by Rachel Caine
She marches off down the hall on the other side of the stairs. I look toward Sparks’s closed door. I can’t hear any conversation, but I suppose he could be on the phone, after all.
“Mom?” It’s Connor. I close the sliding doors and look at him. “Won’t the police search here too?”
“Sure. He can refuse them entry, though, unless they have a search warrant specifically for this house . . . which they won’t,” I tell him. “It all depends on how much the chief of police wants to push things. But we better find a place to hide that car. It’s not registered to me, but they’ll trace it eventually. Once they do, we’d better be out of this town.”
Sam finishes his text. Without looking up, he says, “You’ve got Fairweather’s number, right?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We should probably cover all the bases.”
He’s right. In case my suspicions are right, we should have a local backup plan. Fairweather isn’t local, but at least he’s relatively close. And so far, everything about him tells me he’s not in bed with the good ol’ boys of Wolfhunter.
Mrs. Pall rattles the sliding doors back and holds out a set of clothes. They’re ruthlessly folded into perfect squares. I can’t say I’m surprised. She probably knows how to fold fitted sheets too. “These should fit,” she says, and thrusts them into my hands. She’s gone before I can summon up a thanks, for which I’m actually relieved. I shake out the clothes: a pair of jeans shorts. A faded T-shirt, rust red. A jean jacket to match. No shoes included. I wonder if they’re relics of her own younger years, but they seem newer than that, and she doesn’t seem the sentimental type.
I hand them to Vee. “Okay, let’s get that jumpsuit off,” I tell her. “Try these on. There’s a closet over there if you’re shy, but Connor and Sam will be gentlemen about it.”
They’ve already walked over to the other corner, in fact, and are looking out the heavily curtained window at the street. Vee nods, and under the cover of the blanket, she unsnaps her jumpsuit and wiggles it off. Lanny hands her the shorts, and she gets them on, then reaches for the T-shirt.
I send a text to Fairweather telling him that I need him to get to Sparks’s house as soon as possible. I debate putting more into the message, then text, ELLIE WHITE IS IN WOLFHUNTER.
That will bring him fast.
Lanny pauses and looks at me. “What is that?”
“What?”
“That noise?”
I listen, and at the very edge of my hearing, there’s an irregular thumping sound. Something with a metallic edge. It sounds familiar, but I’m not quite sure.
I’ve heard something like this before in the house, but Sparks said it was some kind of maintenance work being conducted. Surely it’s not the same thing.
“Maybe it’s that girl,” Connor volunteers from across the room, but he doesn’t turn. Vee’s getting up from the couch by then and discards the blanket. The shorts are too large, and sit loose on her hips; they’re not flattering on her, but they’ll do. The tee is a little tight, but it works. So does the jacket she pulls on. Her laceless shoes and socks are still prison issue, but unremarkable.
“What?” I ask my son. “What girl?”
“Ellie,” he says. “Maybe she’s here.”
I freeze. Is she? Did I completely misread Sparks? Not that the man isn’t eccentric, and Mrs. Pall isn’t terrifying. If he is involved, maybe he’s on the phone right now with the corrupt local police. Maybe all of us are sitting in the jaws of a trap that’s about to snap closed.
The hammering could be Ellie White trying to get our attention. Oh God.
I slide the doors back. I can’t tell where the sound is coming from. Somewhere in the basement? Down the other hall? I try to follow it, but I only get as far as the stairs. I can’t tell where it is.
Everyone has followed me, which I didn’t intend . . . even Vee, who’s crowding in against Lanny. Lanny has an arm around her shoulders. Vee no longer looks like the empty, defiant girl I met at first; she’s scared, vulnerable, and my responsibility.
“Sam,” I say, “text Javier, Kez, and Prester. Tell them we’re in trouble in Wolfhunter, and we may have evidence that Ellie White is here.”
That’s when Sam says, in a very calm but urgent voice, “Gwen.”
I turn.
Hector Sparks is standing in the doorway of his office. I hadn’t heard his door open. Mrs. Pall is standing in the opening to my left that leads to what I believe is a dining room. I have the eerie feeling we’re caught in a cross fire . . . and yet neither one is armed.
