by Blake Pierce
As the song hit the second chorus, she looked away from the painting and started slowly inching herself towards the door.
She slowly took the knife out of the waist of her pants with her left hand as her right reached for the doorknob.
Yes, there was a storm coming for sure. Just not the sort Cassie McNeil was dreaming up less than fifteen feet away.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
“I forgot that the fucking group was set to Private,” Jack said. “I can’t get to the names anymore. I just messaged the admin, but their little status dot is telling me they aren’t online.”
“Didn’t you have a hand-written list back at the station?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said, pulling up the number to the station and placing the call. He set the phone on the console and set it to speaker mode. “I just hope I didn’t miss anything…”
When the woman at the dispatch desk answered, Jack cut her off in the middle of her introduction.
“This is Agent Rivers. I need someone to rush back to the desk my partner and I have been using and find a name for me.”
“Of course,” the woman said. “I can do that for you right now. What do you need?”
“There’s a list of names scribbled down, labelled Family Focus Fertility, Baltimore. There should only be a few names on it that are not crossed out. I need those names.”
“Sure, sure,” the woman said. The rustling of the phone and the woman’s labored breathing made it clear that she was on the move.
Rachel had brought the car to the end of the townhouse parking lot, not sure which direction to go. The feeling of anxiousness roared up inside of her again. She did not believe in things like signs or intuitive feelings but she could not deny that she suddenly felt like she and Jack were currently racing the clock—that a woman’s life very well could be hanging in the balance.
“Okay, Agent Rivers?” the woman on the other end said. “I see it right here. And there are only two names that had not been crossed through. One is Jessie Dugger. The other is Cassie McNeil.”
“Okay, I need another favor,” Jack said. “Use the laptop right there at the desk and get on the network. I need addresses for both of those women as soon as you can get them.”
“Okay…”
The woman was clearly rattled, apparently feeling the tension in Jack’s voice as it tore through the phone lines. In the silence of the car, they could hear the muted clicking from the other line. Rachel had her phone ready, prepared to plug the addresses into her GPS.
“Okay, I’ve got an address for Jessie Dugger as 609 Montgomery Street. Now for Cassie McNeil…”
Rachel plugged the Montgomery Street address in and found that it was twenty-one miles away. She waited for the next one, thumbs poised and ready.
“…1612 Lavender Avenue.”
Rachel typed the address in and found that this one was significantly closer—just thirteen miles away. “Ma’am, this is Agent Rachel Gift,” she said. “Agent Rivers and I are going to take the Lavender Avenue address. To save some time, I need you to send a car out to the Dugger residence as well. We have reason to believe a woman’s life is in danger.”
“Oh…okay…I…”
“If there are any issues, just have them call this number,” Jack said. He then recited his phone number slowly as Rachel turned out onto the road, heading back out toward the interstate and in the direction of the McNeil residence.
***
Cassie had never painted anything other than flat colors on bedroom walls until about three years ago. Her doctor had suggested it as a means to get over her anxiety. He’d advised that she start with paint-by-numbers sets at first, but that got boring very quickly. Then, one Saturday morning—having just received another batch of bad news concerning fertility treatments the day before—Cassie had gone to Hobby Lobby and purchased about one hundred dollars’ worth of paint and supplies. She’d then found a few basic tutorials on YouTube and by that night, she was hooked.
She’d worked on honing her craft and now the tutorials she watched were much more advanced. She was even paying a subscription fee to one artist’s channel and she knew she had gotten much better. She was still just as anxious these days now that she was being told there was a very good chance she’d be able to conceive via IVF treatments.
Because good news often made her stress even worse (thinking of all the ways it could go wrong) she’d been painting a lot over the past two weeks. Four ocean scenes, a generic still-life of the birdhouse in the backyard, and now tonight’s project—finishing a seascape. There was no land, just the crashing of waves during the beginning of a storm at sea.
