Criminal Intent (MIRA) (35 page)

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Think!”

Louis
squeezed past her, through the door that led to the service bay, while Gaudette opened and closed drawers and Annie squeezed her hands into fists to keep herself from strangling him.

“Robin?” Louis’s voice floated in from the service area. “Found them.”

Gaudette already forgotten, she rushed to where Louis was opening the rear door of her station wagon.

“Hunh,” Gaudette said from behind her. “Musta left ’em in the ignition.” He watched as Louis removed the carpet that covered the spare tire and spun the wing nut that held it in place.

“Hey, wait a minute. I thought your name was Annie.”

“Long story,” she said as Louis lifted the spare tire. She reached into the tire well and pulled out the manila envelope she’d hidden in there months ago. At the time, it had guaranteed her safety. Now it might just possibly save her daughter’s life.

“Let’s go,” she said, and Louis slammed the door shut and tossed the keys at Gaudette as they raced past.

Over his shoulder, he said breathlessly, “Thanks for your trouble.”

“No trouble a-tall.” Gaudette stood and watched them go. “You have yourselves a nice day, now.”

He got Eddie Tiner booked and into lockup, where this time there was no danger of him disturbing the peace before he slept off his drunk. It had been one hell of a day, and Davy was looking forward to sleeping the sleep of the dead tonight himself.

While he was out dealing with Eddie, the evening shift had come on duty. Dixie had left for the day, and the evening dispatcher, a grandmotherly lady named Iris Slocum, was sitting at her desk, drinking something tall and cool in a takeout cup and
reading a paperback mystery. “Evening,” she said distractedly, without bothering to look up from her book.

“Evening, Iris.”

Both of the night shift officers were already out on patrol. Late-afternoon sun angled in through the long window at the back of the room. In the corner, his red hair turned a flaming copper by the sun, Pete Morin swept a pile of paperwork off his desk and locked it in a drawer. He leaned back in his chair and stretched, arms held high above his head. “You’re here late,” he said to Davy.

“I could say the same about you.”

“Been a long day. If that damn René isn’t back tomorrow, I might have to go over to his house and shoot him.” Beefy fingers clasped together atop his head, Pete studied Davy like a bug under a microscope. “I’m stopping by the River City Pub for a beer before I head home,” he said finally. “You interested?”

Davy weighed the relative merits of bonding with his prickly right-hand man versus the dangers of entering a place that existed for the express purpose of serving alcohol. Pete was offering the proverbial olive branch here. A smart man would latch onto it and hold on for all he was worth. But was he ready for the bar scene? He’d only been sober for a month.

“They do serve nonalcoholic beer,” Pete said, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He hadn’t set foot in a bar since he quit drinking. But he couldn’t run away from it forever. Alcohol was always going to be around to tempt him and test his resolve. He was just going to have to learn to cope with it.

“I’ll go with you,” he said. “Just let me check my voice mail first. I missed a couple of calls while I was dealing with Tiner.”

He perched on the corner of Pete’s desk to check his messages. The digital readout on his cell phone showed four missed
calls. The first two were hang-ups. The third was from Annie Kendall. “Damn it, Hunter,” she said, her voice rising to a scale he’d never before heard it reach, not even during her recent meltdown. “Where the hell are you? I need you.”

Christ Almighty. In the commotion surrounding the Eloise and Eddie show, he’d totally forgotten Annie. Totally forgotten his concerns about her. He sat up straighter, his innards suddenly strangled by the tone of her voice. He punched the button for the next message and Annie’s voice, in a stunning demonstration of controlled hysteria, floated into his ear.

“I’m in trouble,” she said, and he could hear the sound of an automobile engine in the background. “Serious trouble. I can’t explain it all now, but I need your help. There’s a man in town who’s come here to kill me, and—he has Sophie.” Her voice broke for an instant before it regained its steely core. “I have something he wants. An envelope. We’ve arranged a trade. The envelope for my daughter. Louis and I are meeting him at an old abandoned farmhouse a couple miles out on Route 113.”

Louis?
he thought.
Who the hell is Louis?

“I know I’m crazy to go there, but this is my baby we’re talking about, Hunter. I don’t have a choice.”

