by Polly Iyer
“This is the first time I’ve seen you in days.”
“I know. Sorry.” He patted his friend on his shoulder. “What the hell’s going on?” When Luke lost his focus, his lip-reading suffered. Everything got jumbled. Pete said something, but Luke couldn’t read him and asked for a repeat.
“If I knew, I’d lock up the son of a bitch and toss the key,” Pete said. “Could Abby have stopped by her mother’s?”
“Maybe Or maybe she doesn’t want to see me and planned this.” He hoped that wasn’t the case, but he’d understand if it was. “Otherwise, she would have answered. Lucy lives in Hillbrook. Can’t hurt to drive over.” Luke checked his phone, but he knew she hadn’t responded. He would have felt the vibration. He pulled out of the driveway. Pete followed.
Lucy Gallant answered the door wearing a flowing black silk caftan cut low enough to reveal ample cleavage. Half a dozen strands of chunky turquoise and jade beads adorned her neck and dangling jade hung from her ears. Meyer Goldman sat on the sofa with a glass of iced tea. A faint aroma of garlic lingered in the air.
Luke quickly scanned the room. “I hope we’re not interrupting dinner.”
“No, no, we eat late. Come in.” Lucy ushered them inside. “This is a pleasant surprise.”
Luke had never been to Lucy’s house. Flamboyant art adorned the red walls and color exploded like an artist’s palette—golds, lime greens, and oranges. White sofas played off a mixture of contemporary and antique furniture. The effect mirrored Lucy’s warm, friendly personality.
Luke introduced Pete. “Sorry to intrude, Lucy, but Abby should have been home two hours ago and she hasn’t shown up. We thought she might have stopped here.”
Lucy tucked a wayward strand of curly hair into her topknot. “No, I haven’t heard from her all day. You’re sure she didn’t have to stay late for an appointment?”
“I went to her office and her house. She called the taxi at three for a four o’clock pickup. A man canceled it at three-thirty.”
“A man?” Lucy paled. “What man?”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you.” Luke swallowed the next question, but he had to ask. “Is there someone besides me, Lucy? Someone else she’s seeing?”
“No, you’re the only one Abigael has been with in eight years.” Lucy’s face paled, and when she reached for her hair again, her hand shook. She sat on the sofa next to Meyer, who glanced at Luke when he noticed Lucy’s concern. “Do you think something’s happened to her?”
“This isn’t like her, is it?” Luke moved forward to see Lucy’s answer.
“No, it isn’t.” Then under her breath, she said, “Oh God, no, it couldn’t be.”
Luke stole a glance at Pete and noticed his knitted brow. “What did she say?” when Pete didn’t answer, he turned back to Lucy. “What aren’t you telling us?”
Lucy stared straight ahead, trancelike.
“What, Lucy?” Luke prompted. He shifted his focus from Lucy to Pete, then back to Lucy. “You need to tell us.”
Avoiding everyone’s eyes, she said, “I did what I thought best to protect her.”
“What are you talking about, Mrs. Gallant?” Pete asked.
“They couldn’t have let him out.” She turned her attention to Luke. “They couldn’t.”
Luke sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. Abby’s disappearance had distracted him. Grasping the conversation as it bounced back and forth was like watching a tennis match. He forced himself to concentrate, knowing he needed to see Lucy’s words, but afraid of what they might be.
“Look at me, Lucy. Look at me.” He put his hands on Lucy’s shoulders and turned her toward him, urging her to meet his gaze. “Did you say they couldn’t have let him out? Who are you talking about?”
“Stewart Gentry.”
Pete’s stunned face confirmed what Luke thought he saw. “But Stewart Gentry is dead. That’s what Abby told me.”
Lucy’s eyes opened wide, her brows arched. “He should be, but he isn’t.”
The remnants of Luke’s lunch ignited like a fireball in his stomach. Words stuck in his throat. He didn’t want to ask the question, because he didn’t want to know the answer. He turned to Pete, who asked for him.
“Where is he, Mrs. Gallant?”
Luke saw Lucy’s hesitation.
