by Hunt, James
“Nothing. No rope, no duct tape, no drugs other than over-the-counter cold medicines,” Barry said. “We checked the basement but couldn’t find anything but a few boxes and old workout equipment. We’ll keep looking, but so far nothing is standing out.”
Grant nodded, hope slowly sifting away. “Make sure you expedite those DNA samples and prints for the lab. I want them back ASAP.”
“Will do, Detective.”
Grant pulled Mocks outside and watched the squad car carrying Paley disappear down the road. There was still the matter of the computer and whatever site Paley had accessed, but there wasn’t a guarantee that Sam would be able to break through the security.
“What are you thinking?” Mocks asked.
“The first call he’s going to make will be to his fiancée,” Grant answered. “We need to figure out what she knows before the two can collaborate on a story.”
“You think he brought her in on it?” Mocks asked. “The stick-up-her-ass didn’t strike me as someone who would stay with someone like him if he did.”
“You’d be surprised what someone’s faith can drive them to do,” Grant said. “I once had a case where a mother drowned both her children because she was convinced they were possessed by the devil, and that the only salvation they could find was in the arms of the heavenly Father.”
“Christ,” Mocks said. “She confess?”
“She left a note,” Grant answered. “After the kids were finished she wrapped her mouth around the end of a twelve-gauge that belonged to her husband. The note said she wanted to see her kids again in heaven.” He still remembered the way the little bodies floated in the bathtub, facedown. “They were one and two.” It was the last homicide case he was assigned before his leave of absence.
“Hey,” Mocks said, her voice soft. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” Grant answered. “Let’s go and have a chat with Stacy and see what she already knows.”
* * *
The house resembled the one Grant and Mocks had just left, though the immediate reaction for both of them was that it was most definitely decorated by a woman. The light accents on the front porch of table and chair, combined with the immaculate flower garden that lined the grass in front of the porch, told a story of a woman who kept a very tidy household.
Lights shone from the windows through thin curtains as Grant parked on the street. He flicked off the engine and unclicked his seat belt. “We don’t need to tell her what happened to her fiancé. I’d like to keep her in the dark as much as possible.”
“No complaints here,” Mocks said.
Side by side they walked the stone path through the small front yard and ascended the front porch steps. The scene was eerily similar to the one they had just left, and Grant found himself with a case of déjà vu. Minus the S.W.A.T. team of course.
Three quick knocks at the door and, after a moment’s pause, the light patter of footsteps moved quickly toward them. It opened without so much as a groan, and Stacy West stood there in a light-yellow blouse and jeans, her makeup and hair just as immaculate as the front yard.
“Detectives, can I help you?”
“We had a few follow-up questions for you,” Grant answered. “Could we come inside?”
A tight, forced smile spread across her face. “Of course.” She stepped aside, and the two entered, the door quickly shutting behind them.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” Stacy said. “I was just getting dinner ready.”
What mess the woman was referring to Grant had no idea, but he suspected it was something she would have said if she’d just spring-cleaned the entire house. “It’s not a problem at all.” He noticed the additional setting at her small kitchen table set up in the living room. A pair of long-stem candles burned, and from what he could tell the silverware that was set out looked like it was only used for special occasions.
“Glenn coming over for dinner?” Grant asked.
Stacy raised both eyebrows and then looked to the romantic scene she had constructed herself. “Oh.” She chuckled. “Yes. Have to keep the flame fanned.” She gestured to the living room. “We can chat in here until he arrives.”
Mocks held back a scoff, and Grant shot her a sharp look as the three of them took their seats. Mocks and Grant opted for the couch, while Stacy took up an armchair across from them. A vase of roses had been placed in the center of the coffee table between them.
The stems were a hearty green, and the petals themselves still a gorgeous red, firm and bouncy. A card sprouted from the middle with words that Grant couldn’t read from his current distance. He pointed to them. “I can see he’s kept up the romance too.”
