Lone Witness

by Shirlee McCoy

“You sound angry,” Henry commented. Police lights flashed through the trees, and a car door slammed. Backup had finally arrived.

  “My dad drove me out here to commit a crime. Then, he left me to face the consequences. So, yeah. I’m a little angry.”

  “Did your father tell you why he wanted you to commit the crime?”

  “Money. That’s all my father ever cares about.”

  “Apparently, you care about it, too. You agreed to do what he asked.”

  “My mother is sick. Her medicine costs four hundred bucks a month. My dad blows most of our cash on beer, and my mom spends what’s left on food and school stuff for me. I finally got a job to try to help, but it doesn’t pay enough to fill the prescription every month. My father said if we did this job, he’d give me enough money to cover the cost for six months.”

  “That was very generous of him,” Henry said wryly.

  Saige shrugged “He probably wasn’t going to give me anything, but I was desperate enough to take the chance. If Mom’s kidney gets worse, she’ll have to go on dialysis. We can’t afford that, either. Not that it’s going to matter. When she finds out what I did, it’ll kill her.” His voice broke, and Henry felt a sudden pang of sympathy. He didn’t usually have compassion for people who committed crimes, but this kid was probably the least aggressive and most pitiful criminal he’d ever set eyes on.

  “She’ll weather the storm, Saige, that’s what parents do,” he said.

  “Maybe, but I feel like she’s already had to weather too much.” Saige stumbled.

  “Careful,” Henry said.

  The teen nodded mutely, and Henry realized he was crying, tears streaming down his cheeks and probably blinding him.

  “Look...” he began, intending to offer words of comfort, maybe a little hope that things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

  A branch cracked behind him, and the hair on his nape stood on end.

  He leaped to the left, pulling Saige with him as gunfire exploded behind them. A bullet glanced off his arm, breaking his grip on the teen as they fell to the ground.

  “Get up and run, Saige!” someone shouted, as a barrage of bullets hit the ground a few feet away. “Move it, kid!”

  To Henry’s surprise, Saige stayed where he was, lying inches away, his hands pressed into dead leaves and dry earth. He had dark eyes, dark hair that fell straight to his shoulders and a look of complete shock on his face.

  He wasn’t the kind of hardened criminal Henry usually dealt with, and he certainly didn’t seem intent on escape. Despite the continued shouts from whoever had ambushed them, he stayed where he was, staring almost desperately into Henry’s face.

  “That’s him. My father,” he said as if he needed to explain the situation.

  “I figured as much.”

  “I didn’t know he was going to do this. I just thought we were trying to scare someone.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay,” Saige said, his voice cracking. “You’re bleeding.”

  Several police officers were shouting for the gunman to surrender, but the shooting had already stopped, the crash of footsteps through dry foliage signaling his retreat.

  “I’ll be fine. I want you to stay here and stay down. Okay? Don’t move. The police don’t know who you are. They don’t know if you’re armed. They might shoot if you suddenly pop up.”

  “What are you going to do?” Saige asked as Henry pulled his firearm from its holster.

  “I’m going to make sure I don’t get shot again,” he responded. “Stay down,” he warned one last time, and then he took off after the fleeing gunman.

  He caught him on an unpaved road less than a quarter mile away. As scrawny as his son but not nearly as cooperative, he dropped his weapon as soon as Henry called for him to do so, and then tried to pull another.

  “I wouldn’t,” Henry growled, his gun aimed straight at the man’s gaunt face. Saige had said his father spent the family money on alcohol. It looked more like he spent it on methamphetamine.

  “I’m not doing nothing,” the man responded, his bald head beaded with sweat despite the frigid temperatures.

  “Down on the ground. Spread eagle. Hands where I can see them,” Henry ordered. “I’m sure you know the drill.”

  “You have no right to detain me. I’m just minding my own business, hunting.”

  “On Cape Cod?” Henry asked as the man dropped to his belly, his arms stretched to either side.

  “No one told me I couldn’t.”

  “You might want to think up a better story than that, Mr. Banning.”

  “How’d you know my name? That boy has been squealing, hasn’t he? Singing a sad little song to the police to keep himself out of trouble. Well let me tell you, copper—”

  “Special Agent Henry Miller. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Henry interrupted.

  “The FBI?”

  “Yes.” Henry found a Glock pistol in the man’s waistband and a knife tucked in his sock.

  “Anything else I should know about?” he asked as he removed the man’s wallet and cuffed his hands behind his back.

  “You’re with the FBI?” he repeated.

  Henry nodded as he scanned the driver’s license. Tom Banning. Thirty-five. From Wareham. So far, Saige’s story checked out. “So, are you ready to change your story, Tom?” he asked. “Because I have a feeling that when we run your ID through the system, we might just find some warrants.”

  “I’ve got no warrants. I keep myself out of trouble.”

  “Is that what you call this?” Henry asked, hefting him to his feet a lot less gently than he had Saige.