“Last I heard he was in a psychiatric hospital in Charleston, but I haven’t kept up. I never wanted to hear his name again, let alone know where he was.” Lucy’s distraught gaze focused on Luke. “He was never supposed to get out. Never.”
Luke got up and paced the floor, running his hand through his hair, his stomach housing a three-alarm blaze. He excused himself and headed to a door on the left side of the hall, adorned with a framed print of a claw-foot bathtub. His rubbery arms barely supported him while he hung over the sink, fighting off the urge to empty his stomach. When he straightened, a pale image in the mirror stared back. Fear had never been a part of his makeup. Yes, he was afraid when he knew he’d never hear again, but that concerned only him, a matter within his control. This was different.
Abby was out there all alone, blind, probably at the mercy of the man who had taken her sight. A man who tried to kill her. How did I let this happen on my watch? Luke splashed water on his face and around the back of his neck to get the blood flowing. Silence overwhelmed him. His head felt like imploding from the vacuum inside. He took a couple of deep breaths and opened the door. He walked to Pete, who had already dialed the station, and watched his moving lips, concentrating like never before.
“Run the name Stewart Gentry, Frank. That’s right, Gentry. I want to know where he is at this very minute, and I want to know now. Call me back.”
“Why did you lie to her, Lucy?” Luke asked.
Clutching both hands between her breasts, Lucy said, “Abigael had been through a delicate operation to remove that bastard’s bullet. I was on pins and needles, not knowing whether she’d live or die. I prayed to God that night. I promised Him that if He let Abigael live, I’d make up for all the years I let her down, and that I’d never take another drink. I begged Him to grant me that one wish.”
Lucy rubbed her hand back and forth across her forehead. “We all breathed a sigh of relief when she spoke her first words, and I knew God had answered my prayers. I haven’t touched a drop since.”
While deciphering Lucy’s words, Luke strained to keep his emotions in check. He wanted to tell Lucy this wasn’t about her. Who gave a shit about her prayers? They came years too late to be the mother her daughter deserved.
“You have no idea what Abby was like when she woke up,” Lucy continued. “Her grief was so intense, we couldn’t leave her alone for a minute for fear she’d take her own life. Macy was dead, the most precious little girl God ever created.” Lucy grabbed onto Meyer’s hand and held on tight. She glanced at him, seeking his support. “In addition to the pain of losing her only child, her whole world went dark. Every time she got out of bed, she bumped into something. I silently begged that she’d let out the sorrow, confide her feelings to me, something, but she wouldn’t. She sat there, staring at nothing. It broke my heart, and I couldn’t do a damn thing to help.” She leaned back into the deep cushions. Meyer slid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
“Everyone involved decided it’d be best to wait before telling her about Stewart. News about him disappeared from the papers as if he really had died. Everyone thought so, and if by some slim chance an article about her mentioned him, well, she couldn’t see it anyway. The more time passed, the harder it became to tell her. What good would it have done? She’d never have a moment’s peace.” Lucy choked back the emotion to speak. “I worried she’d ask about him, about the things they shared. She would have been the sole beneficiary of all his paintings and their joint accounts, but she never did. I think she subconsciously erased him from her mind in order to survive. If she’d asked, I would have told her.” Her gaze swept the room, settling on Luke. “I would hav
e, but she didn’t.”
Pete pulled out his phone, listened, and hung up.
“He didn’t, did he?” Lucy said. “Tell me he didn’t get out.”
“Stewart Gentry walked out of the hospital eight weeks ago wearing a doctor’s uniform and with enough medication for a couple of months. No one’s been able to find him.”
Luke saw Lucy clasp her hand over her mouth.
“A couple of months? I saw that right, didn’t I, Pete?” Luke asked. Pete nodded. “Why didn’t someone notify Abby? Why didn’t they broadcast his escape on the news?”
“Apparently, hospital officials kept the disappearance quiet,” Pete said. “No news bulletins, no police report. The man is a major news blackout. Everything about him has been stifled.”
Luke resumed his pacing. “How could they cover that up? They’d have to tell the Charleston police. He’s a convicted murderer, for chrissake.”
