The Wife Who Knew Too Much

by Michele Campbell

  The garage had three bays, all empty. Shelves and hooks along that wall held some basic equipment—rakes, shovels, a coiled hose—but nothing I could use to defend myself, and no jacket to keep me warm. I hadn’t changed clothes or shoes since Dubai, and I wore a pair of cute, flimsy flats that were no match for the rugged New Hampshire terrain. I grabbed a couple of trash bags and a roll of duct tape and headed for the rear door. Just as I grasped the handle, the whir of a motor kicked in, and the middle bay door began to rise.

  Shit. They were coming back. So soon? What did that mean for Connor? I wanted to run toward the incoming car and find out how he was. But I might be met with a bullet.

  Heart racing, I stepped outside, pulled the door closed behind me. It was very early morning, just beginning to get light outside. The ground was wet and uneven, with patches of white from an early snowfall standing out here and there against dead brown grass. My feet got instantly soaked as I sprinted across the lawn and dived into the woods.

  There was no trail here, just closely packed evergreens with dense brush in between, and it was almost too dark to see. Branches sprang back as I moved, clawing at my face. I stopped for long enough to slip the roll of tape over my wrist and tuck the trash bags into my waistband. At least now I could use my free hand to keep branches out of my face, clutching the kitchen knife in the other to defend myself. The ground sloped downward treacherously as I forged ahead. My breath rasped in my ears. My feet were going numb from the cold, and I had a terrible stitch in my side. But they could be right behind me, and I couldn’t afford to stop again. There was a trail here somewhere—if only I could find it. I’d hiked this mountain in years past, though the last time was probably a decade ago. Unless its path had changed somehow in the years since, it would take me to a trailhead on the main road below. I could flag down a passing car for help.

  As I pressed on, the ground got rockier. My little flats kept coming off my feet, and after the fourth or fifth time, I gave up and threw them in the bushes. That was a mistake. Ten minutes later, my feet were so cold that they were burning with pain. I had to do something, or I wouldn’t be able to continue walking on them, and I’d get frostbite. Ahead, a steep drop-off looked impossible to navigate, but when I reached it, I was able to pick my way around the side. At the bottom of the drop, a boulder provided cover from above. I sank down in its hollow and examined my feet. They were a mess—red, swollen, blistered, and bleeding. Cutting pieces from the trash bag, I taped them on for makeshift shoes. I cut a neck hole in the second bag and pulled it over my clothes for warmth. A shaft of morning sunlight filtered through the trees. In the quiet that enveloped me here, I felt hysteria building. If I thought about Connor, about whether he was dead or alive, I’d break down. I had to keep going.

  I got to my feet, listening intently. The sounds were those native to the woods—trees creaking, leaves rustling in the wind, the warble of birds. Kovacs and Juliet must have discovered by now that I was gone. I had to assume that they’d set out after me and were gaining on me. I took a deep breath, gathering my strength. The air smelled of pine and wet leaves. And then I saw it—straight ahead, a slash of blue paint on the bark of a tree. A blaze. I’d found the trail at last.

  For the next hour, I managed the steep descent down the side of Baldwin Mountain. Recent rain had left the exposed trail slippery and muddy, with patches of snow glittering in the hollows. I skidded and fell more than once, then struggled to my feet and went on. Drained and panting, I thought the ordeal would never end. But then I spotted the trailhead, and my spirits lifted. I came to the edge of the woods. The parking lot was ahead just through these last trees, the road on the other side of it. The sun broke through and glinted off something. Something metallic. Shit. A car, waiting there. I stopped short and pulled behind the trunk of a tree. A black car.

  The Suburban.

  Kovacs stood beside it, a pair of binoculars raised to his eyes. As I watched, he swept the woods, then stopped.

  He’d seen me.