It only took a few brush strokes to get her there—into a nearly hypnotic state where her stress and anxiety became little more than a blur on the canvas in front of her. She had Spotify open on her phone, listening to a playlist of her favorite ‘90s alternative tracks. She blended navy-blue and white, adding in a bit of green and just a dab of white, trying to get the right color for the caps of the smaller waves. Applying it to the canvas, it came out too dark, so she wetted her brush, got a little bit more white, and started fixing it up.
She wasn’t sure how long she’d bene painting when she heard the noise at the back door. It was far too easy for Cassie to lose herself in her painting. There had been nights when her husband was at work when she’d start painting around seven and somehow it would be midnight before she even bothered to look at the digital clock on the microwave.
She placed her brush down on the table and turned to the door. It was opening, which caused her heart to slam in her chest, and then someone entered her house.
“Who are—”
Those were the only words that came out of her mouth before the crazed-looking woman came rushing across the kitchen. Cassie didn’t see the knife in the woman’s hand until the very last second and even then, as she backed against the kitchen table and heard her brushed clinking in the water jar, she was pretty sure it was too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Rachel did eighty-five the whole way there, cutting off several people and receiving a chorus of blaring horns as she merged off of the interstate. When she came to the small subdivision, she nearly slammed into the side of a parked car on the curb. She saw Jack cringing from his place in the passenger seat and understood that he wasn’t simply being dramatic; she wasn’t sure she’d ever driven so recklessly before.
It was 6:41 when she pulled the car up in front of the McNeil house. The street lights illuminated the mostly darkened streets. As they got out of the car, the neighborhood was quiet with the exception of a dog barking somewhere nearby. Even further away, almost like a ghost, Rachel could hear two kids laughing about something.
They hurried to the front porch, Jack taking the lead. They quietly made their way up the stairs and Jack wasted no time knocking on the door. Almost right away, there was a commotion from inside. It was hard to tell through the closed door, but to Rachel there was a noise that sounded almost like a windchime, and then the sound of glass breaking.
Just as Rachel and Jack shared a concerned look, there was another noise: a woman’s muffled cry of pain and surprise.
Rachel tried the door but found it locked. Jack ushered her to the side, took two large strides backwards, and then delivered a vicious kick to the door. It gave, but not quite enough. But on Jack’s second attack, it went flying inward, sending small chunks of the doorframe with it.
It was one of those moments where neither of them yelled out to announce their presence. The commotion they’d heard through the door had been more than enough. As they’d done in the past in such a situation, they split up to cover more ground in the event the suspect made a run for it. Rachel headed straight into the house while Jack ran off of the porch and made his way around the house to find the back door.
Rachel strode inside and found herself stepping straight into a large living room. It was mostly tidy, but with signs of recent use: a pair of discarded shoes
, an empty glass on the coffee table. She heard more noises from the back of the house. It was that same windchime-like sound and what was obviously the sound of a skirmish of some kind.
She ran through the hallway and came to a neat, modest kitchen. Or so it seemed. There was a strange gray sort of water on the floor, and shattered glass. Rachel’s eyes saw all of this first, but then saw the two women pressed against the far wall. The woman that was losing the battle was pressed against the wall, her bare feet kicking along the floor for traction, kicking up the gray water. The woman was bleeding from a wound along her side. And even as Rachel watched, she saw the attacker draw a knife backward, intending to drive it forward. But in the midst of the attacker’s frenzy, she saw Rachel enter the room. Rachel had her Glock out and raised it. The killer stopped, smiled, and then held the knife to the woman’s throat.
“Drop the knife, Mrs. Allen.”
“No. I planned so hard for this. This is…this is the only way I can…”
“It’s too late, Mrs. Allen. I spoke with the people at Regency. It has nothing to do with you or your situation. And neither does this woman.”
Claire looked genuinely confused for a moment, shaking her head. “But I have to have my chance back. It’s not fair…”
“You donated the eggs, right?” Rachel asked.
