Dark Homecoming (29 page)

T
he wind was slapping against the house with such force that it seemed as if the whole place was being pushed off its foundation. Outside the window the palm trees were nearly horizontal. Liz pulled the heavy curtains closed.

“Stay away from the windows,” she told Nicki. “At any minute they could blow in.”

Nicki was lighting some candles so that they could see. “We should be in the basement,” she said. “Isn't that where they say you should go in hurricanes?”

“Yes, but do you really want to go hide in some dark basement room in
this
house?”

Nicki shuddered. “Good point.”

“Let's go downstairs anyway,” Liz said. “Mrs. Hoffman said several of the servants were staying for the duration of the storm. We'll stay wherever they're staying.”

“The servants all left,” Nicki told her. “At least, most of them did. Mrs. Hoffman told them to go as soon as the storm started to approach. I saw them drive away.”

Liz made a face. “She told me just the opposite . . .”

“I think the only one to remain was that older lady, Mrs. Martinez . . .”

Liz was really bewildered. “If all the servants are gone, then whose cars are in the garage? I'm certain Mrs. Martinez doesn't drive a Porsche or a Bentley . . .”

Suddenly a loud crash was heard on the roof above them. Instantly Liz knew it was the sound of tiles being torn up by the wind.

“We should definitely go downstairs,” she said. “That roof might not last much longer.”

She turned on the flashlight on her phone; Nicki did the same. Together they ventured out into the hallway, two lasers of light cutting through the darkness ahead of them.

They saw no one. The entire place seemed deserted. Outside the wind howled but inside there was a sort of a hush, a silence that seemed to echo. Where was everyone? Mrs. Hoffman was perhaps still trying to shutter the windows at the back of the house, but Liz thought they were beyond worrying about that now. Better to take refuge in a room with all interior walls and let the storm pass over them. Whatever damage the hurricane was going to do the house now was out of their control.

“The study,” she suddenly said to Nicki. “That's probably the best place to hide out. There's no windows, and it's secure in the center of the first floor.”

“Okay,” Nicki agreed, following her toward the stairs.

Just at that moment, a large picture window ahead of them shattered inward in a tremendous, earsplitting explosion. Two seconds later and Liz and Nicki would have been directly in front of the window, assaulted with hundreds of shards of broken glass. They would have been terribly wounded—or possibly even killed. Nicki screamed and clutched on to Liz. Wind and rain shrieked through the open window.

“Come on, we've got to hurry,” Liz said as they made their way to the top of the stairs.

Halfway down, they stopped. The light on Liz's phone had illuminated something that terrified her far more than the broken window.

The portrait of Dominique once more hung in its place at the landing.

Tall, imposing, indomitable. The eyes of the dead woman seemed to glow as they looked down at Liz.

“How—?” She found she couldn't speak. “Who—who did this?”

“That horrible Hoffman woman,” Nicki said. “I think she had a girl-crush on Dominique.”

“She's trying to drive me mad,” Liz said, trying to stop herself from trembling.

“As soon as the storm passes,” Nicki told her, “we are getting the hell out of here. I don't care if trees are down and the roads are flooded. We'll
walk
if we have to.”

Liz just stood there, shining her light upward and staring into Dominique's eyes.

The dead woman's voice was clear in Liz's mind.

“I'm strong enough to stand up to you,” Liz hissed, whipping her flashlight off Dominique's face. “Come on, Nicki. Let's get to the study.”

They ran down the rest of the stairs and across the marble floor of the foyer.

But they found the door to the study locked.

“Is anyone in there?” Liz shouted, banging on the door.

“I hear someone out in the kitchen,” Nicki said, looking in that direction. “Hello? Someone out there?”

Liz felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun around. No one was there. But the fragrance of gardenias once again filled her nostrils.

Nicki headed off toward the kitchen, calling to whoever was there. But Liz stayed where she was. She felt defiant. “Show your face,” she said, shining her light down the corridor, up toward the ceiling, down at the floor. “I know you're here, Dominique. You've been here ever since I came to this house, taunting me. So show your face! Or are you afraid to? Are you afraid of this worthless little girl?”

There was no reply except the steady battering of the wind outside.