“Ms. Proctor, I don’t know who you’re referring to,” Sparks says, “but there is no Ellie White here.” He sounds sorrowful, and utterly unbothered. “What you’re hearing is, I’m afraid, the washing machine. If you’ll go with Mrs. Pall, you’ll see what I mean.”
Mrs. Pall says, “If you’ll follow me, please?” and leads us through the formal dining room—a gleaming table, lots of chairs, I don’t spare any attention for it—and off to a small room off a neat, glistening, magazine-clean kitchen.
There’s a washing machine, and it’s shimmying back and forth. It’s off-balance. Mrs. Pall reaches out and opens the top; the load spins down with shaking thuds until it finally stops.
The house is silent.
“I’m afraid the sheets sometimes clump to one side,” she says. “And the machine is old. I’m sorry for the disturbance; I’m sure that seemed very, ah, significant to you.” Her dry tone suggests I’m hysterical for even suggesting it. “You’re completely free to look around, of course. I wouldn’t want Mr. Sparks to think I wasn’t assisting you in your investigation.” The weight on the word is brisk and unmistakable. “Whoever this Miss White is, you won’t find her here. As Mr. Sparks said.”
Funny thing is, I believe her. And yet there’s something wrong here. I can smell it.
Sparks has followed our little entourage, and as we gaze at the quiet washing machine, he says, “Ms. Proctor. I deeply apologize. I was discussing a very private client matter. I couldn’t compromise that confidence. I see you’ve found young Vera. That’s very well done. My dear Vera, you’ll be safe here. I can promise you complete protection. If you’ll follow me . . . ?”
We do, back to his office. Sparks listens to Vera’s story, and I’m deeply relieved to see that the story of what Marlene Crockett knew seems completely new to him. And disturbing. He sinks into his chair, staring first at Vee, then Sam, then moving his gaze to me. “You’re telling me that you believe this poor kidnapped child might actually be held in Wolfhunter? By Chief Weldon and Mr. Carr?”
“I don’t think Marlene would have any reason to lie about it,” I tell him. “You know them?”
“Of course. My family goes back generations in Wolfhunter. I’m acquainted with everyone.” He does seem really distressed. “The poor girl. So young. We do need to get out-of-town authorities involved. I can make some calls.”
I look over at Sam. “Anything from Mike?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I texted Miranda too.”
I want to snap at him, ask him why, but I know why. If he last saw Mike with her, he wants to find out if they’re both missing. I make sure my tone is calm when I say, “No reply from her either?”
He shakes his head. That is not good news. Surely one of them would have gotten back to him. Miranda would have jumped at the chance.
I turn to Sparks. “Make the call,” I tell him.
He looks at his phone, but doesn’t pick it up. “I’d much rather get you all safely out of town and arrange a meeting elsewhere,” he says. “Perhaps at the county sheriff’s office. Where is your vehicle?”
“My SUV’s in the county sheriff’s forensics lab,” I tell him. “You know about that?”
Sparks looks ill. “I thought—I hoped, at least—that it would turn out to be an attack by your own personal enemies, not something related to this town. But I’m afraid the truck used in the attack has traced back to a local man, who c
laims it was stolen. Of course. And unfortunately, he’s the uncle of Mr. Carr, so unfortunately it supports your theory—”
“We can worry about that later. Do you have a place to store our rental and get it off the street before the police see it?”
“Yes. Immediately.” He opens his desk drawer and takes out a remote control. “That will open the carriage house out back. There are two open spaces.”
“Sam?” I hand him the keys and the remote. He nods and is gone, fast. I’m starting to relax a bit, because I read Sparks as being happy to help us. Eager, even. “How are you planning to keep Vera safe?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I promise, the chief knows better than to trespass on my property without my permission.”
“You may be relying on normal situations,” I tell him. “This isn’t that. Weldon dispatched one crew to shoot Sam and Connor earlier yesterday, and followed up with the ambush on the road last night. I get the sense that whatever’s going on, he’s desperate to keep a lid on things. You’d better have a backup plan other than just good manners.”
“Trust me, this house is very defensible. We can keep you safe.” He suddenly turns and holds his hand out to Lanny. “You are Miss Atlanta, is that correct?”