Stacy blushed and then gave an “oh, stop it” wave with her hand. “One of the many reasons why I’m marrying him.”
Mocks leaned forward, ending the lovebird talk and cutting straight to business. “Does Glenn do a lot of work at home on his computer?”
Stacy tilted her head to the side. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious as to the stress levels he might be under at the church,” Mocks said. “It seems like a big place, and with him as the only youth pastor I could see how it might be overwhelming.”
“I help him with anything that he can’t handle.” Stacy’s tone became increasingly stern. “We’re a team. We share everything together. Our successes and our failures. It’s a woman’s place to help support her husband.”
While the pair continued to spar, poking barbs into each other’s sides over the female role in a domestic partnership, Grant took stock of the rest of the house. Aside from its incredible detail for cleanliness, he noticed the fine artwork on the walls, the crystal in a kitchenette that was the price of a used car, and the security systems on the windows and by the door. The alarm gadgets looked top of the line, but he didn’t see a sign out front that marked the security firm that installed them.
“And what do you do for a living, Ms. West?” Grant asked, interrupting some type of explanation on how God created woman and man in His vision.
“I’m sorry?” Stacy asked.
“We never got that down in the original report when you and your fiancé came down to the station,” Grant said. “Your employment.”
“Oh, well, I dabble in a few things,” Stacy said, dancing around the actual question. “My mother always told me how important it was to be able to handle your own business.”
“Is she the one who also told you about the woman’s place in the kitchen?” Mocks asked, more teeth on this particular bite.
Before Stacy could respond, Grant cut in. “What kind of dabbling, Ms. West?”
“Well, I actually help out a lot with the systems at the church, making sure everything remains properly organized and—”
“What specific systems do you work with?” Grant asked, trying to cut through the bullshit.
“Computers.” But before Grant could push the topic any further, the timer in the kitchen went off. “Excuse me.”
The moment she was gone, Mocks sprang up from her seat. “No way she doesn’t know something. We need to bring her to the station right now.”
His partner was chomping at the bit, and Grant felt it too, but if they pushed too hard they might lose her. “We’ll make something up. Get her to come with us.”
“Paperwork?” Mocks asked, smiling.
“That’ll work.”
“Would you two like any refreshments?” Stacy asked, calling from the kitchen.
“No, thank you,” Grant answered, yelling from the couch. His eyes caught the roses once more, and while he still heard the clanking of pots and pans in the kitchen, he reached for the card in the middle of the roses and plucked it from its holder.
It was folded in half, and when he flipped open the card, there was something immediately familiar about the handwriting. It was smooth and practiced, beautifully written on the small business-size card. The steel-winged butterflies made a surprise visit when he saw the name written at the end, circled with
a heart. It was Mallory Givens.
Wordlessly Grant dropped the card and reached for his firearm, but before he had his hand on the butt of the pistol Stacy West appeared from the kitchen with a gun in her hand, aiming it between both Grant and Mocks.
“Don’t move,” Stacy said. “I want both hands on the coffee table, palms down.”
Neither Grant or Mocks moved, both frozen in shock at the fact they’d been had.
“Now!” Stacy said, both arms shaking, her finger on the trigger.
Grant and Mocks complied, Grant’s mind racing with questions but only asking one. “Is Mallory still alive?”
A smile twitched up the left side of Stacy’s mouth. “Yes. She’s alive. I wouldn’t kill my first. I wanted to enjoy the fruits of my labor.”
“You fucking bitch,” Mocks said, not hiding the disdain in her tone.
But the comment only revealed an even larger smile across Stacy’s face. She stepped farther into the living room, the barrel of the gun growing closer, and Grant finally noticed the suppressor on the end of the muzzle. He was betting she purchased it underground on those black sites that Sam was talking about.
“Clever, clever, clever detectives,” Stacy said, taking a few more steps and stopping just out of reach from Grant’s wingspan. “I thought I’d have at least a week before any of the fingers started to point my way, but in less than a day?” She shook her head. “You really are good at your job, aren’t you?”