“The courts never convicted Stewart because he never went to trial,” Lucy said. “They locked him away until a judge declared him capable of aiding in his own defense, which would be never. Never, because he’s insane.” Lucy gave in to the sobs that erupted like a live volcano. She sputtered and shook and collapsed in Meyer’s consoling arms.
When she calmed down, her tone turned cold and hard. “He should have died, you know. Shot himself right under the chin. Should have blown his brains out. But bastards like him survive, don’t they? While angels like Macy are taken long before their time. Once they put him away, his family kept everything quiet. That bitch of a mother controls everything down there. You’d have thought he was a goddamn government secret.”
Watching the pain contort Lucy’s face, Luke almost understood her reasoning. Maybe he would have done the same thing to protect his child. Maybe. But nothing changed the fact that Abby had disappeared, taken by the man she most feared.
He knelt down in front of Lucy, turned her toward him. “Abby’s been getting threats the last couple of months. Someone even hurt Daisy. She couldn’t imagine who hated her enough to do that. Now we know.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She didn’t want to worry you. Seems like you both kept secrets, doesn’t it?”
Lucy gazed off into the distance and nodded. “That must have been who tried to run us off the road the day we went to pick up Daisy.”
“Probably,” Pete said.
“You’ll never get him if he doesn’t want you to,” Lucy said. “Stewart’s smart. You’ve heard the expression, crazy like a fox? Abby thought she’d be safe here because Stewart didn’t know where I lived, but he found us. How could they let him walk out? Aren’t those places guarded?”
“He got past them,” Pete said.
“Maybe I should have told her, Luke,” Lucy said. “This is my fault.”
“It’s not your fault, Luce,” Meyer said. “You did what you thought best. You protected her all these years, and if those schmucks at the hospital had been doing their jobs, he’d never have gotten past them.”
But Lucy stared straight ahead, clutching her middle, as if someone had pushed a button, sending her to another planet.
“Not now, Lucy,” Luke said. “I need you. Look at me.”
“He has my baby.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “He’ll kill her. I’m sure that’s all he’s thought of for the last eight years.”
“Lucy, focus.” Luke grasped her shoulders. “We have to know everything about Stewart Gentry. Does he know anyone here?”
“What have I done?”
“Pay attention,” Luke said. “We need answers.”
“Stop badgering her,” Meyer cautioned, pushing away Luke’s arm. “Can’t you see how upset she is? Give her a minute to digest this.” He handed Lucy his handkerchief, and she wiped away the tears along with her makeup.
“With all due respect, Mr. Goldman,” Luke said, “we may not have a minute, and if we do, every one of them counts.”
Luke felt Pete’s hand on his arm, his fingers tightening in warning. Luke watched his friend’s lips.
“You did what any mother would have done, Mrs. Gallant,” Pete said, signing Luke off with a scowl. “But now I need to ask you some questions.”
Luke backed to the other side of the room, still picking out parts of the conversation.
“I need you to think,” Pete continued. “To your knowledge does Stewart Gentry know anyone in the area?”
“I don’t know. He’s from Charleston. Everyone knows the Gentry family. He may have friends here.”
“Where did they live when they were married?”
Lucy went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water from a filtered pitcher on the counter. She drank half the glass before answering. “Atlanta. They were so happy until he got sick. He was exciting, handsome, funny. He swept her off her feet.”
Luke wanted to stop studying Lucy’s lips so he didn’t have to see anything more about Stewart Gentry and the woman he was falling in love with. In spite of the sharp pang of insecurity, he couldn’t resist watching her words.
“Did they have friends, someone he might stay with?” Luke asked.
“If they did, I never knew them,” she said, rolling the water glass across her cheek. “I lived in Texas at the time and came back before she left him.”
“What about his family?”
“Stewart had little to do with his family because of the way they treated Abigael. His mother made no secret she thought her daughter-in-law was beneath a Gentry. She thought less of me.” Lucy snorted. “When he got sick, they never publicly acknowledged it. That would be a curse on them. The Gentrys couldn’t carry a defective gene. No, not them.”
