Hot Pursuit

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Holy Jesus, the son of a bitch had them both.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Jenn played dead as the door she’d found in the wall opened. She hadn’t figured out how to unlatch it—it was possible it was locked from the other side—but she had found it.

  Without her glasses, she couldn’t see very far. Still, she squinted, peering out between her eyelashes at the shape of a man carrying something—someone—into the room.

  He put whoever it was down, almost gently, onto the floor, then went back out again. It sounded as if he were sending a text message from her phone, the keys making familiar bell-like tones. But he shut the door tightly behind him and the sound was gone.

  Jenn waited. Five seconds, ten, fifteen … By twenty, when the door didn’t open again, she shifted around, moving awkwardly—but moving—toward the person on the floor.

  It was Alyssa Locke.

  Whoever the man was, he’d tied her up, too. Alyssa’s hands were secured behind her back with the same kind of rope that held Jenn, her ankles also bound. And it looked as if he’d hit her. There was blood on her head, in her hair.

  With the gag in her mouth, Jenn couldn’t speak, but she could make sounds, and she did so now, nudging Alyssa with her head, trying to get her to wake up.

  Please, God, wake up. …

  And then, thank you, thank you, Alyssa’s lids began to flutter and she opened her eyes, pulling away from Jenn with a gasp, and then looking sharply around.

  She wasn’t gagged and she said, “Jenni. All you all right?”

  Jenn nodded yes, which was pretty stupid, because she was the furthest thing from all right that she’d ever been in her life, although granted, now that Alyssa was here, she was doing much, much better.

  Except, they were both tied up.

  “Turn around, turn around,” Alyssa commanded, her voice low in case the man could hear them, and Jenn scrambled to obey, because—yes! Alyssa shifted, too, so that her back was to Jenn, her fingers working to explore the rope that chaffed against Jenn’s wrists. But then she shifted again, and Jenn knew she’d turned so she could look at the knot.

  She moved again, and Jenn felt Alyssa’s fingers again—icy cold against her skin.

  “We are going to get out of here,” Alyssa told her, over and over again, in that same rich, low, soothing voice. “We are going to get out of here. …”

  Sam didn’t allow himself to think.

  That monster had Alyssa, and he couldn’t think about what that meant, because if he thought about it too hard he’d know a terrible truth—if this son of a bitch had somehow taken Alyssa, then Jules was dead.

  He was out of Mick Callahan’s car and running up the steps to the house where Douglas Forsythe lived, Dan and Mick on his heels.

  He was filled with a sense of dread. Forsythe surely knew that Sam and the entire FBI knew that Alyssa and Jules had come to his house. So why send that text message, unless he was long gone?

  In the car, Sam had called Izzy, who was back at the hotel, telling him to fire up the computer that held the GPS tracking system. He and Alyssa both had GPS systems in their phones that allowed them to be traced, provided they stayed close to their phones.

  The front door was locked, and Dan put his shoulder into trying to break it down, but he bounced off, while Sam went for the window.

  He was up and through it with a crash, feet first, as the FBI team members were yammering about warrants.

  Mick was right behind him, an unlikely ally, his weapon drawn, like Sam. The cop stopped to unlock the door in a palatial foyer, letting the FBI in, and checking the ancient security control panel that was by the door.

  “Security system is not activated,” he reported, before Sam shut him up with a finger to his lips.

  But Dan had gone through the other window with an equally loud crash, with Carol right behind him, and they both came out of what looked like an old-fashioned front parlor, with their weapons held at ready.

  Sam again signaled that he now wanted silence, then gestured with his sidearm for Mick and Carol to go upstairs. He and Dan—used to working together—would sweep through the rooms on the first floor.

  He could hear music coming from a room in the back of the house. Dan nodded, he heard it, too, as they went through a living room and a formal dining room.

  The place was right out of a horror movie, with uncomfortable-looking antique furniture that had to be worth a fortune. Except there were no cobwebs or dust. At first glance, at least, it seemed clean.

  Sam found a door that was locked with the kind of ancient but still effective latch that couldn’t be opened from the other side, not even with a key, so he went past it.

