She was halfway up when the door slammed shut and the bolt slid home, metal scraping against metal just like it always did.
Shocked, she raced to the landing and turned the doorknob. Locked. She almost banged on the door. She almost asked who was there, but she was terrified that whoever it was would open the door and show himself. Patrick? Everly’s kidnapper?
She didn’t want to face either of them.
Not alone and unarmed.
Not ever.
She backed away. One careful step down at a time.
“Is it dark enough for you?” a man called.
She didn’t respond.
Seconds later, the light above the stairs went out and the house went completely silent. He’d cut off the power, and the electric furnace had stopped its quiet humming.
The boards above her creaked, and something slid across the floor. The dining room table? The couch? One of the boxes she’d stored under her bed?
Whatever he was doing, it was buying her time.
The basement had an exterior door. An old-fashioned hatch-style that was at an angle to the ground. Five steps led from it to the basement floor.
All she had to do was figure out a way to open it, and she’d be home-free.
She felt her way across the inky blackness, guessing at the placement of the door. She hadn’t been in the basement too often. She stored Christmas decorations in boxes on shelves that had been drilled into the limestone wall. There were garden tools hanging from hooks, and she sometimes used them.
Mostly, though, she avoided the cold, dank space.
Now, she wished she’d paid more attention to what it contained.
The sound of her cell phone ringing carried through the darkness. Henry finally returning her messages?
If it was him, would he worry if she didn’t answer?
Would he come looking for her?
The ringing stopped, and she thought she heard someone humming. The sound shivered along her spine as she finally found the stairs that led to the exterior door. She expected resistance when she pushed it. To her surprise, it began opening immediately. No lock held it in place. No rusty hinges caught as she pushed. She waited, afraid that the intruder would see her emerging from the basement and chase her down.
The basement door was at the back of the house, beside the entrance to the mudroom. She could see it from the window of her bedroom, but she’d left the curtains closed.
Was he in there? If so, she could easily escape without being seen.
If he was in the kitchen or dining room, he could look out and see the open cellar door.
The floorboards creaked and something else slid across the floor.
He was moving boxes. He had to be. Which meant he was in her room. The curtains were closed, and he wouldn’t have opened them.
Now or never.
She eased the basement door open, cold rain splattering her face as she crept up the stairs and closed the doors again. She raced across the yard, running toward the path that led to the beach. When she reached it, she glanced back, saw the beam of a flashlight dancing behind the curtains in her room.
She felt sick with fear, terrified that whoever was holding the light would open the curtains and realize she’d escaped. The light disappeared, and the back door flew open, a dark figure barreling outside.
Bigger than Patrick. Broader.
He hadn’t seen her, and she wasn’t going to give him an opportunity to. She took off, sprinting across the sand, rain dripping down her cheeks like icy tears.
* * *
Henry held the phone to his ear, listening as it went straight to voice mail. He left a message. His second one. “Tessa, it’s Henry. Sorry it took so long to get back to you. I was dealing with a few problems. Give me a call when you have time.”
“Are you going to wait a full fifteen minutes to make the next call, or just do it right now?” Saige asked, his scrawny arms wrapped around his legs as he sat on the floor near the fireplace.
He was one of the problems Henry had been dealing with.
Chief Simpson had wanted him to spend a night in the county jail. To teach him a lesson. The county prosecutor had been agreeable. Henry had spent several hours convincing them there were other choices. That had required calling the field office and asking Wren to intervene.
She and Jessica had made the drive from Boston to Wareham, picked up Saige’s mother and transported her to Provincetown. Nancy Banning was as frail and weak as her son had made her sound, her face gaunt, her eyes sunken. She’d pled her case in Chief Simpson’s small office, showing proof of her illness, of her son’s three jobs and the money he’d spent on her medication. She’d tossed Saige’s straight-A report cards on the chief’s desk, and she’d cried.
In the end, the chief and prosecuting attorney hadn’t stood a chance. They’d agreed to remand Saige to her custody on the condition that her husband not be allowed back in the house if he was released from county prison.
The likelihood of that happening was slim.
Tom had clammed up once he’d reached the precinct. Sobered up was more like it. He’d reeked of alcohol, the stench of it filling the patrol car he’d been transported in. He’d demanded an attorney, refusing to look at any mug shots or lineups until he had one present. The chief had called the county and asked for a public defender. Hopefully, they’d have one by the morning.
Not that it would make much of a difference.
Until they had more information from the DNA hit, they had no list of suspects and no photos to put in the lineup. Jessica seemed to think they were getting close. She’d extracted names and birthdates from a public family tree posted online. Zebedee Cantor had been the family member who’d collected the family history, matched DNA and entered the information. He was also the distant-relative match the FBI had located. He’d been more than happy to offer the information he had. Seven male cousins. A nephew who was just five years old. A grandfather. An uncle. Jessica was doing background searches on the adults, hoping to find one who had connections in the medical field. Currently, she was hunched over a computer, staring at the screen.
