weapon. No one was waiting for him, no one was hiding behind the rattan chairs and sofa, the trunk-style coffee table and side tables. Nothing seemed out of place. There was no sign of a disturbance.
He leaned back against the wall, breathing quietly, listening. Maybe he’d got this wrong. Was he overreacting after his own bizarre experience? Maybe Shipka had simply left the island.
It was raining harder. He could hear the guzzling sound of water rushing through the roof gutters, and the soggy chime of a ship’s bell. No other sounds. Not so much as the creak of a floorboard.
The smell of rain and damp earth drifted into the too-hot room. They couldn’t quite mask the other thing he smelled.
His stomach lurched.
That weird metallic smell? That was blood. A lot of blood. No mistaking it for anything else.
As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Jason was able to scan the layout of the room. To his right was a hall leading to the rest of the cottage. From an open doorway on the right side of the hall, he could pick out a dim glow. That was likely the kitchen. On the left side of the hall were three more doors—two bedrooms and a bathroom, he was guessing—and at the end of the hall was another closed doorway. Probably the master bedroom.
Jason stuck close to the wall, moving slowly, cautiously toward the mouth of the hall.
When he reached the doorjamb, he threw a quick look around the opening, cornered his way around the door frame, and, gun at low ready, headed for the kitchen.
Same tactical maneuver. Hug the corner, slice the pie, enter the room, and make for the deep corner.
The deep corner turned out to be beside a large window. Jason listened to the rain picking at the glass, his gaze—and weapon—staying trained on the room.
Silence and shadows, nothing more.
The only points of light came from the clock on the microwave, the coffeemaker button indicating the machine was still heating…and the light from the refrigerator which stood wide open.
Jason’s heart stopped.
By the glow of the refrigerator light he could see the breakfast counter. On top of the counter sat a mousepad, mouse, coffee cup, and computer cable. What he did not see was a laptop.
He expelled a long breath and moved back toward the doorway, feeling for the wall light switch.
The light came on, cheery and bright, illuminating a scene of horror. Blood spray arced across the cupboards to the left of the refrigerator, spattered the interior of the refrigerator, and completed its arc on the cabinets to the right of the refrigerator. Jason looked upwards.
Beads of blood and other matter were dotted halfway across the ceiling.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then blinked a couple of times. Black spots danced before his eyes. There was a peculiar singing in his ears. He was not trained for this. No one was trained for this. Discovering the body of someone you knew?
But he had not found a body.
He looked down at the floor and saw the lake of blood shining at the base of the refrigerator. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
He should have found a body, because no one could survive that kind of blood loss.
He wiped his forehead, which was wet with sweat. It was like an oven in there. Despite the cold knot of horror in his gut, his shirt stuck to his underarms and back with perspiration.
A thick swath of smeared blood led from the pool of congealing blood toward the opposite doorway. The body of the victim had been dragged, probably bleeding out, from the kitchen and down the hallway toward the back of the cottage.
Jason followed the blood trail, weapon at ready.
Beyond the fan of light from the kitchen, the hallway was dark. A small boat-shaped night light illuminated the black streaks down the length of the hall.
Despite the gory path marker, Jason carefully and methodically checked and cleared the first bedroom and bathroom off the hall. All the while his brain was racing. Why try to hide the body? Given the amount of forensic evidence, what was the point of this?
The offender was long gone—taking Shipka’s laptop with him. That would have been his next-to-last move. The last move had been to turn the thermostat to Fahrenheit Hell.
Unless this was not what it seemed?
Now there was wishful thinking.
What did he imagine? That Shipka was faking his death to lend credence to his theory that the Havemeyer kid had been killed on this island?
Jason cleared the second bedroom.
Only the master bedroom to go.
His heart was thumping loudly in his ears. His hands were ice cold as he gripped his Glock.
The door to the master bedroom was half shut. Jason used his left hand to push the door wide, and hit the smell of death like a wall. It stopped him in his tracks. His stomach rose in protest. He swallowed down the sickness and turned on the wall light.
The gleam through frosted globes in an overhead ceiling fan light was cozy and soft, revealing nothing sinister.