  There was light—and that music, from some kind of badly EQ’ed radio—coming from behind a door that didn’t have a knob or a latch. Sam didn’t break stride as he glanced at Dan, who nodded. He, too, was ready.

  Sam swiftly pulled the door open rather than pushing it, hoping for the element of surprise, but the kitchen—it was a kitchen and it was much smaller than he’d expected—was empty. The only people in there were lying on the floor.

  And, shit, one of them was Jules. He was tied so tightly he was bent almost backwards, and he had a plastic bag over his head.

  “Agent down!” Sam shouted, as Dan quickly moved toward the other prone figure.

  “Jesus!” Dan exclaimed.

  “Tell me it’s not Alyssa or Jenn,” Sam ordered the younger man, as he saw that Jules was still alive, he was breathing—he’d managed to tear a hole in the thin plastic with his teeth.

  “It’s not,” Dan confirmed, his voice tight. “It’s another victim like Betsy, but… elderly and …”

  Sam ripped the bag the rest of the way open, pulling it off Jules. And even though the FBI agent looked like death warmed over, he immediately said, “Douglas Forsythe. He has at least two handguns, and a handheld Taser set on holy fucking turbo.”

  “And Alyssa,” Sam added, as he used one of the kitchen knives to cut the rope that tied him, and Jules nodded.

  “And he also has Alyssa,” he agreed grimly.

  “Did you see Jenn?” Dan asked.

  “No,” Jules answered, rubbing his wrists. “I’m sorry. When we approached the house, Forsythe opened the door, appearing to be in distress. He told us his mother had had a heart attack, so we came in to assist. He tased me first, while Alyssa was tending to his mother. Is she dead?”

  “She’s been dead for a while,” Dan reported.

  Jules nodded. “I went down and hit my head, which was when he must’ve tased Alyssa. I’m telling you, I’ve been tased before, but that thing was juiced—the world went black and white. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t make a sound—I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

  “Second and third floors are clear,” Carol reported as she came into the kitchen. “No forensic evidence of homicide. And an ambulance is on its way.” She nodded to Jules. “Glad to see you, sir.”

  “What I really need,” Jules said, looking down at himself, “is a new pair of pants. He tased me again—I was pretty sure he was going to keep doing it, and I didn’t think I’d survive, so I kind of… went for full loss of bodily control, in hopes that he’d back off. Which he did. But now I’m soggy …”

  “Does this place have a basement?” Dan asked.

  “Back this way,” Sam said, leading the way to that bolted door that he’d bypassed.

  But Mick had already found it and opened it, and sure enough there were stairs leading down. A light switch had been flipped on, and okay. This was where the dust and cobwebs lived. Still, the stairs were clear enough to make Sam believe that someone had made use of them somewhat regularly.

  The wood creaked as he went down into the basement, Dan right behind him.

  It was cold and damp and it smelled like one of those museums that Alyssa loved to visit—old houses where Lincoln or Mozart or Mark Twain had lived. It smelled ancient and mildewy, but it didn’t smell of
death.

  “Nothing,” Mick announced. He put it differently than Carol had. “No puddles of blood or piles of teeth. Although we did find this.”

  This was a row of three new-looking freezers, their Energy Star stickers still on their doors.

  “Two are empty,” Mick told him. “The third holds Dougie’s daddy—at least that’s the assumption we’re working with. Elderly man, no teeth …”

  Sam nodded. “Suspect is armed with Alyssa’s SIG P226 and Cassidy’s Browning BDM, as well as a super-juiced Taser,” he told the police detective and the other agents who came down there.

  Aside from those gleaming white freezers, this part of the basement could’ve been a museum, with an old time workbench, and an array of tools—from a garden hoe to a pickax to an ancient crank-roller washing machine.

  The far part of the basement was a garage, with two sets of arch-shaped carriage house doors that were hinged on the sides and opened in the center. They led out into a back alley. There was room for two cars in the garage, but only one was parked there. It was a museum-worthy Pontiac, dating from the early 1970s, and neatly covered with an oilcloth.