“You need to let the girl go,” Grant said. “Think of her mother—”
“The one that’s never home?” Stacy asked, cutting in. “The one who doesn’t know about what really goes on in her own daughter’s head? The thoughts of fear and betrayal. The lust she feels for my fiancé? The fact that while her mother lives with her, it’s like she doesn’t have any parents?”
Grant pinched his eyebrows together, confused. “It was you she was writing about?” He shook his head. “But she wrote Glenn’s name down.”
“Maybe not as clever as I thought,” Stacy said. “You should have just stuck with your gut and brought a case against Glenn. I left a few pieces of evidence at his place to seal the deal. A hair, fingerprints, some of her clothes. You should have just followed the bread crumbs where I placed them.”
It was all too surreal. But Grant didn’t think he’d live very long to regret his mistake. Stacy’s body language screamed she would get rid of them. Now it was just a question of the most efficient manner of how.
“We’re going to take a little ride,” Stacy said.
9
The pressure from the end of the pistol Stacy pressed against Grant’s head held steady the entire drive. Stacy sat in the backseat directly behind Grant, who drove, while Mocks rode in the back with her, handcuffs around her wrist and pinned behind her back with her own pistol aimed at her.
More than once Grant thought of pulling off the road and slamming into a tree or parked car, or anything that would give them a chance, but he didn’t have a hard time questioning Stacy’s resolve now that he knew she was the one behind Mallory’s abduction. The only question that remained now was how to get the girl out alive. But first Grant had to think his way out of this.
Stacy directed Grant to the coast, and their final destination was a small marina twenty miles north of the city. From the rusted gates, crumbling boathouse, and decrepit vessels that littered the yard on concrete blocks, the place looked like it had been closed for a long time.
“Shut off the engine and cut the lights,” Stacy said. Once Grant complied, she removed the barrel of the pistol from the back of Grant’s head and then opened her door. “Get out, Detective Grant.”
Slowly, Grant reached for the handle, and as he stepped out, so did she. One pistol remained trained on Mocks while the second was kept on Grant. “Now,” Stacy said. “Let your partner out, but keep her cuffed.”
Again, Grant complied, and Stacy walked the pair to the only dock still standing, which jutted out a few hundred feet into the bay. The wooden boards groaned with each step and were slick from years of ocean spray. Wind gusted from the Pacific in cold bursts, and more than once Grant thought they were going to plunge into the freezing ocean.
Stacy walked them all the way down to the end of the pier, and once they reached the edge Grant and Mocks turned around, both staring down the pistols meant to kill them.
“So what now?” Grant asked. “Shoot us and then dump us in the ocean?”
“That was the plan,” Stacy answered. “The tide will take you out, and you’ll be lucky if your body comes ashore tomorrow, maybe the next day. By then you’ll be bloated and difficult to identify, which means a DNA test must be performed, and that could take up to three days. Though I’m sure your brothers in arms will be able to connect the dots once you don’t show up for work tomorrow. Oh, which reminds me. Badges. Both of you.”
Grant took off his own and tossed it at Stacy’s feet then removed Mocks’s badge and added it to the pile. Mocks looked like she was ready to charge, so Grant made sure to keep half his body in front of hers to avoid any mishaps. And besides, if someone was going to do something stupid, it was the woman with the gun.
“Did you date him just to get close to the kids, or did you actually love him?” Grant asked.
“More for the kids,” Stacy answered. “And talk about the perfect cover!” She laughed, the stick up her ass suddenly removed, now that she could be herself. “It’s not hard playing the little church girl when you’re attractive. Hell, it’s not hard doing anything when you’re attractive. Not that everyone here would know.”
“Fuck you,” Mocks said.
“You’re not my type, sweetheart,” Stacy said then smiled, and the fading evening light made her eyes look bloodred. “If you only knew what I knew, Detectives. There’s a world you can’t even imagine out there.”