  I backtracked, breaking into a run, bushwhacking parallel to the road in the hope that I could find another route out. The thick brush slowed me down. I could hear him behind me. To my left, a car sped by. The road was right there. I turned downhill, running, and began to skid, falling, making the last few yards on my butt. The pavement was straight ahead. I jumped up and stumbled out into the road, gasping for breath.

  It was a quiet, two-lane road. I knew it well. And no surprise in the late morning, it was empty of traffic.

  I broke into a run. I knew exactly where I was. About a mile from here was the ski resort. Early November—it wouldn’t be open yet. Still, there might be someone there, someone who could help. There might be a phone. I hoped to God there was, because the police station was at least five miles in the opposite direction.

  I panted, running full out, my feet in their plastic wrap exploding with pain. I looked over my shoulder. Nobody there. Where had he gone? Was Juliet with him? A minute later, I checked again, and had my answer. The Suburban was barreling toward me. At the same moment, a truck rounded the bend, coming from the other direction. I ran into the road, waving my arms frantically. The driver slammed on the brakes.

  A youngish guy with a baseball cap rolled down the window.

  “Are you crazy? I could’ve killed you.”

  “Help! I’m a waitress at the Baldwin Grill. That guy in the Suburban kidnapped me, and I escaped. He’s after me.”

  He looked through the windshield. The Suburban slowed down as it approached. Kovacs was watching us. The driver took a second to weigh what to do. A crazy woman wearing a plastic bag—you don’t just let her in your truck.

  “Please. I’m begging you.”

  The terror in my voice was unmistakable.

  “Get in,” he said.

  I ran around and jumped up into the truck, and he floored it.

  “I’ll take you to the police station.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “Shit,” he said, eyes on the rearview mirror. “He’s turning around. He’s gonna follow us. Here. Call nine-one-one.”

  He tossed me his phone. I dialed the cops, telling them where we were, what was happening, describing the truck and the Suburban. The dispatcher said she’d send a patrol car right away.

  The truck sped along the windy road, fishtailing around curves, the Suburban close behind. With several miles still to go to the police station, we heard a loud metallic clang.

  “That asswipe dinged my truck,” the driver said. “You want to shoot back, I got a gun in the rack. Can’t do it while I’m driving.”

  Just then, we heard the sirens. Suddenly the road was full of police vehicles. The driver skidded off the road, onto the narrow shoulder.

  “Get down,” he said.

  I threw myself to the floor, hunkering into the footwell. Outside the truck, shots rang out. I covered my ears with my hands, cowering.

  The shots died down, and the driver raised his head. He was pulling himself up onto the seat when a second round of shots broke the silence. The windshield exploded, raining chunks of blue-green glass over us. I ducked, arms over my head. The next time I looked up, the driver’s face was covered in blood.

  “Oh, my God. Are you hit?”

  “I didn’t feel anything.”

  He put his hand to his head. It came away bloody. “Shit. It must be a graze.”

  “I am so sorry to put you through this.”

  “I been shot at before. Deployed a couple times. Don’t expect it around here, though.”

  After that, we stayed on the floor for what felt like forever. Silence reigned. We waited.

  “Are they all dead?” I whispered.

  In the distance, more sirens shrieked, moving closer by the second. We heard cars pulling up, doors slamming, voices shouting. We stayed down. They were going car to car. From the radios, we could tell it was cops.

  “Stay down till they tell us, or they might shoot,” the dri
ver said.

  I nodded.

  “I’m Tabitha, by the way.”

  “Alex.”

  “Thank you for saving me, Alex. I owe you big-time.”

  “Happy to help. You can pay for the windshield, though.”

  “You got it.”

  Eventually, someone came to the driver’s-side door of the truck. It was a cop, in uniform.

  “You folks the ones that called this in?”

  “She did,” Alex said. “Says the guy in the Suburban kidnapped her.”

  “Yeah, we got him. Are you Tabitha Ford?” the officer asked.

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Police down on Long Island had an APB out on that vehicle. We were specifically told to look for you.”

