Hide Away (A Rachel Marin Thriller)

by Jason Pinter

  No more.

  Rachel took her arm off the lieutenant’s neck and stood up.

  “Nobody dies tonight,” she said. She reached into George’s coat and found his cell phone. It was off. She pressed the power button, and the screen illuminated. She prayed her children were safe.

  She dialed 911 and put it on speaker.

  When dispatch picked up, she said, “My name is Rachel Marin, and, hell, where do I start. I’m in Woodbarren Glen with—”

  Just then, Rachel saw a glint of gray reflect off the phone screen as George raised the knife. She didn’t have time to move. In a second, it would be in her heart.

  Two shots rang out. A spurt of blood erupted from George’s shoulder. The knife went flying from his grasp and disappeared into the snow. George writhed on the ground, clutching his shoulder, blood seeping from two gunshot wounds. Rachel spun around and saw John Serrano and Leslie Tally standing twenty feet away, their guns raised.

  Serrano ran over and aimed his weapon squarely at George’s chest.

  “Lieutenant Daryl George,” Serrano said. “You are under arrest for the attempted murder of Rachel Marin. And the murder of Constance Wright.”

  George gritted his teeth as his face grew pale. Serrano looked back at Tally.

  “EMTs are on the way,” she said. Tally jogged over to Rachel, saw the blood staining her pants. “Here. Lie down. Let’s raise that leg and put some pressure on it.”

  Tally helped Rachel to the ground. She took her coat off and wrapped it around the knife wound, pulling it tight. Rachel grimaced.

  “Thank you, Detective.”

  “It’s my job,” Tally said. “But you’re welcome. I will send you the dry cleaning bill, though.”

  Rachel laughed. She looked up at John Serrano, his gun still trained on Daryl George.

  “I think you two have this under control,” Rachel said. “I’m gonna take a nap now.”

  Rachel closed her eyes, prayed she’d get to hug her children soon, and let the darkness envelop her.

  CHAPTER 42

  One Month Later

  The doorbell rang, and Rachel limped over to answer it. The rectus femoris muscle in her quadriceps, sliced neatly by Daryl George’s blade, was still healing. Eric was helping out with the laundry, and Megan did her best to set and clean the table after meals as their mother recovered. But tonight, Rachel felt no pain.

  Standing on her front step was Detective John Serrano. He was wearing dark blue jeans, a green flannel shirt, and three-day-old scruff. In one hand he held a twelve-dollar bottle of merlot, and in the other, an unopened box of movie-theater-flavored popcorn. His hair was neatly combed.

  “Wine and popcorn. Best dessert ever,” Rachel said. And she meant it. “The only thing that might make it better is—”

  Serrano pulled a bag of peanut M&M’S from his pocket. Rachel smiled.

  “You are a god among men,” she said.

  “Candy and booze. That’s a mighty low god bar you’ve set.”

  “And you’d still be shocked how few manage to hurdle it. Come on. They’re waiting.”

  She hung up Serrano’s coat as he removed his boots. Eric and Megan were sitting in the living room. Eric had a paperback copy of A Storm of Swords open in front of him and was reading it to Megan.

  “Eric, what did I say about reading violent books to your sister?”

  “Aw, Mom, it’s not violent.”

  “Are there any decapitations in that book?”

  Eric hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Flayings?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then put it down. Find a Baby-Sitters Club or something.”

  “Those are boring.”

  “Boring is being locked in your room until you’re twenty-one.”

  Eric saw the popcorn and candy and lit up. “Baby-Sitters Club it is.”

  “Do us a favor, hon,” Rachel said. “Bring over the ottoman, and put a tray on it for the food. I need to show John something.”

  “John?” Eric said. “He’s not Detective Serrano?”

  “Tonight, I can be John,” he said.

  “OK, John,” Eric said with a wry smile. “I’ll go get it, John.”

  As Eric went off, Rachel motioned for Serrano to follow her. She led him to a door locked by a keypad. She plugged in the code and opened it.

  “Come with me,” she said. Rachel flipped a light switch on and led Serrano downstairs. They came to a metal security door. Rachel plugged in another code.

  “What do you keep down here, gold bullion?” he said. Rachel didn’t respond. She opened the security door and led him into the pitch-black basement.

  “Why do I feel like Jodie Foster at the end of Silence of the Lambs?” Serrano said. “If there’s a body decomposing in a bathtub, this is the last time we hang out.”

  There was a click, and the basement was illuminated.

  Rachel stood underneath a single seventy-watt light bulb with a pull string. Serrano looked around the basement.

  “What is . . . what is all this?”

  “My work. My real work,” she said.

  The basement floor was lined with rubber mats. Free weights were stacked neatly against one wall, along with medicine balls, jump ropes, plyometric trainers, a treadmill, an elliptical machine, a BoxMaster Tower bolted to the floor with a dozen striking pads of varying heights and positioning, a mounted pull-up bar, and half a dozen other training machines and devices.