Henry’s in-laws had graciously offered to let her and Wren stay the night. Saige and his mother had been issued the same invitation. The house was filled with people, most of them congregated in the living room, discussing everything but the Molotov cocktail and the reason why someone might have hired Tom to toss one in the diner.
“Are you planning to go look for her?” Wren asked. She’d taken a seat on the couch, her long legs crossed neatly at the ankles, her suit still wrinkle-free after hours of work. It was nearing eight. She should be in her Boston apartment, enjoying her evening. Instead, she was in Provincetown helping him.
“I’m sorry for calling you out here like this, Wren. I know you have better things to do with your time.”
“I can’t think of any,” she said with a quick smile.
“I can,” Jessica intoned. “I had a hot date with the television and a microwave dinner.”
“I’ve got something much nicer than that in the oven,” Brett called from the kitchen. “Twenty minutes, and we’ll have a nice lasagna, tossed salad and garlic bread. I also have a clam chowder on the stove, if anyone prefers that.”
“Twenty minutes is enough time for me to swing by Tessa’s place,” Henry said. He had a bad feeling. One he couldn’t shake. Kayla had dropped Tessa at her place a half hour ago. The officer had texted Henry to let him know that she’d watched her walk inside.
He’d been heading home from the police station, his SUV filled with people. It hadn’t occurred to him that she wouldn’t be okay.
Maybe it should have.
“I’ll come with you,” Wren said. “You don’t mind staying here, do you, Jessica?”
“I’m good. I’m also hungry. If you’re not back quickly,
I might eat both your shares of lasagna,” she responded, her gaze still glued to the screen.
It was an idle threat.
When Jessica was on the trail of something, she didn’t stop to eat. She barely stopped to sleep.
“How close are you?” Henry asked as he grabbed his coat from the closet.
“Very close,” Jessica responded, not needing to ask what he meant. They’d both been working overtime, trying to catch the kidnapper before he struck again. “I may be able to pull some photo IDs from the national database. If so, we can use them tomorrow when the public defender arrives.”
“That’s great news,” Wren commented, opening the front door and letting cold air sweep in. “But being close to finding the answer doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stop to eat and sleep.”
“Right,” Jessica agreed as she continued to stare at the computer screen.
“Maybe one of us should stick around and keep an eye on things while Jessica works,” Henry suggested as he walked outside.
“Have you ever known Jessica to not be on top of a situation? Even when she’s on a computer trail, she’s at the top of her game,” Wren responded.
“I know. But, the girls are prone to finding trouble, and Saige has a criminal charge against him.”
“Your in-laws are exceptional at keeping your daughters out of trouble, and Saige is about as much of a criminal as an inchworm is a viper.” Wren said, dashing to the SUV parked in the driveway and climbing in.
He followed, brushing frozen rain from his hair as he slid in behind the wheel. “He committed a crime.”
“He was coerced by his father. He acted to save his mother. The first is a childish mistake. The last has some nobility in it.”
“I’m surprised you think so, Wren. Usually you’re pretty black-and-white about things,” he said as they drove off.
“Usually, I’m not looking into the face of a fifteen-year-old kid whose mother is obviously dying,” she replied, something in her voice making him look into her face. Really look.
Her hair was perfectly in place, her makeup understated and flawless. She looked as put-together as always, but she seemed more tired than usual, her eyes a deeper shade of brown, fine worry lines beneath them.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“With the case? I think we’re on the right track.”
“With you.”
“I’m fine, Henry. Just caught up in this the same way you and Jessica are. It’s been four weeks since Everly was taken from her room. The kidnapper has a history of striking every two or three months. The clock is ticking, and I’m worried he may strike sooner because he wasn’t successful the last time.”
“I’ve been worried about the same.”
“I’ve been through the case files dozens of times. I’ve looked at the dates, the times of year, the places. I’ve run everything through every pattern-finding system I know, but there doesn’t seem to be a pattern. That means there is no way of knowing where he might strike next.”
“I’m thinking somewhere away from New England. All his victims have been in small towns in the northeast. He may head south or west.”
“I agree.”
“There’s something else, Henry. Something I didn’t want to say in front of the others.”
“What?”
“It seems odd to me that the kidnapper has returned. He attempted to have Tessa murdered. He failed. Any one of the men he hired could identify him. Killing the lone witness to his crime will no longer solve his problems. Not the way disappearing will. If he stays away, the thugs he hired will go to jail. Tessa will go on with her life. He’ll keep doing what he’s doing in another location or in another way.”
“We’ve discussed this at team meetings,” he said, because they had. It was something they’d all been wondering and working through. If Jessica’s criminal profile was correct, the kidnapper wasn’t a risk-taker. The idea that he’d continue to stalk Tessa didn’t make sense. Not when he’d gotten away free and clear.
