Stevens studied the farmhouse, the dark windows. Hoped Hurley wasn’t watching and booked his way across the courtyard to the rear of the garage. Caught a glimpse of the attic window Sadie Fontaine had talked about, a narrow thing twenty-five feet from the ground, a solid eight feet above the roof of the garage. They would have to be nimble—and quiet.
The Mounties made space as Stevens approached. There were two of them, a man and a woman, both young, fresh-faced, serious.
“Stevens, FBI,” he told them after he’d caught his breath. “You guys ready to be heroes?”
115
Windermere tried not to focus on the gun pointed at her head. Tried to take in what she could about her surroundings instead.
She was in an entryway. Beside her was the living room, and through the living room, toward the back of the house, was the kitchen. Ahead were the stairs leading up to the second floor; as Windermere glanced up, she could see the trapdoor to the attic clearly.
You have to get him away from the stairs. Whatever you can do.
Hurley was watching her like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull the trigger or make a pass at her. Windermere figured she was set, for the short term. Figured it would take a while for the maniac’s thoughts to coalesce around one or the other.
She gave him the hint of a smile. Slipped past him and into the living room. Hurley let her go. She could feel his eyes follow her.
“So here we are,” she said, walking to a front window, letting down the curtain. “You and me, Leland, in a hell of a bind.”
Hurley watched her. His pistol hand wavered, but he didn’t lower the gun. Windermere walked to the next window, closed that curtain, too. The living room was dark now, cut off from the outside. Windermere switched on a table lamp. Sat down in an easy chair. “So how are we going to get out of this mess?”
Hurley looked away as soon as her eyes fell on his. His lip curled. “You’re not here to get me out of anything,” he told her. “You’re here to brainwash me into doing what you want.”
He looked away again. His eyes were as jumpy as a rabbit on speed. He shifted his weight, then again. He wasn’t comfortable. Even though he was pointing a gun at her, the guy still wasn’t comfortable.
“That’s where your head’s at, huh?” she said. “All women are manipulative, like, fundamentally. Like, even if I wasn’t a cop and you didn’t have hostages, I would still be trying to game you?”
Hurley nodded.
“Why?”
“Because it’s your nature.” He answered abruptly, blurted it out. “All you’re good for is using men to get what you want.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You more than anyone, I bet.”
“Because I’m attractive.”
Hurley nodded again.
“You think I’m hot, Leland?” Windermere asked. “Are you attracted to me?”
“Don’t.” Hurley spat. He leveled the gun at her forehead. “Don’t you try any of that bullshit. I’ll kill you. I swear.”
Windermere held her hands up. “I’m just trying to get to know you better, dude. Like, I’ve been chasing you for a while now, and all I know about you is how you were in the army and you’re a pretty good survivalist. But what I don’t know is how you got into this mess.”
Hurley didn’t answer. She met his eyes, and his gaze pinballed away.
“Come on,” Windermere said. “My partner out there, Stevens—he’s the guy you didn’t kill in the woods—he has this thing about wanting to know people’s motives when we’re chasing them. And I gotta say, in this case? It’s kind of rubbed off on me.”
Still nothing. Hurley still twitchy, the gun bobbing up and down in his grip.
“Humor me,” Windermere said. “We have time for some bullshit before we cut to the tricky stuff. So why are you so mad at women, Leland? What happened?”
Hurley didn’t answer right away. Chewed on his lip. “All I ever wanted was to make women happy.” He took a step into the living room. Held the gun steady, looked her dead in the eye. “But none of you bitches would let me.”
116
Stealthily as he could, Stevens followed the Mounties across the top of the Fontaines’ equipment garage. The Mounties, Pelletier and Buckley, were kids, agile and full of energy, both of them. Stevens felt like a dinosaur as he worked to keep up.
He was sweating through his shirt, even in the chill air. Slipping on the icy rooftop, trying to stay silent, fully aware that any inadvertent noise could draw Hurley to the farmhouse window, where he would have no trouble spotting them.
Cronquist had radioed from the front of the house as soon as Windermere was inside. Radioed back a minute or two later to report that the front curtains in the living room were down. This was the sign they were waiting for; it meant Windermere was confident she had the situation under control, confident she could keep Leland Hurley away from the stairs.
The Mounties reached the end of the garage, huddled up against the wall of the farmhouse, Stevens bringing up the rear. He looked up to the attic window, eight feet above them.
“Sadie Fontaine said the window should be unlocked,” he whispered. “So let’s hope she’s right.”
Stevens and the other man, Pelletier, set up at the base of the wall. Boosted Corporal Buckley up toward the window. Stevens craned his neck to watch, sticking as close as he could to the farmhouse. Buckley stretched for the window, reached it, tried the windowpane. It slid aside easily. Bingo.
“You want to go next?” Stevens asked Pelletier as Buckley slipped inside the attic. “Or should we flip a coin for it?”
The Mountie colored. “No disrespect, sir, but maybe I should go last.”
Stevens smiled at the kid’s discomfort. “I’m just joshing you,” he said. “There’s no way I could make it up there on my own.”