For a moment, Rachel thought the confusion and distraction was going to allow Cassie McNeil to slip free from Claire’s clutches. But the woman’s grip was apparently quite strong.
“I did. I wanted the money and I thought I may as well see if someone else could be fortunate and have a child. But I…I couldn’t stand the thought of it.”
“You visited other women, too, right? Three others?”
Claire nodded matter-of-factly, as if she honestly didn’t see what the big deal was. But Rachel saw the strength in her wrist as she held the knife to Cassie McNeil’s throat. One quick motion was all it would take.
“Mrs. Allen, you’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?” Rachel asked.
She nodded and her face started to grow red as tears slipped from the corners of her eyes. As Claire struggled with this, Rachel could see the murky shape of Jack out on the back porch. He was peering in through the window, and she gave him a quick shake of the head. Not yet, that shake of the head said. For now, she felt she had things at least somewhat under control. The sudden appearance of another armed agent might drive Claire Allen to slide that knife right into Cassie McNeil’s neck.
“Just put the knife away,” Rachel said. “Whatever your pain is, it did not come from this woman. She doesn’t even know you. And the same was true of the other women. You understand that, right?”
For a brief moment, Rachel thought that had done it; she thought she saw the knife coming away and a sort of relaxed posture come over Claire. But as soon as it appeared, it was gone. She pressed even harder against Cassie and screamed: “But my eggs…my eggs that I had donated…why should some other woman be able to use what was rightfully mine?”
Rachel eyed Jack through the window, hoping he hadn’t taken Claire’s screaming as a cue to come in. He still stood there, looking as if he were spring loaded and ready to jump.
“Mrs. Allen, drop the knife. If you have any hope for a way out of this, you need to drop the…the knife…”
Without any warming at all, Rachel felt herself growing light-headed. A thin streak of white darted across her vision, followed by a larger one.
No…no…not now…
She did her best to keep her feet but swayed forward a bit. She felt herself falling forward, her mind going faint and hazy. And apparently Claire Allen saw this as an aggressive move.
The good news was that she removed the knife from Cassie’s throat as she redirected her attention at Rachel. Claire lunged hard to the right and slashed out quickly. She missed Rachel by about a foot, but kept coming even in her failed attack. As Rachel stumbled forward, still reeling and not quite there, Claire slammed into her.
Rachel was thrown back into one of the chairs around the kitchen table. As her legs tangled with it, she caught a glimpse of where the gray water was coming from. There was a painting-in-progress on the table, knocked loose from its canvas. Somewhere during the killer’s attack the water used to clean the brushes had been knocked over and rolled to the floor where it shattered. Another glass jar with brushes had rolled over on the table, making the windchime sound Rachel had heard. It all looked vague and abstract as her vision blurred.
This quick summary of the scene was caught in a split second as she fell to the floor. And when she hit the floor, she realized it might have been the best thing that could have happened. The impact knocked some of the wind out of her and seemed to bring her mind back around to the pressure of the moment. There was one final hazy streak of white and then her vision started to clear up. The veil of blackness was slowly pushed away.
The first thing her now-clear vision saw was Claire Allen swiping the knife down towards her. Rachel brought her forearm up in a desperate defensive move and slammed it into Claire’s chin. Claire was rocked and as she tottered backwards, Rachel caught the frantic motion of Jack coming in through the back door.
As Claire was momentarily stunned, she slashed out with her knife blindly. It sliced right across the top of Rachel’s wrist, drawing blood instantly. Dimly, Rachel was aware of Jack coming to her aide; he’d gone to the victim’s side first, as was protocol. Apparently, Claire Allen also sensed him coming. She turned in his direction and that was the opening Rachel needed. Using the butt of her Glock for extra weight, Rachel delivered a quick punch to the side of Claire’s head.