Liz decided she would try to break open the lock on the study. They would be safer in there. She stuck her phone into the front pocket of her jeans and began rattling the doorknob. So intent was she that she did not see the panel slide open in the wall behind her. But she most certainly felt the cold clammy hand that emerged from the darkness within and clamped itself tightly over her mouth.

“L
iz, I can hear people out toward the kitchen,” Nicki was saying. “They're singing or . . . something. . . maybe praying . . .”

She turned around, shining her phone's flashlight back to where she had left Liz. But the corridor was now empty. Liz was gone.

“Liz?” Nicki walked back to the spot outside the door to the study, flicking her light up and down and all around. “Liz, where are you?”

She hurried into the parlor and looked around. No Liz there either.

“Liz!” Nicki shouted, cold fear grabbing hold of her throat.

Another huge gust of wind shook the house. The chandelier swung back and forth like a pendulum, clattering furiously.

“Liz, where are you?” Nicki shrieked.

She tried calling her friend, but got only high-pitched static. The storm had clearly knocked out reception.

Calm down
, Nicki told herself.
Liz must have heard the voices coming from the kitchen as well and gone out there on her own. That's where she is
.
No reason to worry
. Nicki rushed back down the corridor hoping to find Liz as soon as she turned the corner.

But no one was in the kitchen. Nicki swung her phone's flashlight around the room and picked out nothing but bare countertops and empty stools. The voices, Nicki realized, were coming from upstairs. Up the back stairs . . . where she had found Liz cowering in fear, convinced she had been attacked by a strange woman.

“They
are
praying,” Nicki said softly to herself, as she listened again to the voices coming from upstairs. A chant—
Oh, Lord, hear our call
—filtered through the darkness.

It must be the servants who stayed behind, like Mrs. Martinez,
Nicki thought.
They must be religious people. . . praying to make it through the hurricane.

She'd go upstairs and speak with them. She felt strange doing so—like an intruder—but what other choice did she have? She was a stranger in this house. A storm was bearing down and she was all alone. There was no other choice but to go upstairs and try to convince the people that they would all be safer in an interior room on the first floor. Perhaps there was a safe room or storm cellar in the house that Nicki didn't know about. The people upstairs would probably know where it was. Possibly Mrs. Hoffman had already taken refuge there. Nicki would suggest they all take cover, pronto. They could continue praying if they wanted to—heck, Nicki might even join them—but they should really do so from a safer spot.

And Liz would be upstairs. She had to be. She and Nicki had just gotten separated in the dark, and she'd gone upstairs, just as Nicki was doing now.

She took the steps two at a time, guided by the light on her phone.

Candlelight flickered out into the hall from the last room on the left. As soon as Nicki stepped off the top stair, the sounds of praying ceased.

Nicki opened her mouth to call out, but suddenly stopped. For some reason, she kept silent. She approached the room silently, warily. She flicked off her flashlight.

She stood outside in the darkness, staring into the room. Eight people were seated on wooden chairs that were arranged in a circle around a tall, wide, bloodred candle. Dozens of other candles were lit throughout the room, but this center candle had the brightest flame. Four of the people arranged around the candle Nicki did not recognize, but Mrs. Hoffman was there, seated with her back to the door, and Mrs. Martinez, who was seated beside her. There were also three empty chairs. At the front of the circle, staring out into the darkness of the hallway—and so, presumably, at Nicki—was the Haitian chef whom Liz had introduced Nicki to briefly. Victoria, Nicki thought her name was. Or something like that. Something more exotic. Something with a
V
.

“The power approaches its zenith,” the Haitian woman was saying. She stood from her chair. “Praise to our master! Praise to him!”

“Praise to him!” the others all chanted.

The wind outside battered the house. The glass in the windows at the far end of the room rattled in their panes. Nicki thought they might blow out at any moment.

“We beseech thee, oh master,” the Haitian woman intoned, raising her hands into the air. “Restore our sister! Restore her to full and vibrant life!”

Nicki could scarcely comprehend what she was seeing and hearing. Dark father . . . oh master . . . restore our sister. What was this ceremony? What were these people doing as a hurricane threatened to take the roof off above them?

She was about to rush into the room—the hell with their crazy ritual!—they had to get to safety! But what she saw in that instant froze her to the spot.

