Son of the Enemy

by Ana Barrons

  She continued to flip through the pages, stopping when she spotted her mother in a photo. Drama wasn’t her only interest, apparently. She was also on the field-hockey team, the yearbook staff, the prom committee. Did she have a boyfriend?

  She curled her legs under her and tucked the yearbook into her lap, enjoying the sense of proximity to her mother. Starting at A, she scanned all the faces, wondering which of these people had known her mother. Who were her friends? Had she been in love with someone? Several people had written messages over or around their faces, some of which were really touching. Your friendship means everything to me. Let’s always stay in touch. Hannah brushed away tears. How many of these people knew Sharon had been murdered?

  Had one of them killed her?

  The thought chilled her, but she continued to study the youthful faces. She was turning the page at the end of the K section when she remembered a name. Philip Krantz. The playwright. She flipped back and found the name. His bio was very short: Drama 9-12. Founder, Playwright Society. The poor boy had terrible acne and light hair, cut very short. His features were ordinary, even nondescript—except for his eyes. Even though the photos were black-and-white, it was clear that his eyes were a very light color, most likely blue or gray. And somehow familiar.

  Go quickly!

  A man with light, pearly eyes so like the boy’s in the yearbook…strong arms lifting her onto the wall at Thornton’s estate…

  Could it be?

  She headed toward the bedroom to wake up John and tell him about the similarity, but stopped before she reached the door. The stranger had helped her that night. If he’d meant to hurt her, he’d had the perfect opportunity. And it was so dark out there, she never got a good look at his face.

  Yawning, she decided to wait until morning. She was bone tired, her eyes were bleary, the lighting in the room was poor, and there was nothing they could do in the middle of the night anyway. She went back to turn off the lamp and heard a soft buzzing sound from somewhere in the room. What in the world? It took a couple of moments for her to realize it was her own cell phone buzzing inside her purse—wherever that was. But who would be calling her at this hour?

  She finally spotted her purse on a chair and grabbed the phone. The caller ID said Mary Barnes. Hannah frowned. Mary was the school cleaning lady who’d sent Edna to cover for her while she recovered from surgery. Why would she be calling her so late at night? Especially since she hadn’t returned a single one of Hannah’s calls up until now. Puzzled, Hannah flipped open the phone. “Mary?”

  “Hannah, it’s me, Ty.” The boy’s voice was strained.

  “Ty? What—”

  “Are you at John’s apartment with him? His motorcycle’s here.”

  “Yes, but how did you—”

  “Look out the window, okay, and please don’t tell John, just come downstairs now, like right now.” It sounded like he’d been crying.

  “What’s wrong?” She went to the window and peeked through the miniblinds. Sure enough, Ty was right outside John’s apartment building, sitting in the passenger seat of a dark Mercedes, a cell phone pressed to his ear. The car was no doubt one of Thornton’s. Would Thornton’s goons use Ty to get to her?

  No, Thornton would never allow that. And if he was in the car with Ty, well, she was certain he would never hurt her, no matter what John said.

  “Please, Hannah,” Ty pleaded. “Just come down right now. Alone. I promise you, it’s real important.”

  What could she do? “Okay, just…let me put something on.”

  “Just come,” he begged. “Please please please.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.” She clicked off her cell, set it down on the windowsill and walked softly into the bedroom to get her jeans. As she slid into them, she was sorely tempted to wake up John. He was sound asleep, snoring loudly, his big strong body facedown, spent from lovemaking. She hated to wake him, but she was alarmed by the fear she heard in Ty’s voice. Then she remembered what John had told her about Ty’s message, saying he’d done something really stupid that had to do with her. At fifteen, everything felt like life and death. For an impulsive boy with a guilty conscience, the need to confess could be agonizing. She gazed at John’s peacefully sleeping form.

  And made a decision.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  John heard the car pull away from the curb. Something was wrong. Hannah wasn’t in bed. The digital clock on the dresser said 1:17. He crossed the bedroom in two long strides and stood naked, looking at the box on the couch and the lamp that signaled Hannah had been in there going through her mother’s things. He called her name and went into the bathroom. She wasn’t in the apartment.