  “I call this a job, and it was supposed to be an easy one. A thousand bucks to cause a little chaos at that diner. No one was supposed to get hurt, and no one did. Am I right?”

  “I’m bleeding, so I’d say someone did.”

  “That was an accident. I was aiming for the ground.”

  “Who is paying you?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “Someone contacted you. Give me a name. Maybe we can work something out that doesn’t involve you spending the rest of your life in jail for shooting a federal agent.”

  “I wasn’t trying to shoot you, man!” Tom protested. “I was trying to cause a distraction, so that my wimpy son could escape.”

  “Then you’re a pretty bad shot, because you did manage to shoot me, and that could be construed as attempted murder.”

  “Murder! I didn’t do no such thing! I didn’t even toss the cocktail in the diner. The boy did. He’s a minor, and you can’t do a thing to him.”

  “Sure we can, and we can do more to you, so how about you tell me who hired you?”

  “I already told you, I don’t know.”

  “You may not have a name, but you saw a face.”

  “Maybe I did, but he’s no one I know. No one from around here. Looked too ritzy to be from my neck of the woods and too highbrow to be from Provincetown.”

  “That’s not a lot of information.”

  “It’s all I have.”

  “Where’d you meet?”

  “At Sally’s Bar. Right off Route Six. It’s my favorite drinking hole.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two nights ago. Said he needed a job done. Asked if I wanted some work. He was buying the shots, so I said sure. He gave me two hundred up front.”

  “When is he supposed to give you the rest?”

  “Tonight. I took a couple of pictures on my phone and I sent them to him. Once he sees them, he’ll pay.”

  “You’re planning to meet up with him again?”

  “Nah. He’s transferring the money straight into my account. Did it with the first two-hundred. Shouldn’t be a problem to do it again. Once it’s there, I’m buying myself
a steak dinner.”

  “That would be a great plan, but you forgot something,” Henry said, hoping that the bank transfer or phone number could be traced to the perp.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to be spending tonight, and every other night for a very long time, in jail.”

  “Hey! I told you what I know. You owe me.”

  “You shot me, Tom. That’s not something I take lightly. But if you can pick your friend out of a lineup, I might not press charges.”

  “A lineup? Sure. I can do that. You show me some pictures. I’ll tell you which guy paid me. Then we’ll be square, right?”

  “That’s up to the chief of police to decide. For right now, how about I read you your rights?”

  “Man! This was supposed to be any easy thousand!” Tom protested.

  Henry ignored him as he read Tom his Miranda rights and marched him back in the direction they’d come.

  SEVEN

  It was well past sunset when Tessa was finally allowed to return home. She’d spent most of the day at the police station, answering endless questions.

  What had she seen?

  What did she know?

  Who would want to hurt her? Damage the diner? Cause trouble?

  She’d mentioned the kidnapper a dozen times. She’d mentioned Patrick once or twice. She’d given his name to Chief Simpson, providing as little background on their relationship as she could get away with.

  She hadn’t revealed that they’d lived together for nine years, that they’d met when she was eighteen, that Patrick had told her everything she’d wanted to hear, and that she’d believed him because she was young and desperate to be loved.

  She hadn’t told him about the first thrown vase or the second one or any of the ones that had followed. She hadn’t mentioned the bruises, the sprained wrists, the cracked ribs, the turtleneck sweaters that hid the fingerprints on her neck.

  She hadn’t told him about the stolen antique jewelry that was locked in a safe-deposit box at Provincetown Savings and Loan. She hadn’t told him about the purchased identity or the changed name.

  She hadn’t told him who she really was.

  Even if she’d wanted to, she wasn’t sure she could have.

  Her hands were shaking as she unlocked the cottage door, but she pasted on a smile as she turned to wave at Kayla, who had driven her home. She got a quick wave in return, and then she was alone, standing on the threshold, terrified to step inside.

  What if he was there, waiting in the shadows for her return?

  What if she walked into the living room, and he was stretched out on the couch, a glass of wine in his hand and a look of hatred in his eyes.

  Would she have time to call the police?

  Would she be fast enough to run away?

  “Stop it!” she hissed, stepping into the house and locking the door. She hung her purse on the hook near the door, shrugged out of her coat and put it in the closet.

  The chief had had patrols cars riding by the house all day. He’d assured her that no one had been near the place.

  He’d also told her that the person who’d tossed the Molotov cocktail had been apprehended, and that he was being interviewed.

  She’d asked about Henry, and she’d received no response.

  She’d asked again, and she’d been told he was at the medical center. When she’d asked why, the chief had explained that he’d received a minor injury while chasing down a suspect.

  She’d called and texted Henry several times, and when he hadn’t responded, she’d finally given up.

  Being with Patrick had taught her not to chase things that weren’t meant to be.

  She shuddered, hurrying to the front windows to close the curtains. To her surprise, one of the windows was unlocked. She hadn’t left it that way.

  Had she?