Without hearing Lucy’s tone, Luke saw her words form, the curl of her lip when she spoke of Stewart Gentry and his mother. He saw anger in every twitch of her cheek as she relived the nightmare of her daughter’s tragedy.
“Then Abigael came here with Macy.” Lucy focused on Luke. “He found her. Begged her to come back to him, but he was out of control. Nothing worked; in fact, he was worse. He’d have violent rants. Scared Macy to death. I begged him to leave, but he wouldn’t go without them. He said he’d never let them go. Abigael feared for Macy.” Lucy fell back into the sofa. “You know the rest.”
But you forgot to mention the most important part, didn’t you, Lucy? That Stewart Gentry is alive.
“We thought we did,” Luke said under his breath, and hated himself for saying it. He avoided Pete’s eyes.
Chapter Sixteen
Bad Timing
“Can you pick up anything on the phone?” Pete asked Larry Chandler, the department communications expert.
“We’ve pinpointed it somewhere around Tryon. It’s off now. I’m not getting a signal. I’ll try to get the cell phone company on it.”
“Good idea. Let me know if you get anywhere.” Pete turned to one of the detectives.
Luke lost a good part of the conversation, but he put enough together. Pete wanted a list of realtors and apartment complexes from Tryon to Asheville and to see if the Gentry family owned any property. That was a start.
Pete faced him directly. “Stewart Gentry has to park his ass somewhere. I’m putting his picture out over the wires. I don’t care whether this is supposed to be a secret or not. I’m putting Abby’s picture out too.”
Luke nodded. He worried Abby’s picture might cause Gentry to do something drastic, but they might never find her otherwise. “Contact Charleston P.D. See what they know.”
“Will do,” Pete replied.
Being on the outside, unable to give orders, frustrated the hell out of Luke. If Gentry took Abby, he could keep her indefinitely, or kill her, and Luke was nothing more than a worthless fly on the department’s wall.
Abby had become an important part of his life. She guarded her emotions as closely as he did, and getting to this point in their relationship required a constant chipping away at the protective coating under which they both sought refuge. Attracting
women had never been a problem for him, even since his accident, even deaf. The women who approached him did so because they liked what they saw on the outside, without considering the character that lay beneath the surface. Including his ex-wife.
Abby was different. Proud and serenely beautiful to his eye, independent and vulnerable—a menu of contrasts—looks mattered nothing to her. Though blind, she saw deeper into him than anyone had ever cared to. He found it frightening and exhilarating and profoundly internal. The thought of anything happening to her stopped his heart, yet he felt powerless to prevent it.
“Pete, unless you need me for a crime scene, I’m on my own time. I’m trained to do research, and that’s what I’m going to do. Maybe I can find something we’ve overlooked.”
“Go to it, man.”
Damn right! I don’t need to hear to search the computer. He’d even picked up some hacking techniques, which he’d kept to himself. He settled in, and after a couple of hours, he’d unearthed nothing but conjecture on his part. If the police conducted interviews after Stewart walked out of the hospital—a private facility controlled by the Gentry family—Luke found no evidence of it. He concluded that Carlotta Serrano Gentry used her political capital to keep the escape from the media and her son from being pursued like any other murderer. The discovery angered him. Yeah, money can buy anything. Even murder.
Nothing surfaced about property owned by the Gentry family in either North or South Carolina, other than Carlotta Gentry’s multimillion-dollar home in Charleston, and he found no rental car registered in Stewart’s name or in any name connected with the Gentry family or businesses. No surprise there. He found records of three closed bank accounts in Stewart’s name—two in Atlanta and one in Charleston.
Luke laid out the facts like pieces of a puzzle. Stewart Gentry must have had access to funds to bribe whoever helped him escape. Someone at the hospital? The scent of money is a powerful aphrodisiac for motivating one to look the other way, especially an attendant paid an hourly wage. But where did he get the money? Those accounts had been closed for years. A family member? Unlikely. He could surmise all day long, but he needed help from someone on the Charleston end.