Claire blinked rapidly a few times and then tottered over. The knife clattered to the floor in the spilled paint water. She tried getting to her feet, but Rachel got to her knees, placing one squarely in the center of Claire’s back. She noticed that her right arm was bleeding. She also realized that if the cut had been on the other side of her arm—on the underside of the wrist—she might be in some serious trouble.
Yeah, some manic voice inside of her head said. You might bleed out and die before the tumor you won’t tell anyone about has a proper chance to kill you…
Jack swept in and placed a set of handcuffs on Claire Allen as Rachel pulled her arms back. “I’ve got her,” Rachel said as she got to her feet. She did so slowly, worried that the white streaks might come back—that she’d pass out in front of Jack again. “Make sure the victim is okay.”
“I’m okay,” Cassie McNeil said weakly from against the wall.
“I think she might be,” Jack said, pulling out his phone. “There’s a cut along her side…not to deep. And what looks almost like a papercut low on her neck. But she’s bleeding pretty bad from the side.”
With Claire Allen in cuffs and face down on the floor, Rachel took a moment to observe her own wound. It had sliced deep enough to where it might need stitches and the bleeding wasn’t as bad as she’d first feared. As Jack called in for an ambulance, Rachel took several paper towels from the roll on the kitchen counter and wrapped them around her cut.
As Rachel walked over to the wounded woman—Cassie McNeil, she safely assumed—Rachel took note of the painting on the table. An ocean scene, with a storm on the horizon. Without warning, a snippet from the nightmare she’d had two nights ago flashed through her head. Her mother, sitting on the boat she’d died in, looing lovingly at Rachel.
“It’s about time you met me out on the boat,” her mother had said.
This recollection was broken by the first protests from Claire Allen. “I’m not the guilty one,” she said, her voice somewhere between wailing and crying. “She’s a thief! She wants what isn’t hers! I’m innocent! I should have my chance, too.”
After that, Claire Allen started to weep. Her loud, piercing cries seemed to cover everything in the world until they were drowned out several minutes later by approaching ambulance sirens.
CHAPTER THIRTY
One of the medics from the
pair of ambulances that arrived looked over the cut on Rachel’s arm. After cleaning it and giving it a brief inspection, he smiled at her and started to open up a small pouch of sanitizing cream. “Well, you’re not going to need stitches, which is good.” He lathered the cream over the cut and then wrapped a sticky gauze around it. “I’d rest the arm for a few days, though. It’s a spot that can stretch easy and it’ll start bleeding in the blink of an eye.”
“What about Cassie McNeil?” Rachel asked, sitting on the back bumper of the ambulance. “How’s her cut?”
“Not too bad. She will need stitches but from what we can tell, nothing important was damaged on the inside. We’re rolling her out soon, and her husband has already been notified and is on the way to the hospital as we speak.”
Rachel looked over to their car. She watched as Jack closed the door after having escorted Claire Allen into the back seat. She had indeed confirmed that was her name, but they hadn’t gotten anything else out of her yet.
“Thanks for this,” Rachel said, showing the medic his handiwork. She hopped down from the back of the ambulance and walked over to where Jack was making his way across the street towards her.
“No stitches necessary,” Rachel said. “But you should probably drive.”
“Good,” he said with a sarcastic smile. He then cocked his head in the direction of the back seat where Claire Allen wept softly, looking out to them as if she had no real idea why she was even there. “Now let’s go get some answers.”
***
Rachel found a few bags of chamomile tea in the precinct break room. Even though she was usually not a fan of tea, she needed something to calm her nerves. She had what she assumed was some sort of adrenaline headache, her body’s response to the tension, nerves, and excitement of the last two hours or so. At least she hoped it was just from the adrenaline. She had no idea what she’d do if the tumor caused another episode while she and Jack were right in the middle of interrogating Claire Allen. Not that there was going to be much of an interrogation. This was all just for the sake of formality; she’d pretty much admitted to everything during the tense stand-off they’d had in the McNeils’ kitchen.