  “What about my husband? Is he all right?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Was there anyone in the Suburban other than the driver?”

  “A woman.”

  “Officer, please. My husband was shot. I’m so scared. He’d lost a lot of blood. If he wasn’t at the hospital—if he’s not in the Suburban—I know where he might be. Can you look for him?”

  I gave the cop the address of the ski house.

  “We’ll send someone right over there,” he said. “You all sit tight and wait for the paramedics.”

  He strode away. Eventually, they took us from the truck and put us in an ambulance. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles hurt my eyes. I didn’t see that officer again. I asked everyone I encountered what had happened to Connor, but nobody could give me an answer.

  42

  The ambulance transported me to the nearest hospital, which happened to be the same one where I used to work years earlier. Being wheeled into the familiar lobby felt surreal, like my life as Mrs. Ford had been a dream. Or more accurately, a nightmare. Strange and wonderful things had happened, but terrible things also. And I waited, knowing that the most terrible of all was about to descend on me and change my life forever. I expected bad news about Connor. The delay did not bode well.

  They bandaged my cuts and contusions, diagnosed me with a concussion, and held me for hours for observation. They did an ultrasound and told me the baby was fine. Seeing her on the screen, all I could think was Where is her father?

  They told me to wait in the treatment room until the nurse came with my discharge papers. I was climbing the walls, cooped up there with no phone and no information, not knowing the fate of the man I loved. I asked every nurse who walked by about the police investigation, whether they knew if anyone else had been brought in. Nobody did.

  As soon as my papers were signed, I got up and walked the halls until I found someone who remembered me from when I’d worked here. Kelsey was an administrative assistant in the emergency department. She searched admissions records and told me there was no indication that Connor had been brought in for treatment. The fact that he wasn’t yet hospitalized made me more afraid than ever. Given his condition, he’d been in urgent need of medical attention. Yet they hadn’t brought him here, to the nearest hospital. In the recesses of my brain, I’d already known that they hadn’t gotten him to a doctor. The Suburban had left and then returned to the ski house in less time than it would take to get here. I’d been blocking that knowledge, but it flooded in now, along with the consciousness of what it must mean—that Connor had died in the car on the way to the hospital. I sat very still and focused my heart and mind on praying for that not to be true. But reality seeped in. I knew it was hopeless, and knowing that, I felt numb with despair.

  “Tabitha, you look awful. Can I call someone for you?” Kelsey asked.

  I asked her to track down the phone number for the police department back in Southampton, then borrowed her phone, called, and explained who I was. The dispatcher told me that Hagerty and Pardo were on their way to New Hampshire now, because of my case. She connected me to Hagerty’s cell phone.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re okay,” Hagerty said. “We were worried.”

  “Forget about me. Where’s my husband? Tell me, I need to know.”

  “He’s not with you?”

  “With me? No. He got shot. He was in bad shape. I gave one of the local cops an address where he might be. Please, do you know if they found him?”

  “I don’t understand. I was told you were brought in with an injured male who was treated and released.”

  “But that wasn’t Connor. I ran from Kovacs and Juliet, and a guy named Alex picked me up—”

  “Wait, you’re saying Connor Ford was shot and seriously wounded?”

  “Yes. You don’t know that?”

  “No. Last night, we received an alarm that your bracelet had been deactivated, and around the same time there was a call about shots fired at Windswept.”

  “Yes, like I said, Connor was shot.”

  “We responded immediately and found blood in your bedroom, but we assumed it was yours. The housekeeper said she witnessed you and Ford get pushed into that Suburban at gunpoint by Kovacs. We’ve been very worried about you, Tabitha.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “The housekeeper got the plate number, and we put out an APB. You’re saying the assistant was involved, too? I got the text you sent with the photo of her birth certificate, but I didn’t understand the relevance.”