“Underground,” Grant said, trying to keep her talking, trying to stall, trying to figure out how he would keep Mocks afloat with those cuffs on. “You’re talking about the site you visited on Glenn’s computer.”
“Your cyber team will eventually find a ghost file with some stalking pictures I put on there of Mallory, but they won’t be able to crack the site.” She smirked. “No way some government pencil pusher could do that.”
This time of year the water was close to freezing. With Mocks in tow it was at least a five- to ten-minute swim to the shore from all the way out here. More than enough time for hypothermia to set in, and the wind would only make it worse when they finally made it out… If they made it out.
“We will nail you, bitch,” Mocks said. “I promise you that.”
“No. You won’t,” Stacy said, fingers curving over the triggers. “Turn around.”
“Can’t look us in the eye and do it?” Grant asked.
“Now!” Stacy said.
Slowly, the pair complied. Once they faced the water, Grant felt the barrel of steel once again return to the back of his skull. And judging from Mocks’s shudder, he guessed she had one on the back of hers as well. He knew she was scared. So was he.
“Goodbye, Detectives,” Stacy said.
It was now or never. As quick and as hard as he could, Grant shouldered Mocks forward and to the right, sending both of them crashing to the waves below. Gunshots thundered, but when Grant smacked into the icy waters, his whole body went into shock. He could have been shot a dozen times and he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between the bullets and the thousands of knives piercing his skin.
Underwater, Grant opened his eyes, the cold stinging his eyeballs. The water was dark and murky, and he groped in front of him but couldn’t find Mocks. His lungs choked for air, and he clawed toward the surface. He broke the plane of water and was met with an icy burst of air that burned his cheeks.
Gunshots fired from above, and Grant splashed frantically for the cover underneath the pier, then plunged back under to search for Mocks. His heart rate was jacked and his muscles stiff and sluggish, but
the initial shock had lessened a little.
Again, his lungs choked for air, and just when he was about to paddle back toward the surface he saw a figure in the murky depths. He plunged deeper, his muscles cramping from the lack of oxygen, and as he drew closer he saw Mocks kicking both legs and the last few bubbles of breath escaping her lungs.
Grant grabbed her under the left arm and shoved her toward the surface, both kicking with maddening fury. The last few inches felt like it would kill them, but when they broke the surface they gulped the icy, life-giving air.
Mocks coughed up a mouthful of water, her lips almost blue, but whatever reprieve they hoped to have was spoiled by the continued gunfire from above. Bullets splintered the old wooden boards of the dock, sending lead and wood raining over their heads.
With Mocks still cuffed and disoriented, Grant took hold of one of the pillars and shielded her from the gunfire. Stacy screamed unintelligible words, but it wasn’t long before she was out of bullets as well as patience. Footsteps scurried back toward the shore, and then there was the faint sound of Grant’s car starting then driving away.
Grant spun Mocks around, struggling to keep the two of them afloat. “You all right?”
Mocks’s teeth clattered together, and she wouldn’t stop shivering. “Bitch still has my gun.”
Grant laughed and then kissed her forehead. “Humor is a good sign. C’mon.” The next ten minutes were grueling. The waves and cold battered him as he kicked and clawed to the seawall, looking for any ladder or rope the pair could ascend.
The longer Grant stayed in the water, the more his limbs turned into immovable pieces of lead. His joints stiffened, and halfway to the dock Mocks had run out of steam. He was lucky she was so small. If it was anyone else he didn’t think they would have made it.
His shoe scraped barnacled concrete from an old boat ramp, and Grant sighed relief. He dragged Mocks out of the water, and the pair collapsed on the ground and wheezed, trying to stave off hypothermia a little while longer.
The cold seeped through everything: clothes, skin, muscle, all the way to the core of Grant’s bones. “We… need to… radio… for backup,” Grant said, chattering through clanking teeth. He clawed his fingers into the dirt and pulled himself over to Mocks, who had stopped shivering; a very bad sign.