  “Shit!” What could have happened to make her leave? He picked up the phone on the kitchenette counter and called her cell. A few seconds later he heard a buzzing sound from the living room. He followed the sound to the windowsill and found Hannah’s phone. His first instinct was to open the blinds and look for her outside. His second was to scroll through her dialed and received calls. Mary Barnes had called at 1:09 from a local area code. Less than ten minutes ago.

  “Who the hell is Mary Barnes?” he said to no one. And why had she called Hannah in the middle of the night?

  “Fuck!” he roared, then strode quickly into the bedroom and threw on some clothes. Could this Mary person have needed help? Mary. Hannah had mentioned a Mary when they were at school one day, but in what context? Damn it, he couldn’t remember. He sat on the edge of the bed with his heart in his throat and dialed Mary Barnes’s phone number.

  “Come on, come on.” The voice mail came on with an electronic message that simply stated the number. He paced while the voice went on and on with all the options he could choose, and then finally he got the tone.

  “Mary Barnes,” he said gruffly. “If Hannah is with you, or you know where she is, call me at this number immediately.” He rattled off the number, twice, then clicked the phone shut. His heart was pounding with dread. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He called information and got phone numbers for two Mary Barneses and one M. Barnes. The first number was answered by a man who was pissed off about being woken up and said he had no idea who Hannah was. The second Mary Barnes didn’t answer at all. Then he called M. Barnes and got her voice mail—and a voice he recognized.

  “You’ve reached Mary Barnes and Edna Krantz,” the voice said.

  What the hell?

  He left the same message. Halfway down the steps, his cell phone rang. The caller ID listed only the number, but he recognized it as Mary Barnes’s cell number. “Mary Barnes?” he asked immediately.

  “John?” The voice on the other end was thin and frightened.

  “Who is this?” he demanded.

  “Me, Ty. You have to come to Hannah’s house. He…he says if you don’t he’s going to kill me.”

  John stopped moving for a split second and then ran harder toward his motorcycle. “Who is it, Ty? Who’s going to kill you?”

  “Philip,” he whispered. “My driver.”

  Philip? Could it be? “I’m on my way.”

  No answer.

  “Is Hannah with you? Ty? Ty?”

  Still no answer. His fear for Hannah and Ty was so intense that some protective mechanism inside him flipped and made him calm. He had two calls to make and gave himself thirty seconds to make them. First he called the sheriff’s office, where he learned there was a car stationed at Hannah’s cottage. Relieved, he instructed the dispatcher to alert the deputies to Ty’s and Philip’s presence and not to shoot. Then he told the man to find Mary Barnes’s address in the directory under M. Barnes and send a car out there immediately. His next call was to Rita Santini. She picked up on the second ring.

  “I don’t have time to talk,” John said. “So just listen. I’m getting on my motorcycle and heading to Hannah’s cottage. Ty Bradshaw just called to tell me someone named Philip Krantz—I think he drives Ty to school—is going to kill him if I don’t get to Hannah’s place rig
ht now. There are supposed to be a couple of sheriff’s deputies there but I don’t trust them to find their own dicks. Meet me there.”

  “What? The bureau will have my ass if I—” Santini began, but John cut her off.

  “You owe her, Santini!” he shouted. “Big-time. Now get your ass over there.” He clicked off his phone, started the engine on his Harley and sped off into the night.

  The sheriff’s car sat about halfway up the driveway to Hannah’s cottage. John parked the Harley at the bottom of the dirt road and ran up. He peered inside and saw one man, apparently asleep. Fucking incompetent! He pulled at the door handle. Locked. He knocked at the window. The guy didn’t move. He knocked again, and then he knew—the guy was dead.

  John released the safety on his gun and ducked into the trees. He didn’t have time to wait for backup. He could only hope Santini followed through and showed up with the cavalry. The night was overcast and very dark, but he could see the cottage through the bare branches. No lights were on inside. He inched closer, staying low, until he was close enough to make out what appeared to be drag marks leading from the trees up to the front porch. His heart sank in his chest.