The fear that was eating away at his insides grew exponentially as she continued talking. “He told me he’d kill her if he saw any cops, so I don’t know why I’m calling you. I just thought—Christ, Hunter, I don’t know what I thought.” She paused, then with renewed determination, she said, “I’m going after her.”

No!
he thought frantically, his heart thudding so hard he could hear its steady
lop-lop
inside his head.
Don’t go. For Christ’s sake, don’t go.

But of course she would. Just as he would. Love made people do crazy things. “So if there’s anything at all you can do, Hunter…I’d really appreciate it.” She paused again, took a deep
breath. “I just wanted to say one more thing. In case I don’t see you again.” Davy’s stomach muscles contracting and expanding like crazy, he held his breath in anticipation. “I think I’m sort of in love with you.” Her voice broke again, and the breath he’d been holding came gushing out of him. “Pretty crazy, isn’t it? I’ve only known you for a few days. But when it’s right, you just…oh, hell. I’m making a damn fool of myself.”

Her message ended there. Barely able to breathe, he pushed the end button. “Jesus Christ,” he said thickly. “She’ll get herself killed.”

“Who?” Pete said. “What?”

“The old Letourneau place,” he said, thinking quickly. “Isn’t there a back way in?”

“Sure. There’s that old tote road. It branches off about a quarter mile into the woods. One branch leads to Kinley Pond. The other one comes out on Route 113, just up the road from the house. Kenny Letourneau and I used to sneak in and out that way when we were kids and we didn’t want his mother catching us.”

He grabbed Pete roughly by the arm. “Then you know how to get in that way? You can get us in there without being seen by anybody inside the house?”

Pete stared at Davy’s hand, tightly gripping his forearm. “Sure I can, but nobody lives there any more, Hunter. The place is deserted.” His gaze returned to Davy’s face. “What the hell is going on?”

“Come on.” He released Pete’s arm and sprinted toward the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll tell you in the car.”

They sat in the car at the foot of the driveway, staring up at the old house. Watching. Waiting. On either side of them, waist-high grass nodded gently in the breeze. “Why the hell hasn’t he called us yet?” she said.

“He
wants to torture us before he kills us?”

She threw Louis a withering glance. “I could live without the gallows humor, Farley. My daughter is in there.” In spite of the sunny July afternoon, a shiver ran through her, and she clasped her arms around herself for warmth. “With him.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“As long as he lets her go—” she scrutinized the facade of the old farmhouse for any sign of human habitation “—it doesn’t matter if he kills us.”

“I understand what you’re saying, and it’s an admirable sentiment, your willingness to die for your kid. But if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon you left me out of the equation.”

Rubbing her shoulders absently in an attempt to get her sluggish blood circulating, she glanced shrewdly at him. “I don’t see you going anywhere,” she said. “You could’ve left me to deal with this alone, but you’re still here. Right beside me.”

“Yes,” he said, with some surprise. “I am, aren’t I?”

“You’re not half the tough guy you think you are, Louis Farley. You’re a good man, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“As long as we’re on the topic of admissions…and since I’m probably about to die anyway…I might as well tell you. You might want to check on your father.”

“My father?” she said, not understanding the connection. “My father’s on a Caribbean cruise with his girlfriend.”

“Um…no. Actually, the last time I saw him, he was flat on his back in a Miami hospital bed, out cold, with an egg the size of Rhode Island on his head.”

She gaped at him in astonishment. “You know my father? And how the hell did he get an egg the size of Rhode Island on his head?”

“Taking your questions in order: no, not personally. And I sort of gave it to him.”

“How
sort of?”

“Sort of as in I cold-cocked him with a rolling pin.”

“Good Christ. Not that marble monstrosity he keeps on his kitchen counter?”

Looking slightly abashed, he said, “That would be the one.”

“And he’s still alive? Oh, my God, is he going to be all right? Oh, shit, I don’t need this right now!”

“I know. I’m sorry. Really. But I thought you should know. Lottie would have called, but she didn’t know how to get in touch with you.” His hands shifted restlessly on the steering wheel. “If it’s any consolation, his girlfriend seems very nice.”

“If we get out of this alive, Farley, I’m going to kill you.”