  The past few weeks had been hectic. She’d been off her schedule, running to appointments and trying to keep up with her studies. There may have been a day or two when she’d opened the window to let salty winter air sweep away the musty scent of the locked-up house.

  Had she forgotten to lock it?

  That didn’t seem like something she’d do.

  She was a creature of habit and almost obsessive about her need to make certain the doors and windows were shut and locked.

  She’d been afraid for years.

  Being shot hadn’t improved on that.

  She crept through the living room and walked into the tiny dining room. A square space with built-in corner hutches, it contained a small table, a chair and her laptop. A pile of books sat beside the computer, and the pad of paper and pen she used for notetaking was on top of the stack.

  She’d thought she’d left it next to her bed, but she’d been forgetful lately, misplacing her keys and her phone more times than she cared to admit.

  She liked to see her life as a dance she choreographed, each step carefully planned and executed. Lately, her perfect waltz seemed more like a fumbling square dance.

  She walked down the hall and into the only bedroom, hesitating in the doorway for a moment before stepping into the room. Usually, she closed the door before she left the house for the day. Today, the door had been left open. She flicked on the light, her heart racing as she surveyed the interior. There was no bed skirt, and she could see beneath the full bed frame. There was nothing there that shouldn’t be. Just a few storage boxes pushed up against the wall. Not big enough for anyone to hide behind.

  The closet door was open, too, her work pants and shirts hanging neatly next to a few church dresses.

  She crossed the room, pulled out the bottom drawer of her dresser and lifted out the file folder that contained her rental agreement and her banking information. It didn’t look like it had been touched. All her clothes were still neatly folded and tucked into the other drawers. Her pillows were sitting in the same positions she’d left them.

  Nothing was out of place, and yet, she felt as if everything were.

  “You are being paranoid,” she said, speaking the words out loud, as if that would make them true.

  She walked into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain. Nothing there. The soaps and shampoo were still sitting in the shower caddy. The towels were neatly folded on the shelves above the toilet. It was a small bathroom with a tiny window that a child could probably fit through.

  Tessa hadn’t bothered to see if she could, but she didn’t think a grown man could squeeze his shoulders through the narrow space. She made certain it was locked and walked to the kitchen, eyeing the scrubbed-out sink and the window that looked out over the postage-stamp-size backyard.

  Everything looked exactly the way she’d left it.

  She checked the lock on the window and walked into the mudroom. The laundry detergent, bucket and mop were sitting in front of the bolted back door. She’d left them there on purpose—a makeshift alarm system until she could talk Ernie in to having one installed.

  There was only one space left in the house.

  The basement. She’d asked Ernie’s permission to put a bolt on the interior door when she’d moved in. He’d laughed but told her to knock herself out.

  She eyed the bolt. It was locked, the heavy Scottie-dog-shaped doorstop sitting to the right of the door frame.

  Which made no sense, because the door opened in that direction.

  She frowned, moving the dog back into place on the left side of the door. She had to have moved it. There was no one in the house, and there was no way anyone could have walked down into the basement and bolted themselves in. She knew that. She also knew there was no way she was going to sleep without checking, to be certain.

  She slid the bolt free and turned the old-fashioned skeleton key that she kept in the lock. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges, and she reached for the cord that hung from the c
eiling. She tugged it and light spilled down the wooden stairs.

  The floor of the basement was packed clay, as the house had been built in the days of root-cellar storage. It smelled musty and damp, and she almost decided to trust that it was empty, close the door and lock it again.

  “If you don’t do it now, you’re going to have to do it later. Just get it over with,” she muttered, descending the first few steps and pausing near the old verse etched into a wooden beam near the stairs: Joshua 1:9.

  She had no idea who had left it there. When she’d first seen it, she hadn’t even been certain that Joshua was a book of the Bible. That embarrassed her now, but it was the truth. She’d figured it out when she’d Googled and found words that seemed to have been written directly to her:

  Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged. For the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.

  It had seemed an odd coincidence that a fear-filled broken woman would rent a house with that verse written in it, and Tessa hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Eventually, she’d decided to attend church for the first time since her grandmother’s death.

  She’d felt like the woman with the scarlet letter sewn to her dress, but she’d put on the most conservative outfit she’d owned and headed into the least intimidating church she could find. No fancy bell tower or stained-glass windows. Just a white building with clapboard siding and a gravel parking lot. Faith Community Church had welcomed her with open arms. No one had commented on the fact that her ears were pierced five times each or that she’d been too uncomfortable to sing the hymns. She’d returned the next week, and then the next.

  She’d found sanctuary on the hard wooden pew, and she had found her faith in the old leather Bible that Betty had lent her.

  So, why was she standing on the basement stairs afraid of what might be lurking in the musty space below?

  God was in control.

  She knew that.

  She could walk down the last few steps into the basement with confidence.

  She would walk down them with confidence.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  She reached the bottom and tugged the cord that hung from the ceiling. Nothing. The bulb must have blown out. She headed back upstairs, determined to find a bulb and search the cellar.