  Oh God, don’t let it be Ty. Please.

  He didn’t let himself imagine it was Hannah. If the car he’d heard pulling away from the front of his house had been a cab, she hadn’t had a long enough lead to be—

  Don’t even think it.

  But where the hell was she?

  He picked his way around the cottage, staying back in the trees, to the side of the house where Hannah’s bedroom was. The shades were down only halfway. Sure enough, he could see the dim glow from the nightlight she kept in the bathroom. If the bedroom door was open, he might be able to see into the living room as far as the front door. He had no choice. Staying as low to the ground as he possibly could, he crept forward and flattened his back against the side of the house, then waited, listening. The only sounds were dead leaves rattling in the light breeze and distant traffic sounds. When he felt reasonably safe, he turned his head and peered inside the window.

  What he saw caused his heart to pound in fear.

  Christ, no, it can’t be!

  He made his way quickly to the front porch. Up close, he could see the wet, sticky trail up the steps to the front door. At the bottom of the door was a large, dark stain. Blood. He swallowed hard and tasted bile.

  He stepped to the side of the bloody trail, pulled his shirt down over his hand and turned the knob. It opened. Gun in hand he stepped inside and nearly went down when his feet slipped. He grabbed on to the doorjamb and followed the trail, in the dark, to the bedroom, feeling like a condemned man on his way to the chair.

  In that moment he knew he would never forgive himself.

  Once inside the bedroom, he could see the long, thick lump under the light comforter, now dark with blood. Where the hell was Rita? A clump of dirty blonde hair protruded from beneath.

  Ty, I’m so sorry, man.

  Hot tears stung John’s eyes, but he willed them not to fall. He needed his wits about him, goddamn it. He reached forward and pulled back the comforter.

  And felt the breath whoosh out of him.

  Chapter Thirty

  It took Hannah several seconds to realize she was slumped in an upholstered chair in her office at school. No lights were on, and her head felt heavy and woozy. How in the world had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was Ty calling her name.

  “I see you’re awake,” a familiar voice said from the shadows. She shivered.

  “Edna?” she asked in a loud whisper. “Is that you?”

  “Oh, no,” the voice said, amused. “That old bitch has been dead for years.”

  Hannah forced herself to sit up despite the spinning in her head. A glance at the digital clock on the mantel said it was 2:38. Nearly an hour and a half had gone by. What was going on?

  “Who…who are you?” she rasped.

  “Just the man who saved your life at Mr. Bradshaw’s the other night.”

  The eyes. Oh God!

  “What’s your name?”

  “Philip.”

  “What…what are you doing here, Philip?” There was no spit in her mouth.

  “I came for you. Like I said I would.” The voice was closer now.

  “No.” She was fighting not to sound hysterical. “That’s not necessary.”

  “I’m not your enemy, Belle.” The singsong quality to his voice made him sound disturbed. Unstable. As he moved farther into the room, Hannah was able to make out his shape in the darkness.

  Not too tall…light hair…smiling. Oh, Lord help me!

  “My name is not Belle,” she said, getting slowly to her feet. “So, you’ve got the wrong person. Just go away and I’ll forget this ever happened, okay? I couldn’t even describe you if I had to.”

  “Oh, you’re the right person.”

  “Where’s Ty?” She was inching her way toward the fireplace, and Philip wasn’t stopping her. Philip.

  Philip Krantz.

  Edna Krantz.

  Was the son Edna always badmouthed really— She gasped. The voice was the same. Was that why Edna had always grated on her? The voice. The voice in the dream. Edna was in the dream. The voice…

  No. Oh, God, no.

  “Ty’s in a special place, waiting for you,” Philip said.

  Hannah was close enough now to reach back and wrap her hand around the fireplace poker. Cold panic threatened to paralyze her, but she couldn’t let him take her. She just couldn’t. And Ty. She had to think about Ty.

  “Is he okay?” Her voice sounded hollow. Unfamiliar.

  Pull it together, Hannah.

  Philip stopped, rested his elbow on his hand and tapped one cheek with his finger. “Is he okay? Hmm. I guess it depends on what you call okay.”