  Mick pushed at the doors on the empty side of the garage, and as they swung open, Sam’s heart sank.

  “This was unlocked when we got down here,” Mick reported.

  “We need to find out what other car was registered in either Forsythe or his parents’ names,” Sam said, “and we need that info now!”

  “Already on it.” Carol was behind him, phone to her ear, Jules behind her. She turned to him. “Sir, with all due respect, you need to—”

  “I know what I need,” Jules told her.

  “I’m not sure you do, sir,” she insisted.

  Sam didn’t hear the end of that argument, because his phone rang. It was Izzy calling from the hotel.

  “Starrett here,” Sam said. “Tell Robin we found Jules, he’s okay, but Alyssa and Jenn are still UA. Tell Tony to bring over the weapons case and a pair of Jules’s pants, ASAP. When he leaves, you lock that door behind you and do not open it for anyone, not even the FBI agents in the hall, not under any circumstances. If someone tries to get in, shoot to fucking kill. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, give me some good news, Zanella,” Sam ordered.

  “GPS puts Alyssa heading north on the Henry Hudson Parkway,” Izzy reported, “moving at forty miles per hour.”

  His dread increasing, Sam repeated Zanella’s words.

  “Can we set up a road block?” Mick asked. “Or a checkpoint at the toll?”

  Izzy must’ve heard him, because he told Sam, and Sam repeated, “They’re already past the toll booth.”

  “DMV doesn’t have another vehicle on record for either Douglas, John, or Danielle Forsythe,” Carol interrupted, “which doesn’t mean Douglas didn’t have a second car registered under an assumed name. And here’s a useful fact—John and Danielle Forsythe also own property on Lake Mahopac. It’s about an hour north of here, just over the Putnam County line. You’d get there by taking the Henry Hudson to the Saw Mill to the Taconic.”

  Sam shook his head. “That’s too easy. He wouldn’t go there. He’d know it’s the first place we’d look.”

  “We don’t have a lot of options,” Mick pointed out.

  “Let’s start by following Alyssa’s GPS,” Jules said. “Carol, alert the State Police, as well as the locals in Lake Mahopac.”

  “Already doing it, sir,” she said.

  “I need a car and driver.”

  “I’ve got a car,” Mick volunteered.

  Jules turned to Sam and Dan. “You gonna come with or stay?”

  “I’m in,” Dan said.

  “We’ll find them,” Jules said, picking up on Sam’s uncertainty. “This is Alyssa. She’s going to kick his ass.”

  But Sam wasn’t convinced.

  “Oh, good, they’re leaving,” Douglas said with a smile that made the hair go up on the back of Alyssa’s neck.

  He’d come back in, wheeling three large suitcases with him, which he’d stacked neatly against the far wall, then covered with a heavy-duty plastic painter’s tarp.

  Alyssa had heard him coming, and she’d pushed herself back to where he’d left her. Jenn had moved, too—they were both playing unconscious.

  Through her eyelashes, she’d watched as he dragged in a case of bottled water, and several grocery bags that looked as if they actually held food. Healthy snacks like rice cakes and pita chips. He brought in a cooler, too.

  As if he were planning to stay here, in this windowless room, for a while.

  “I know you’re awake,” he’d told her, “but if you want to pretend otherwise, that’s fine with me.”

  It was strange—he was Douglas. She’d sat and interviewed him. God, she’d walked out to the dumpster with him, just the two of them, and she hadn’t been even slightly afraid.

  And yes, he’d been on her suspect list, but he’d been way at the bottom, beneath Mick Callahan even. He’d fooled her—completely. He was smart, he was cunning, and he was completely psychotic.

  He was the Dentist.

  Her brain stuttered through her choices, her options. Stay silent and wait, because Sam was coming. She knew he was coming. And Jules was somewhere, too, because he wasn’t in here with her, and oh, please God, don’t let this monster have slashed his throat, like he did with all the others. …

  She pushed aside her fear and grief, because she was alive and Jenn was alive, and right now her job was to make damn sure that they both stayed that way.