Her cell phone rang, startling them both. Meeting his eyes, she pressed the button to answer it. “Yes?” she said.

“Did you bring the envelope?”

“Yes. I have it right here.”

“Good. Now get out of the car. Both of you. Hands out in the open. I want to see you plainly.”

They each opened a door and stepped out. “Good,” he said. “Now, you didn’t do anything stupid, did you? Like go to the cops?”

Did the rambling message she’d left on Hunter’s voice mail count, with its embarrassing deathbed confession of undying devotion? What the hell was she thinking?

“Do you think I place so little value on my daughter’s life?” she said coldly. “Or do you just think I’m stupid?”

“Shut up and get back in the car. Drive up the driveway and around the back of the house. Don’t get out of the car until I tell you to.”

The Camry bumped its way up the rutted driveway. As directed, Louis parked behind the house, out of sight of the road. “Excellent,” the voice at the other end of the phone said. “You’re very good at following directions. You can get out of the
car now. Just be forewarned, I’m frisking you both at the door, so if anybody’s carrying, now’s the time to come clean.”

“First,” she said, “I want to talk to my daughter.”

“You’re a cautious woman, Mrs. Spinney.” There was dead air between them, and then her daughter came on the line.

“Mom? Don’t come in here. He’s crazy. He’s going to—”

The phone was muffled, and she couldn’t hear the rest of what Soph was saying. “That’s enough, sunshine,” the guy said, the echo of his voice in the empty room magnified by the phone connection. Into the phone, he said, “Come to the back door now. Both of you.”

And he hung up.

They got out of the Camry. Clutching the manila envelope to her chest, Annie stood there for a moment, side by side with Louis, and looked at the house. It was in bad shape. Half the windows were broken out, and the back door didn’t even latch, just hung there on a single hinge. The fear that was gnawing a hole in her innards pumped fiery stomach acid up into the back of her throat. This wasn’t going to be good. She knew that if she set foot inside the place, her chances of coming out alive were almost zero. But if she didn’t go in, Sophie’s chances were less than zero.

Louis Farley slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it. “We’ll get your daughter out of this,” he said softly, “or die trying.”

She looked at him dispassionately. The back door of the house, hanging at its crazy angle, scraped open. It only went halfway before it stopped, wedged solidly against a warped floorboard. The man who stood in the narrow opening was tall and slender, with dark hair and dark eyes. Youngish and good-looking, she thought with surprise. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. He didn’t look like a killer. Except for the gun in his hand, he could have been just one more suburban dad, dressed for a Saturday outing with the kids.

He
smiled and said, “We meet at last.”

She wanted to spit in his face. Instead, she said, “Do you have a name, or should I just call you Spawn of Satan?”

His grin broadened, but his eyes, those glittering dark eyes, remained cold and dead. “I like you,” he said.

“Believe me, the feeling’s not mutual.”

“I’m Teddy,” he said. “Welcome to my party.”

It was still sunny out in the real world, but the woods out back of the Letourneau place were darker than the inside of a dog. Twenty years had passed since the last time Pete had trekked down this tote road with Kenny Letourneau in an effort to prevent Kenny’s mother from learning about their extracurricular nocturnal activities. In the intervening years, the forest had taken over, to the point where the road was barely discernible. They got lost a couple of times and had to backtrack to pick up the trail again. Branches slapped at their faces as they slogged their way through thick ferns and scrub alders. “I hope to Christ none of this is sumac,” Pete said, brushing a spray of green leaves away from his face. “I’m ungodly allergic to it.”

“That so?” Davy said, breathing hard. He’d thought he was in fairly good shape, but fighting his way through these woods was like trying to run through quicksand. It must be hell on Pete, who had a good sixty pounds on him and was red as a boiled lobster.

“I caught it once when I was a kid.” Panting, Pete shoved aside a rubbery branch that snapped back and would have caught Davy across the face if he hadn’t seen it coming. “My face swelled all up and I couldn’t open my eyes for a week.”

“Good to know.” Something drilled a hole into the side of his neck and he slapped at it. Goddamn bloodthirsty mosquitoes were like vampires. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

“I’m
sure. We’re almost there.”