He let Pelletier boost him up, fought the urge to kick his legs as he pulled himself through the narrow opening. Knew he must have looked ridiculous, wondered what he was doing here. Knew the smart play was to let the Mounties handle this, sit back with Cronquist and play quarterback.
But Stevens had never been the type to delegate the dirty work. And with Windermere inside risking her life for this case, he wouldn’t have felt right hanging back and just watching. So here he was, nearly out of breath and on his knees on the dusty attic floor, pulling Corporal Pelletier through the window. When the Mountie was safely inside, Stevens blinked in the dim light, let his eyes acclimate, saw cardboard boxes and old toys and pink-foam insulation and, across the room to his left, the trapdoor.
Stevens stood as tall as he could beneath the low ceiling. Led the Mounties slowly toward the door, conscious of every footfall, every creaky floorboard. Knew if Hurley heard them, the game was over. Windermere was dead, and probably Mona and Shae Fontaine, too.
But the Mounties were quiet. They made the trap door, and Stevens held up, straining his ears for any sounds from below. But he couldn’t hear anything, save the drone of the helicopters above the farmhouse. There was no way to tell if Hurley was beneath them. Nothing to do but to look.
The trapdoor wasn’t a door but a panel in the floor. Stevens knelt down, pried it up at the edges. Inched it out of its frame and slid it aside about six inches. Listened. Heard nothing. Saw nothing.
Stevens slid the panel farther. Opened up more room. Gave Hurley one more chance to reveal himself, then carefully lowered his head through the hole in the floor.
He could see the stairs immediately, just as Sadie Fontaine had described. A long hall to his left, carpet and doorways. The door at the end must be the master bedroom. If he and Windermere were correct, the hostages were in there.
At the bottom of the stairs was a door. It would be the front door, the door through which Windermere had entered the house. But there was no sign of Windermere anywhere, Hurley either, and Stevens knew they would never have a better opportuni
ty than now.
He lifted his head from the hole, straightened, and looked at the Mounties. “Down the hall to your left and all the way to the end,” he told them. “Let’s get these women out of here.”
117
I tried everything.”
Hurley paced the small living room. Kept the deputy’s pistol trained at Agent Windermere, who sat on the couch, as relaxed as if she were watching a movie. Following him with her eyes as he paced. Listening.
“Girls would only notice guys who wore the right clothes,” he told her. “So I bought the right clothes. Still couldn’t get a girl to look at me. I heard that girls liked men who were funny, so I tried being funny. Couldn’t get a date to save my life.”
He snorted, disgusted with the memory. “I was a virgin when I graduated high school. No girl ever even let me kiss her. I tried everything to get them to notice me. I wanted to die.”
“But you joined the army instead,” Windermere said.
“I guess you did your research,” he said. “I figured out that girls want tough guys. Guys who can fight, fix things, guys who have muscle. They don’t want funny, well-dressed, intelligent men, they want brutes.”
The FBI agent made as if to argue. He waved the gun at her, cutting her off. “You have a boyfriend, I bet? What does he do?”
She hesitated. Then she smiled a little. “He’s FBI, too,” she said.
“Exactly. He’s big and tough and dumb. Probably couldn’t string two sentences together.”
“He’s big and tough. I’ll give you that. But dumb he’s not.”
“Bullshit.” Hurley resumed pacing. “How’d you hook up with him, then? You guys worked together and, what?”
Windermere shifted on the couch. Smiled again, like she was enjoying the memory. Like she was getting a kick out of this. “He pestered me for a while. Wore me down, I guess. I was stressed out from a case and we went out and got drunk and the next thing you know—”
“He was in your bed.”
“I was in his bed, actually, or at least the bed in his hotel room. And I thought it would end there, some one-night thing, but he just kept pestering me, and now here we are.” She shrugged. “He wore me down. That’s the moral of the story.”
Hurley looked away. “You chose him,” he told her. “That is the moral of the story. You didn’t have to go chasing anyone. You just had to decide which man you wanted.”
“But that’s life, Leland. That’s how it goes.”
“It’s unfair.” He could feel his frustration rising again, his anger, and fought the urge to turn on her with the gun, the knife, punish her. “It’s not fucking fair. Even when I joined the Rangers, I wasn’t good enough. I had to pay women to sleep with me. Pay them. But you know what?” He laughed. “That was even worse.”
Windermere said nothing. Seemed to sense the edge he was walking, gave him space.
“I found out the truth about women,” he continued. “About the time I got kicked out of Ranger school. You probably read about that, too, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
Hurley spat. “Some stupid bar whore. She played me night after night, flirting with me, pretending she was interested. Just so I’d tip her better when she brought me my drinks. And when I finally fell for it? She shut me down cold. Acted like I was crazy for ever thinking I had a chance.”
He resumed pacing. “You’re all the same,” he told her. “You’re stupid and cruel, every one of you. You manipulate men to get what you want—money, shelter, protection. Even you, right here, right now. You’re pretending to listen to me so I won’t kill those women upstairs.”
“I’m listening,” Windermere said. “I’m trying to get a handle on you, Leland, so we can all get out of here safe.”