  She could beg for Jenn’s life, but this man had no soul, no conscience, so appealing to him for mercy would be worthless.

  She could try to figure out where the hell they were—they were still in his house, she was sure of it, and yet she’d clearly been wrong about much of this so far.

  So she opened her eyes and spoke, making her voice even and calm. “What is this place? The floor is lovely.”

  She’d surprised him—that was good. “Isn’t it?” he asked. “It’s a prohibition room. Back when alcohol was declared illegal, the owners renovated, and built this hidden room. They stored their wine here, and even brewed their own beer. They had dinner parties in here—the room was built around this table. Mother and Dad once tried to get it out, but it didn’t fit through the narrow doorway.”

  So they were still in his townhouse. Which meant that Sam was going to be here, soon.

  “He won’t find us,” Douglas told her, perceptive as always. “Your husband. The room isn’t big enough. It was designed to fit in behind the closets and the kitchen pantry. I found it, myself, when I was a child—just by chance.”

  Alyssa was silent, just waiting, because this man, the Dentist, did love to talk.

  He didn’t disappoint. “Besides, he’s not going to stay here long enough. I gave a taxi driver a very generous tip to take a package—with your cell phone in it—to a pizza parlor in a little town about an hour north of here. I imagine he’ll be chasing that.” He laughed. “I almost feel bad for him.”

  She heard it then—the crash of a window being broken. And she drew in her breath to scream—Sam!

  But she didn’t make a sound because Douglas was on top of her, shocking her with that souped-up Taser that made the world shudder and shake with searing pain. And when she stopped buzzing and regained at least some of her senses, she discovered that he’d gagged her.

  And damn it, he’d realized that she’d begun to loosen the binds around Jenn’s wrists.

  “Look what you’ve gone and done,” he said, tsking, as he pulled the ropes so tightly that Jenn made a sound of pain behind her gag.

  Alyssa tried to make noise—please God, let Sam know they were here—but Douglas zapped her again, and again the world went dim.

  She fought it, though, and saw him smile, heard him say, “Oh, good, they’re leaving.”

  He adjusted the plastic tarp over his suitcases and got out a deadly looking knife
. God, they were in trouble. …

  But Alyssa turned to look at Jenn, who gave her solid eye contact.

  It wasn’t over until it was over, and they weren’t done fighting yet.

  Sam was dragging his feet.

  Dan wanted to scream at him. Let’s go! Let’s move! But Sam lingered in the foyer, looking back toward the kitchen, as if maybe he wanted to grab a sandwich for the ride north.

  Mick was already in his car, engine running. And Tony was there with the Troubleshooters’ weapons case, helping Jules replace his stolen sidearm, and making sure they had all the ammunition they needed.

  Dan grabbed a few more clips himself as Jules ran inside to change into the jeans that Tony had brought for him.

  “Get in the car, sir,” Dan called to Sam as Jules came back out.

  And then, alleluia, Sam jogged down the steps, behind Jules. But he didn’t get in. Instead he motioned for Mick to pull down his window, which the detective did.

  “There was a bolt on the basement door,” Sam said. “When I went past, I thought it was locked. Were you the first one through that door?”

  Mick nodded. “I was,” he said. “And it was locked.”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Sam said. “Douglas takes Jenn and Alyssa into the basement—to the garage—puts them in his car and … Goes back upstairs to lock that door from the inside? He left the garage doors unlocked. Why would he bother? Did he really go back inside, lock the door, leave through the front door, walk all the way around to the back alley, go in through the garage, and only then make his escape?”

  Dan wanted to get moving. “If he had the key he could’ve locked it from—”

  “No,” Sam cut him off. “It’s not that kind of bolt. There’s no way to unlock it unless you’re inside the house.”

  “It was locked,” Mick said again. He turned off his car.

  “What the hell … ?” Dan said. “We need to—”

  “The kitchen’s too small,” Sam announced, as if that fucking meant something important.

  “Shit, you’re right.” And now Mick was out of his car, and he and Jules were following Sam up the steps.