“Thinking about that made me wonder if Tessa had any other enemies. I did a little digging into her life.”
“That’s a breach of privacy, Wren. She’s not a criminal, and she’s not a suspect in a crime.”
“Maybe not, but someone seems to want her dead, and the easiest way to find out who is to figure out why.”
“That’s Deduction 101.”
“And yet, you seem content to not go in that direction,” Wren said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I suspect that if Tessa were anyone else, you’d have already done a criminal background check on her. You haven’t, because she rescued Everly, and you think you owe her privacy and a chance to come clean herself.”
“Clean about what?”
“I don’t know. The check came back with nothing. Except a death certificate.”
“What?”
“Tessa Carlson. Twenty-nine years old. Light brown hair. Blue eyes.”
“I’m familiar with her description.”
“I doubt you know her social security number, but I pulled it off the most recent tax return she filed.”
“And?”
“She died in a car accident ten years ago. She was nineteen.”
He wanted to be surprised, but he wasn’t.
He’d suspected Tessa was hiding something.
He shouldn’t be disappointed to realize he’d been right.
Tessa had talked about being comfortable with him. She’d spoken about friendship. He’d felt both those things when he was with her. She was one of the few people he’d have trusted alone with his daughters. He’d told her that.
She’d repaid him by lying.
Or, at least, covering the truth.
“So, who is she?” he asked.
“We ran her prints. They’re not in the system. I suspect she’s a woman on the run from someone rather than a criminal on the run from the law.”
“Are you planning to ask?” he said, shoving down the disappointment he knew he shouldn’t be feeling. Tessa had helped Everly. That didn’t make her a saint. The fact that she’d changed her identity didn’t make her a criminal, either.
“I thought you should.”
“Why?”
“You two are close. If she’s going to tell anyone the truth, it’s going to be you.”
“She hasn’t so far.”
“Don’t be bitter about it, Henry. There are plenty of people in this world who are hiding for very legitimate reasons.” She frowned, leaning close to her window and peering into the icy downpour. “Someone is out there.”
“Where?” he asked, slowing the SUV to a crawl.
“Between those houses.”
“A dog maybe?”
“No. It’s a person.”
“I’ll take a look,” he said, pulling up to the curb and putting the SUV in Park. He needed a few minutes to cool off, to think through what he’d just found out and to try to make some sense of it.
“You don’t know her reasons,” Wren said. “Don’t judge them until you do.”
He knew she was still talking about Tessa.
He wasn’t in the mood to listen.
He grabbed the Maglite from his glove compartment and climbed out of the SUV. The road was slippery, the grass covered with a layer of ice. Ice fell in sheets as he crossed a yard and stepped between a Victorian farmhouse and a 1920s bungalow. It was a frigid night, the temperature low enough to cause hypothermia relatively quickly. If someone was out there, he was either skulking around looking for trouble or confused about where he should be.
Henry focused the light on the patch of lawn between the houses. Several footprints were clearly visible, as the ice-coated grass had been pressed down.
“Who’s out here?” he called.
“Henry?” Tessa responded, stepping around the corner of the bungalow. She had no coat. No gloves.
He ran toward her, shrugged out of his coat and threw it around her shoulders. Her hair was covered with a thick layer of ice, her skin was waxy and her lips were blue.
“You’re freezing,” he muttered, running his hands up and down the sleeves of the coat, trying to rub warmth into her through the fabric.
“I’ll be okay.”
“If your idea of being okay is being a snowman, then, yeah, you’re going to be just fine,” he muttered.
“I’d rather be a snowman than dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Someone’s at the cottage, Henry. He locked me in the basement. I had to leave through the exterior door. I guess I got turned around when I ran onto the beach. I made it almost to the end of the peninsula before I realized my mistake.”
“You’re certain someone was in the cottage?”
“Would I be wandering around in the cold if I weren’t?” she responded, her words slurred.
“Come on. You need to warm up.”
“I need to figure out if it’s Patrick,” she replied.
The words made him pause, and if the weather had been nice, if she hadn’t been nearly frozen, he’d have asked her to explain.
Instead, he scooped her up, carrying her back to the SUV.
She didn’t protest.
That concerned him almost as much as the fact that she wasn’t shivering.
“Everything okay?” Wren asked, running around the side of the vehicle.
“She’s freezing.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Me,” Tessa responded.
“What happened?” Wren asked, all business, all focus.
“I turned the wrong way when I got to the beach and took a longer walk than I intended. That’s the short version.”
“What’s the long version?” Wren opened the door on the front passenger side of the SUV. “Put her in the front. Let’s see if we can warm her up. If not, we’ll head to the ER.”
Lone Witness Page 11