But Hurley ignored her. “I figured it out that night in Florida. I decided I wasn’t ever going to play your game again. I wasn’t going to let a pack of animals control me, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to beg them to give me what I have a right to have.”
“What, sex? You think sex is your God-given right?”
“You’re goddamn right,” Hurley replied. “Do you know what it’s like to go without love your whole life? To have women constantly ignoring your needs? I’m entitled to love, to sex, a decent shot at happiness, and if none of you bitches are going to give it to me willingly, then, hell, I’m just going to man up and take it from you.”
He let the words hang there. Let them resonate in the still air. Windermere gave it a beat. Opened her mouth to reply. Never got the words out.
Somewhere upstairs, something thumped. Something heavy.
Hurley stiffened. “What was that?”
118
From the attic, Stevens cringed as Corporal Pelletier hit the carpet with a thud. The kid froze, his face draining of color. Down the hall, Corporal Buckley did the same.
Nobody moved. Stevens had heard Hurley pacing downstairs, talking. Couldn’t make out the words, but he figured it meant Windermere was still alive, at least.
Now, though, even Hurley had stopped moving. The whole house went silent. Waiting. Below Stevens, Pelletier reached for his sidearm.
119
Those bitches.” Hurley glared at Windermere. “I told you your kind couldn’t be trusted. Leave them alone for five minutes and they start trying to take advantage.”
He gestured up with the pistol. “I’ll teach them to get crafty. Stand up. You’re coming with me. Try anything funny and I’ll empty this clip in your back.”
Windermere thought fast, knew Stevens was up there with the rescue party, didn’t want this thing devolving into violence until the hostages were out of the house at least. Figured the minute Hurley knew he had company, he’d start shooting. Figured she’d be the most likely target.
“What’s your hurry?” she asked him. Worked to keep her voice calm, conversational. “Where are they going to go, Leland? I saw a map of the house. This is the only way down.”
She didn’t let on that the map had been drawn by a seven-year-old. Or that she knew at least one other way up.
“Windows,” Hurley said. “They could unlock them. Climb out.”
“How? You must have tied them up, right?”
Hurley didn’t say anything.
“So they’re banging around a little bit,” Windermere said. “They’re not going far. You’re that sick of me already?”
Hurley still didn’t answer. His eyes lingered on the base of the stairs, just barely visible from the living room. Windermere knew she was losing him, knew she had to try another tack.
“I mean, come on,” she continued. “We’re making progress here, aren’t we?” Her eyes scanned the living room, the front door, the stairs, the weathered couch and worn rug. Trailed to the kitchen doorway, saw the blood on the floor, the cabinets.
“Lot of blood in there,” she said casually. “I guess that’s the man of the house, huh?”
Hurley stared at her blankly. Followed her eyes. Saw what she saw, and a smile crept onto his face, creepy and slow.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, that was him all right.”
“What did you do to him?”
Hurley didn’t answer.
“Come on,” she said. “I have you for, like, twenty-five murders and a kidnapping scenario. You’re not getting yourself into any more trouble. Besides, I want to know.” She looked into his eyes. “How’d you do it?”
Hurley did nothing. Just breathed, a glint in his eyes as he thought things over. Finally, he settled.
“I cut him.” He patted his belt, his knife in its sheath. “With this knife I took from some Indian girl. You want to see what I did to him?”
No, Windermere thought. Hell no, I do not.
But she stood. “Sure,” she said. “Sure, Leland. Why not?”
120
Hurley was talking ag
ain. And if Stevens listened hard, he could hear Windermere, too. Hear boot steps on hardwood, hear them diminish, just as Hurley’s voice was diminishing. He was moving, but he wasn’t coming for the stairs. Whatever Windermere was doing, it was working.
Stevens caught Pelletier’s eye. Motioned down the hall, where Buckley was waiting. They got the message: Game on. Turned around, resumed the mission. Crept slowly, softly, toward the master bedroom.
From the trapdoor, Stevens let himself breathe. Drew his sidearm from its holster, just in case, and watched the base of the stairs in case Hurley appeared.
Come on, he thought. Get these women out. Get them safe. Then work on rescuing Carla.
From where he was situated, it looked like a tall order.
121
I had to do it,” Hurley told Windermere. “I did it quick, and I took no pleasure from it. But part of being a man is doing unpleasant things when they have to be done.”
As opposed to killing waitresses, prostitutes, and runaways, Windermere thought. You sure didn’t seem to find that an unpleasant task.
She’d let Hurley push her into the kitchen, his pistol at the small of her back. Let him give her the tour, the blood spattered everywhere, the remains of a meal on the kitchen counter.
“He had already seen the food,” Hurley said. “And I’d left my rifle, too. He would have known I was in the house. He would have tried to do something.”
“Wait, so where were you?” Windermere asked. “You have to use the restroom or something? How’d he get the drop?”
Hurley tensed behind her. Didn’t answer. Seemed to be chewing on his words. Finally, he pushed Windermere toward the corner of the kitchen, a closed door, a trail of blood leading to it.
The Forgotten Girls Page 29