  Hannah swallowed. What if this sicko had hurt Ty? “Where is this special place?”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  “No. No. That’s okay, just tell me where it is and—” Philip was shaking his head in that way Edna always did. Philip…Edna. Oh God.

  “You’ll never find it,” he said. “It’s hidden, and the only ones who know where it is are Ty and his friend who snorted all that cocaine.”

  Christian. “Why don’t you bring Ty here?”

  “Oh, he’s in no condition to move right now. He needs you to come and take care of him. I think he’s had a little too much of his drugs. Like his friend.”

  Panic, fresh and new, rose in her gut. “What? Is he—?”

  Philip reached out his hand. “Come along now, Belle. Ty may not be able to talk to you if we don’t hurry. He wasn’t feeling very well when I left him.”

  This was it. She had to do something. Philip was so close now, maybe five or six feet away. “Okay, I’ll come,” she said. She stepped forward and swung the poker with all her might. His arm came up and grabbed it. Hannah grunted and thrust hard, and he stumbled backwards and fell—with the poker still in his hand.

  She shot past him and down the stairs to the front door, then panicked when she realized it was locked and she didn’t have the key.

  Shit! Her breath was coming hard.

  She turned and raced across the foyer to the back door—that one could be unlocked from the inside. The sound of feet pounding down the stairs spurred her on, faster, desperation choking her.

  Go go go! You’re almost there!

  Just a couple of feet from the door, something smashed into her shoulder, numbing it and dropping her to her knees. Then he was on her, pushing her face to the linoleum, tying her hands behind her back as she struggled.

  “You’ve been a very bad girl, Belle.” He shoved a handkerchief in her mouth. She gagged. “Oh, you don’t like that, do you? Well, maybe it will teach you to cooperate. I have a lot of things to teach you.”

  John was badly shaken after the state policeman told him they’d found Mary Barnes’s decomposed body in the basement of her home, and evidence that som
eone was currently living in her house. Was Edna a murderer, or had her son murdered Mary? Either way, she had been living in Mary’s house and telling Hannah she was nursing her friend back to health.

  The smell of deer blood lingered on his hands, even though he’d wiped them off on the damp grass. Philip Krantz, stalker and murderer, had planned an elaborate hoax to draw John to Hannah’s house and then scare the shit out of him. Which he’d succeeded at brilliantly. But the fact that the man had butchered a deer and dragged it into Hannah’s bed gave him no comfort. He was dealing with a deranged personality, and an angry one at that. And he wanted to get back at John, which meant he’d been watching him with Hannah.

  John had searched for a note of some kind but found nothing. Sirens in the background signaled that emergency vehicles were on their way to collect their fallen comrade and check out the crime scene. He knew he should stay to talk to them, but he had to find Ty and Hannah.

  He ran across the soccer field to the school, figuring that either one of them could be holed up there. On the way, he listened to one of Ty’s earlier messages. It said he was sitting on the floor outside John’s office and had just shoved a note under his door. John pressed the phone to his ear and picked up his pace.

  I’m no fucking hero, Ty said. Philip saved Christian, and then I was so scared, like about Christian maybe dying, I went down to this old leaf hut by the river, in back of Hannah’s house but down the hill, and the freak was there. He scared me so much I peed my pants and broke into your office. And hey, thanks for not mentioning it, about the pee.

  John ran the rest of the way to school and went in through the side door, gun in hand. He unlocked the door to his office, shoved it open and picked up the note on the floor.

  “Holy Christ,” he said when he read it. He snapped the note against his thigh and pulled out his cell phone. “Goddamn it, Santini!” he shouted when he got her voice mail. “This isn’t a fucking game. Both Ty and Hannah are missing and in danger. The guy who has them is Philip Krantz, and he’s the person who murdered Hannah’s mother. You got that, Santini? If you want authorization to help me, call Ronald Geer, okay? He’s with the bureau. He’s an SPC with the Richmond Office and he knows the whole story. It’s possible this Philip is hiding in the woods in back of Hannah’s cottage, some old leaf hut by the river, so get some snipers out here.”