The bed was empty. The navy-blue bedspread was slightly crooked, but otherwise undisturbed. Shipka’s clothes and belongings were strewn around, but it didn’t look like a search so much as Shipka making himself at home. Jason was vaguely aware of lighthouse-shaped lamps on the nightstands flanking the bed, a white rattan chair beside a sliding glass door which led out onto a rain-wet deck.
Nor was there a body on the floor. Jason looked to the closed bathroom door, then noticed the sled tracks of blood across the jute carpet that led all the way to the closed louvered closet doors. He stared at those unmoving white doors.
He could stop right here. Back out and phone Cape Vincent Police Department, or the sheriff’s department, or the state police, or whoever was responsible for this godforsaken neck of the woods. He could say he hadn’t wanted to contaminate the crime scene. That he had already known it was too late by then. The smell. The blood loss. The total and complete silence. Too late.
But. He still felt that tiny niggle of doubt. Hope? Suppose it wasn’t Shipka? Suppose Shipka was more closely involved—with what?—suppose this was not what it seemed?
Anyway, it seemed like the least you could do for someone you’d been with was not turn away from them in their…extremity. Shipka had died alone and horribly. He had died as no one should ever die. And as much as Jason didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know, he felt like it was his duty not to abandon Shipka now.
He crossed the final stretch of carpet, careful not to step in the blood trail, and opened the doors.
The bloody, meaty mass slumped against the side of the closet was all that was left of Chris Shipka. Jason recognized the gore-soaked jeans and shirt and tennis shoes as Shipka’s. That was all he recognized. All he tried to recognize. The rest…he didn’t want to see, would try to forget.
The rest would haunt his dreams. The rest was the stuff of nightmares.
“Why…” Jason wasn’t even sure what he was asking.
Why would someone think this was necessary?
Why didn’t you tell me everything you knew?
He gently closed the closet door, sat down on the side of the mattress, and pulled out his phone.
Chapter Sixteen
“I don’t have to be in the FBI to know you’re not telling me everything you know about this homicide,” Detective O’Neill was saying.
Jason said wearily, “I’ve told you what I know.”
Well, sort of. They had been at this since Jason had been taken into custody by the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department the previous evening. It was now eight in the morning. He had not been questioned the whole time. Following the initial interview, he’d been left in a holding cell several hours for “p
rocessing.”
He was familiar with the tactic. He had not been charged, and he did not believe he would be charged, though technically there was probably enough evidence to build some kind of case against him. And more would turn up if they ran forensics on his bedroom at the lodge. Whatever O’Neill thought, his sergeant was not jumping to any conclusions; a lot of the hostile attitude stemmed from indignation that the FBI had been investigating in their own backyard without so much as a by-your-leave.
“Bullshit,” O’Neill said. “What did you do with Shipka’s laptop?”
He was probably a little younger than Jason. Dark-haired, handsome, sure of himself. No doubt a rising star in the Detective Unit. Jason recognized the breed, being the same kind of bird dog.
Unlike Jason, O’Neill had had a couple of hours’ sleep, a decent breakfast, and plenty of coffee. He was bristling with antagonism and energy and looking forward to cutting the “Big Initials”—and Jason—down to size.
“The laptop had been removed by the time I arrived on scene,” Jason repeated for the fourth—or was it the fifth?—time. “Shipka and I were following different avenues of investigation. I was on the island to interview Barnaby Durrand about allegations of fraud and larceny. Shipka was looking into an old missing person case.”
“You’re lying!”
“I’m not lying.”
This was old-school interrogation. A lot of yelling and pounding of tabletops, coupled with the implicit threat of incarceration. Jason could put an end to it by insisting they either charge him or let him go, but that could backfire. O’Neill was irate enough to charge him, even if he still believed Jason’s ultimate sin was obstruction of justice. They were not seriously looking at him as a suspect in Shipka’s homicide. Not yet, anyway. That could change at any moment, but he couldn’t let himself be rattled into yelling for a lawyer. If he lawyered up, they would take another, closer, look. That, he did not want. Could not afford. Much better to stick to their script, that this was an interagency pissing match, a game of the thrones, with adversarial LEO agencies squaring off against each other.