A woman rose from the floor. Nicki had not seen her lying there in the darkness of the center of the circle. She was naked, and she rose and stood trembling in the flickering glow of the enormous red candle. She was looking out into the hall. Nicki shuddered.

The woman's face was bloated and purple, with bulging eyes and a crooked mouth. Her body was distorted; it looked as if both arms had been broken. Her shoulders were uneven; wrinkled breasts sagged nearly to her waist. Sores and bruises discolored the entirety of her body. Slowly one twisted arm moved upward. With a gnarled finger, the woman pointed out into the darkness of the hall. It was Nicki she saw out there, Nicki she was exposing. She opened her mouth. The sound that emerged could only be compared to the angry bellow of a cow.

As one, the entire group spun their heads to glare at the intruder.

Nicki screamed.

D
etective Joe Foley hadn't lived in Florida long enough to encounter a category 4 or 5 hurricane, but today, that changed. Even though Caroline had been downgraded from a 5 to 4, it was still rolling in toward Palm Beach with winds exceeding 130 miles per hour. All over town trees and power lines were down; the coast had surged and businesses and homes were flooded. Emergency shelters were filled with evacuees. Other people were being advised to take refuge in a basement or in a first-floor room with interior walls. Joe had come into headquarters early that morning, and he'd remain for the duration in case he was needed

He could hear the howling of the wind outside. It sounded like a train barreling toward them. The full impact of the storm wasn't expected for another half hour or so.

“And then what happens?” Joe asked Aggie. “We all get blown to Oz?”

She wasn't in the mood for jokes. Joe knew Aggie was worried about her kids, who, last she'd heard, had been hustled down into their basement by her husband. After that, their phone reception had been cut off. She'd tried calling but nothing went through. The last text she'd gotten from her husband had said their youngest daughter was scared and crying.

“She's only three,” Aggie told Joe. “She doesn't understand all the noise coming from outside or why the sun went away . . . it's the middle of the day but it looks like night.”

“They're in a safe place,” Joe assured her. “Probably in a safer place than we are.”

Along with most of the other detectives, Joe and Aggie were crammed into what was usually a storage room on the first floor of the station, a two-story Spanish Revival stucco building with a tile roof and lots of big exposed windows. Most of the windows, though not all, had been boarded over earlier that morning. That was one of the biggest dangers of a hurricane, Joe knew: being in front of a glass window that gets blown out by a gust of wind. He could only imagine the number of emergencies his colleagues on the regular police force would have to deal with before the day was over.

Power was off, but the headquarters had a generator to keep the lights on and the computers working, even if the storm made Internet connection spotty. So even as he listened to the wind whistle through the cracks in the building, Joe decided to get a little work done. He opened the file marked “Cansino” that he had carried with him into this makeshift office. He read again the email communication that had come in from Europe during the night.

That fit with another report Joe had received late last night from the State Department. There was no record of David Huntington departing the country on either a commercial or private aircraft. A follow-up call Joe had placed to Huntington's usual charter pilot confirmed that he had not flown his client anywhere, nor had anyone else in his company.

Shortly after getting the report from the State Department, Joe had rung Dr. Paul Delacorte, who sat on the board of directors of Huntington Enterprises and who Mrs. Huntington had said suggested her husband get on a plane to Amsterdam. It was nearly midnight, but Delacorte had still been awake.

“I did advise David to go,” he'd told the detective. “There's a very aggressive attempt to take over some of our European holdings, and I felt David would be the best man to go over there and secure the company's assets. But no, I haven't heard from him.”

“Is that unusual? I mean, after all, wouldn't he let you know how things were going?”

“You seem to want to believe that David is guilty of this murder, don't you, Detective?” Delacorte had asked. “Well, maybe he is. You're the expert on that. But I'm afraid I can't help you anymore. David doesn't report to me. He reports to his father. You should really ask him.”

Joe had; the elder Mr. Huntington, having arrived back in New York, had told Joe he still had not heard from his son. And he had no idea where he was.

At least, that was what he was telling the police.

Joe looked down at the photos of Rita Cansino's body, lying in a pool of her own blood beside her car. Was everyone covering up for Huntington? Did they know where he was? Had the whole Amsterdam story been a ruse? Had he really fled somewhere else?