  On another wall was a bookshelf filled with dozens of forensic, psychological, sociological, behavioral, and law enforcement texts. The DSM-5, Fundamentals of Forensic Science, Forensic Science and Toxicology, Pharmacology, Biology, Criminalistics, Forensic Psychology and Criminal Behavior, Homeopathy, Police Procedure & Investigation, The Law Enforcement Officer’s Bible, Proving Federal Crimes, and Law Enforcement and Justice Administration. And that was just one shelf.

  “I was a different person before Brad died,” Rachel said. “A simpler person. And after he was gone, I couldn’t afford to be that person anymore. I had to be stronger and smarter than ever for the sake of my children. Because I didn’t trust that anyone else could protect them.”

  Serrano went over to a six-foot-long ebony wood desk topped with a powerful desktop computer, a bank of monitors, and numerous external hard drives. A notepad lay open to a fresh page, next to a jar filled with pens and pencils.

  Then Serrano noticed the framed photograph hanging above the computer. He pointed at it.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  Rachel nodded solemnly.

  “That’s Bradley,” she said. “He died a week before his thirty-fifth birthday. When I was younger, I hated how everyone said our kids looked like him. For some reason it felt like a jab at me, an insult. Now, knowing our kids look like him is what gets me through the day. They have his eyes. His chin. I’m thankful for how they remind me of Brad. Thankful that monster couldn’t take all of him.”

  “Harwood Greene,” Serrano said. Rachel nodded.

  “He’d already killed six people by the time he got to us. Can you imagine what it’s like, to sue the police department, the city where you raised your family? People had sympathy for us at first, but once I sued, they turned their back. They said I was profiting off my husband’s death or blaming the whole department for one bad egg. Meanwhile, our lives had been shattered. Harwood Greene left Bradley’s remains in a dirty sack on our front porch. Eric found it, saw his father literally torn to pieces. He didn’t speak for a month. It was years before he stopped waking up in the middle of the night screaming. That boy upstairs, he went to hell and back.”

  She felt Serrano take her hand. A great well of emotion rose up in Rachel. She allowed one audible sob, like he’d opened a valve, squeezing Serrano’s hand back.

  “The police found photographs in Greene’s house. Some of the photos were of me and Eric the night we found Bradley. Greene sat in a car half a dozen blocks away with a telescopic lens, documenting our horror. He did it wi
th every victim. Like the pictures you get when you go on a roller coaster.”

  “I can’t even imagine,” Serrano said.

  “That’s why I went to the press conference,” Rachel said. “I figured the killer might enjoy seeing the havoc they created. Like Greene did. Turns out, the killer was there. Just not in the manner I expected.”

  “And Daryl George will never set foot on carpeting again,” Serrano said.

  “Did you know that six people took responsibility for Greene’s crimes?” Rachel said. “He had followers. Followers. People admired that demon. Greene’s lawyer presented two witnesses who owned the same camera as Greene. They claimed to have taken those photos and planted them at Greene’s house. Then one of the jurors leaked to the press. Between all that and the unlawful search, it was easy for the judge to declare a mistrial. And then Greene was gone. Every single day, for I don’t know how long, I waited for him to show up on our doorstep. Our home in Darien had been violated. So I brought my kids here, and we became different people. I became an angrier person. I was angry that the Harwood Greenes of the world could destroy lives and get away with it.”

  “That’s why you got involved in Constance Wright’s murder.”

  “Constance Wright was kind to me,” Rachel said. “That was enough reason to try to give her justice.”

  “You should know,” Serrano said, “the city council voted unanimously to rename the Albertson Bridge the Constance Ella Wright Bridge.”

  Rachel looked up, tears in her eyes. “Really?”

  “She deserves to be remembered. Besides, Augustus Albertson was kind of a terrible racist. Lot of folks have been petitioning the council to rename that bridge for years. I guess once they found someone who deserved it, it was easy to push it through.”

  “That makes me happy.”

  “Me too. Know what else will make you happy?” Serrano said. “The carabinieri in Italy found Caroline Drummond.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. She was shacked up with a widowed cheese maker in a villa in Pitigliano. She’s being extradited as we speak and should be stateside in about two weeks. And then she’ll stand trial with her brother.”

  “I hope Constance knows all this, somehow,” Rachel said. “You know, I’ve been thinking. About doing more of this. Helping people.”

  “It would be kind of a shame if your talents were confined to this basement,” Serrano said. “I can even speak to the new lieutenant. The force is perpetually understaffed. I’ll see if they could use an occasional consultant.”

  Rachel beamed. “I could kiss you.”

  Serrano motioned to the photo above the desk. “Not with him watching.”

  “OK, let’s go upstairs. If these kids don’t get some sugar and butter into their bloodstreams soon, they might mutiny.”

  “Just so you know,” Serrano said, as Rachel turned off the light, “I never thought you were involved in Constance Wright’s death. You might be a protector, Rachel. But you’re not a killer.”

  Rachel smiled and moved closer to Serrano. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  When she finished, Serrano said, “But what about . . .”

  “The lights were off,” she said. “Bradley didn’t see anything.”

  They went upstairs to find Megan pulling Eric’s hair and walloping him with the remote control.

  “Megan!” Rachel said. “Release your brother, or the next movie I let you watch will be the introductory video for college freshmen.”