She shoots me a panicked look, but shakes his hand. “Uh, yeah. Sir.”
“And Mr. Connor?” Connor awkwardly shakes the offered hand, and Sparks moves around the desk to take his seat.
“And Miss Vera,” Sparks says. “I’m glad you’re safe. I truly am. You’ve been through an appalling time, child, but I promise you this: I’m going to make sure you’re secure. No one will hurt you anymore.”
Vera suddenly begins to weep. Lanny hugs her. It’s both heartbreaking and beautiful to watch her melt, to see all the nerve and fight go out of her, and let herself feel—at least for the moment—really, finally safe. But we’re not safe. Not yet.
I can’t see Sam or the garage from where I’m standing, though the carriage house is behind us; the windows are all curtained. He’s okay. We’re all okay now. I allow myself a deep breath. My phone buzzes, and I pull it from my pocket to look at the message.
It’s Kezia Claremont, short and to the point. WHAT TF IS HAPPENING?
I start to enter a message, a long one, explaining everything.
I’m in the middle of it when Mrs. Pall says, from the hallway, “Mr. Sparks? The police have pulled up in front. They’re coming to the door.”
“See to them, please,” he says. “Ms. Proctor, perhaps you could, ah, back up Mrs. Pall? Stay out of sight, though.”
“We’re okay,” Lanny tells me, and gives me a really lovely smile. She’s still hugging Vera, as if she never intends to stop. That’s complicated. I can’t deal with it right now.
I follow Mrs. Pall out, and grab the fireplace poker from the parlor as she opens the front door. The text will have to wait.
I get to see the backstage view of Mrs. Pall’s intimidation; it’s more than equal to the two policemen who are standing on the doorstep. They tell her they need to search the premises. She icily says, “You may not.” When one of them dares to put a hand on the door, she says, “Would you really like to be sued for a million dollars? Because I’m quite sure Mr. Sparks can easily arrange that. If you’d prefer. Where’s your warrant?”
One of the police says, “Ma’am, we’re going to check this house, or we’ll have to call Chief Weldon down to sort this out. Orders.”
“Well,” she says, and butter suddenly wouldn’t melt in her mouth, “you tell Chief Weldon that I’ll be most happy to make him his favorite tea, and I have cream cake, and he’s welcome to visit. But he’s still not searching this house without an official warrant, and that is final.”
She closes the door, locks it, deadbolts it, and looks at me. I feel stupid holding the poker. I put it back where I found it. When I do, I realize that something’s changed down the hall. Sparks’s office door is now shut.
Well, that’s sensible. In case the cops get past me and Mrs. Pall, he’d want to have the kids behind yet another barrier.
I try the knob. It isn’t locked, so I open it. “Mrs. Pall sent them packing,” I say, but I’m talking to no one.
The room is empty.
That’s impossible. I know Lanny, Vee, and Connor didn’t come past the parlor. And where would they go? Sparks isn’t here either. What the hell . . .
They’re just . . . gone.
I turn around, and Mrs. Pall is standing there with a shotgun in her hands. Before I can react, she reverses it and slams the butt into my head.
And I fall.
16
SAM
I drive the white sedan into the first open space in what Sparks calls a carriage house; I suppose it was, a hundred years ago, before the horse stalls were removed and Model T Fords took their place. It’s a big, spacious barn of a garage with three metal doors, each allowing access to two cars. This remote only opens one of them.
I leave the keys in the car, and as I’m standing beside it, I check my cell again. Nothing from Mike. Nothing from Miranda, either, and that’s ominous; she’d jump at the chance to reestablish contact, I know that. Something happened on their way out of town; I can sense it like blood in the wind. And I don’t know if they’re alive or dead. That all depends on just how far the people in this conspiracy are willing to go.
Well, they went far enough to blow a hole in a woman’s chest for even thinking about betraying them. Killing one person is hard, but once they’ve done it, killing the next will be—in their minds—inevitable. I’m worried for Mike. And even Miranda. Neither of them has any clue what they’ve gotten into.
I’m just turning off my phone when I hear a scrape of shoes behind me, and something cold presses against the back of my neck. Heat tears through me, followed by chills, followed by rage—at myself. Why the hell didn’t I hear this coming? Why did I think we were safe here?