  “It’s complicated. Everything is explained on the recording from the ankle bracelet.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to listen to that yet. It’s being downloaded as we speak by a technician at the DA’s office. Can you fill me in?”

  “There’s no time to explain. Just—Juliet killed Nina, okay? Kovacs was involved somehow. I don’t really know how, exactly. But Connor is innocent. Juliet shot him. And I’m afraid he’s dead. Please, Detective. Please. Do something.”

  I broke into sobs.

  “Okay, now I understand,” Hagerty said. “Listen. Hang up. I’ll find out whatever I can and get back to you ASAP at the number you’re calling from.”

  As I sat in the chair beside Kelsey’s desk, crying hysterically, a familiar figure marched down the hall toward me. It was Liz, my manager from the restaurant, with her arms outstretched and a concerned look on her face. I stepped into her comforting embrace.

  “Alex called me, and I rushed right over. What the hell happened?” she said.

  “Alex?”

  “The guy who picked you up in his truck, escaping from kidnappers apparently? He’s my husband’s cousin. What the hell is going on, Tabitha?”

  I tried to talk through my sobs, but it was just too hard.

  “Never mind, you can explain later. What can I do to help?”

  I managed to get out that Connor had been shot, and I was waiting to hear if he’d survived. I had to wait by Kelsey’s desk, because I didn’t have my phone, and the detective was going to call me back on hers.

  “I’ll stay with you for as long as you need me,” Liz said. “Let’s text him my number instead, so we’re not stuck waiting in this hallway.”

  After that, Liz brought me to the cafeteria and made me drink some herbal tea and eat something. It felt like a lifetime, but only fifteen minutes passed before Hagerty called Liz’s cell. The recording from last night had been downloaded and reviewed by the DA. They now understood I’d been telling the truth all along.

  “We’re sorry for the inconvenience,” Hagerty said. “Your charges are being dismissed.”

  I huffed in disbelief. “You’re sorry for the—Jesus. My husband was shot. Would that even have happened if—”

  I dropped my head into my hands, crying again, my breath coming in harsh sobs. Liz took the phone. I couldn’t tell from her end of the conversation what was happening. She hung up after a couple of minutes.

  “They’re on the way here right now. We’re supposed to meet them in five minutes in a conference room in the basement.”

  “I never want to see those cops again.”

  “You need to be strong, hon.
I think they have news.”

  Her eyes were veiled with worry. It was bad.

  I leaned on Liz all the way to the elevator, down four floors and one long, sterile corridor. Hagerty and Pardo were already there, waiting for me in a small conference room with buzzing lights, along with another man in plain clothes who had the look of a cop about him. I knew what was coming. I could see it in their eyes. The truth was, I’d known for hours. I couldn’t forget what I’d seen—the deathly pallor on Connor’s face, the blood soaking the back of the Suburban, Juliet’s horrified expression when she checked his pulse. I knew in my heart that he couldn’t survive all that. Yet, I’d been hoping. Praying. Pretending none of it was real.

  “I’m sorry, Tabitha,” Hagerty said, and his choirboy face looked crumpled and sad. “The local PD recovered a body from the ski house—”

  I collapsed into the nearest chair, shaking all over.

  “—and we believe it’s your husband.”

  My body felt cold as ice. I stared back and forth between them, everyone in that awful room, for whom this was just another day on the job. I’d thought I’d known what was coming. How it would feel. I’d had no idea. It felt like the world had stopped. Like there would be no tomorrow. All I could do was tremble and beg.

  “No, please. You must be wrong. It’s not true.”

  But I knew it was.

  “This is Detective Martinez. He’ll take it from here,” Hagerty said.

  “Ma’am, my condolences,” Martinez said. He was middle-aged, balding, with a sober expression. “It appears that the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The morgue is right down the hall. I have to ask you to identify your husband’s body.”

  I dropped my head into my hands. “No, no, no,” I whispered, but words couldn’t make this nightmare go away.