  Megan let her brother go and crossed her arms sullenly but with a smile underneath. Serrano took a seat on the couch, with Eric and Megan at either end. The children burrowed into the corners of the sofa. Eric grabbed a handful of popcorn and added a few M&M’S to it, then shoved the mixture into his mouth.

  “Know what I have at home?” Serrano said to Eric. The boy shook his head, popcorn kernels spilling onto his shirt. “The Lord of the Rings extended editions on Blu-ray. Four hours each. Plus bonus features.”

  “Shut up,” Eric said. He turned to his mother. “Mom, I’m going to live with Detective Serrano.”

  She laughed and said, “I promise we’ll watch them one day. Just not in a row.”

  Serrano patted the seat next to him. “Saved you a seat.”

  Seeing the three of them together made her heart soar. She had no idea where things might go with John Serrano, but she was eager to find out.

  “Just give me one second; I’ll be right back.”

  “Hurry back,” Serrano said. “Movie’s starting.”

  “I’ll be quick.”

  Rachel went upstairs and into her bedroom. She shut the door gently, opened the closet, and entered the combination to the safe. She removed the cardboard box, slid off the rubber bands, and opened it.

  Atop the pile was Reginald Bartek’s driver’s license. She flipped it over, read the inscription, then placed it back inside. Then she took a small plastic bag from underneath the various ID cards, unsealed it, and dropped a piece of jewelry into her palm.

  She thought about what Serrano had said in the basement.

  You might be a protector, Rachel. But you’re not a killer.

  It was a men’s bracelet adorned with brownish-yellow Tiger Eye beads. She ran her fingers over the bracelet, thinking about the night she’d removed it from a lifeless wrist.

  No more.

  Then she gently placed the bracelet in the box, put it back in the safe, and went downstairs.

  She nestled in next to John Serrano. She felt his fingers close around hers. Rachel smiled and leaned her head against his shoulder. And for the first time in a very, very long time, she felt at peace.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Ever since I was a child, people have accused me (usually with good reason) of being off in my own world. For a writer, that’s a compliment, provided you come back down to earth from time to time. Thankfully, once I leave my fictional worlds behind, I have an amazing family to come back to.

  I’m fortunate to live with three strong, beautiful, amazing women. My wife, Dana, and our wonderful daughters, Ava and Lyla. My family keeps me grounded, keeps me sane, keeps my priorities in order; they’re endlessly patient when I am off in my own world and never let me forget that the most important job I have is Dada.

  I was fortunate to grow up in a book-loving household and can thank my mother and father for encouraging the crazy notion that I could write. And as most will attest, my sister, Allison, is the funnier sibling, so if you happened to find any humor in this book, you can assume I learned it from her.

  A sincere thank-you to Hoboken chief of police Ken Ferrante and lieutenant John Orrico for letting me pepper them with questions about the job—and life outside the job. I have tremendous respect for the men and women who put their lives on the line to protect us day in and day out, and you won’t find two better public servants.

  As you might guess, I am not, in fact, a single mother. But I wanted to understand Rachel Marin inside and out, and for that I thank the people who shared their lives and stories with me, especially Zoe Quinton, who helped me understand the unique bond between mother and child in a way that enriched the book and my own appreciation for people raising children under often difficult circumstances. They are true warriors.

  Thank you to everyone I work with at Polis Books for their understanding as I delicately balance being both author and publisher. Wearing two hats may look silly, but there are no better jobs in the world.

  The team at Thomas & Mercer has been everything I could have hoped for in a publisher. Thank you to my editor, Jessica Tribble, who was passionate about this book from the start and pushed me to make it even better. Thank you to Grace Doyle, Sarah Shaw, and everyone else at T&M who supported this book and got it into the hands of readers. Kevin Smith, Miranda Dunning, and Carissa Bluestone made this book infinitely better, helped make sure all the pieces fit together snugly, and corrected my improper capitalization of Nerds candy.


  A great agent is a business partner, a sounding board, and an unflappable, indefatigable, bookish consigliere. Amy Tannenbaum is all of that and more. Here’s to the first of many.

  And to the readers, old and new: Whether you’ve read my previous books or you’re reading me for the first time, thanks to each and every one of you for allowing my characters to enter your lives for a little while. I hope you’ll invite us back soon.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2017 Jason Rhee

  Jason Pinter is the bestselling author of six novels: the acclaimed Henry Parker series (The Mark, The Guilty, The Stolen, The Fury, and The Darkness), the stand-alone thriller The Castle, the middle-grade adventure novel Zeke Bartholomew: SuperSpy, and the children’s book Miracle. His books have over one million copies in print worldwide. He has been nominated for numerous awards, including the Thriller Award, Strand Critics Award, Barry Award, and Shamus Award.

  Pinter is the founder of Polis Books, an independent press, and was honored by Publishers Weekly’s Star Watch, which “recognizes young publishing professionals who have distinguished themselves as future leaders of the industry.” He has written for the New Republic, Entrepreneur, the Daily Beast, Esquire, and more. He lives in Hoboken, New Jersey, with his wife, their two daughters, and their dog, Wilson. Visit him at www.JasonPinter.com, and follow him on Twitter and Instagram @JasonPinter.