“Easy,” a voice says from behind me. It isn’t Sparks, or Mrs. Pall. I’ve never heard it before. It sounds calm, cool, and utterly in control. “Hands behind you.”
It isn’t the police, or they’d have already announced themselves. I try to take a look. The gun barrel presses closer.
“Nope,” he says. “Hands. Now. Or I leave you dead right here. Where is she?”
“Where’s who?”
“The kid.”
“You mean Lanny? Safe. Where you can’t find her.” I’m lying. All he has to do is walk up to the house. Jesus, why are they after Lanny? I can’t let this happen.
“Who’s Lanny?” He sounds impatient now. “The girl.”
“Vera Crockett?”
“Jesus. Shut up. We’ll sort this later. Hands. Now. If I need to blow your skull across this room and go get your woman in there, I will. And her kids. Understand me?”
He means it. I put my hands behind my back.
He clicks handcuffs on. Shit. “Ellie White. You’re going to catch a beating if you lie to me.”
“Not Vera?” I’m honestly surprised. I thought we were the only ones who’d figured out the Ellie White connection.
“All I care about is the girl. Everybody else is collateral damage, you get me? You, your girlfriend, those kids. I know you know where Ellie is. And you’re going to tell us.”
Us. He’s not alone. I need to get this guy out of here, fast, before he gets the bright idea to search inside the house. I don’t want him anywhere near our kids.
“Who told you I knew?” I ask him. Because someone had to. I figure it’ll be the police, Carr, someone involved in the conspiracy.
But instead he says, “Your buddy.”
Mike. They have Mike. “I’m not saying anything until you take me to him.”
“Works for me,” he says. “We’re going to need some privacy anyway.”
He prods me to the back of the carriage house. I hadn’t seen it before, but there’s a small door back there, and on the other side, a carport. A black SUV is idling there. He puts
me in the backseat. For the first time, I get a good look at him; he’s definitely not from around here. He’s tall, lean, olive-skinned, with neatly trimmed dark hair and a devilish goatee and mustache. I’d think he was a hipster, except for the Sig Sauer in his hand. He’s wearing a leather jacket, and under that he has a shoulder holster he uses once I’m in the SUV.
There’s a shorter, paler carbon copy of him in the backseat who has his gun on me from the second I get in. He’s got the calm, dispassionate eyes of someone who’s killed before, and I believe he will again. They need me, I tell myself. And I’m getting them away from Gwen. Lanny. Connor. Right now, that’s a good enough reason to stay quiet and cooperate. Opportunities will come. They always do.
“Who hired you to find the kid?” I ask, as the man who caught me gets into the driver’s seat. He straps in and backs out of the drive without answering.
“Word of advice,” he says, and fixes me with a look in the rearview mirror. “Keep it zipped.”
“Was it the parents?” Best I remember, the parents are rich. And desperate. I’m really hoping these slick sons of bitches are hired guns working on the right side of this, however sketchy their tactics.
The man next to me, who hasn’t spoken yet, just puts the gun against my knee in a silent promise. I shut up.
Beyond the tinted windows, Wolfhunter glides by. The cop cars are grid-searching, but they’re ignoring us; that’s too bad, because I’d love to hear these assholes explain having me in handcuffs in the back. Except the cops would probably just kill us all anyway. Jesus, this town. I can’t be sure of anything anymore. Everything is wrong here.
At least Gwen and the kids are somewhere that is—hopefully—safe. I can’t do anything about it now, but I know Gwen; at the first sign of danger, she’ll be a grizzly bear for our kids. She’ll fight anyone to the end.
Just keep it together, I tell myself. I’m sweating, and focusing too much on things I can’t control. My world has to be here, in this car. With these two armed men.
I pay attention to where they’re taking me. The cordon of police cars is moving out; we’re heading in the opposite direction, toward the center of town and then beyond it, to the outskirts on the other side. Not a long distance, but long enough. This section of town is sparse, lots of thickly weeded lots, boarded-up decaying houses. I don’t see anywhere I could even hope to find help. I don’t see a single person outside.