Joe had to consider the possibility that, after killing Rita, Huntington had realized the need to get out of the country. It would appear that if he had fled, he'd used an assumed name. Maybe he'd kept a false passport for just this sort of an emergency. If he'd killed before—Jamison Wilkes had died the same night Huntington got back from his honeymoon, after all—then he might have wanted an escape plan. A phony passport would have allowed him to get out of the country unnoticed. Maybe, Joe imagined, Huntington was at that very moment sipping a margarita on a sandy beach in Mexico, or Costa Rica, or Venezuela, watching the news reports about the hurricane bearing down on Florida. His wealthy father could funnel him money secretly to allow him to live pretty well for a long time.

Or maybe . . . just maybe . . . he'd never left the country at all.

As a good detective, Joe knew he had to consider every possible scenario.

Maybe David Huntington was still right here, somewhere in this city, holed up in some motel, waiting for the cops to come knocking at his door.

Joe scratched his head. Something about this case just did not fit. Yes, it seemed quite obvious that Huntington had killed Rita. He'd had a motive. He'd left the house shortly after Rita did. He'd left unexpectedly on an unplanned “business trip” in the middle of the night.

But for Joe, it was all starting to seem just
too
obvious. Almost as if things had been arranged somehow for Huntington to appear to be the most logical culprit. Maybe he was . . . in fact, he probably was . . . but something just didn't add up for Joe.

The murders of Audra McKenzie, Jamison Wilkes, and Rita Cansino were all related, Joe was convinced. He believed that in his gut. Nothing was going to shake his conviction on that point. But while Huntington might have offed Jamison, there was no possible way he could have killed Audra, since he was on a cruise ship at the time. That was documented. Witnesses, passports, ship logs. So was it possible that Huntington had an accomplice, or accomplices?

But why? What possible motivation was there to kill all these people?

Somewhere outside an alarm was sounding. The wind was getting heavier now. The whistling Joe had heard earlier had become a long steady wail. Above him, the rafters of the roof were starting to creak.

“What do we do if the roof falls in on us?” he asked Aggie.

“Run to the basement, I guess.”

He packed up his files and slipped them into the strongbox he'd brought with him just for that purpose. But even as he put them away, his mind was still racing, still tossing around ideas and theories about the case. He was going to find the killer who'd ended those three young lives—and maybe the lives of Tonesha Lewis, Jeanette Kelly, and Lana Paulson as well, since he'd still not found those three missing women. Everyone was entitled to justice; no one's death should go unrecorded or unsolved. He thought—not for the first time today—of his mother. He thought of her every day, several times a day. He thought of her cold, dead body lying in that tent, killed by some unknown maniac who might still be walking free. No one had ever found any trace of Mom's murderer. Joe had tried himself, but had failed. Someday, he vowed, he would bring the monster who killed his mother to justice.

But for now, the next best thing was to find the killer of Rita Cansino and the others. It might well be David Huntington. A couple of the servants at the house had repeated gossip that David had been having an affair with Audra McKenzie around the same time he'd been involved with Rita, or at least that there had been some intense flirtation. But he couldn't have killed her, unless he'd developed a teleportation device to beam him to Florida from the North Atlantic and then back again. So who did? Who killed Audra? Jamison? Rita? Tonesha? Jeanette? Lana?

Could they all have been killed by different people, but for similar reasons?

Joe was just starting to turn that idea over in his head when a sound like nothing he had ever heard before suddenly cut through the room. Everyone leapt to their feet. It sounded like the scream of a dinosaur from one of the
Jurassic Park
movies, except that it went on and on. Aggie, on edge already, was the first one out the door and into the lobby, where large glass windows allowed them a clear view of the street. But there was no clear view this day. The sky was a deep, metallic gray. Wind and rain obscured everything. But then—they saw—

“Dear God,” Aggie groaned.

One by one, the roofs of the buildings across the street were torn off, as if they were just lids on a row of aluminum cans. In quick succession each roof peeled off, soaring gracefully for a moment through the air, resembling a flying carpet—but then, in an instant, each roof in its turn disintegrated into thousands of shards of orange clay. The pieces went rocketing off in all directions, thudding against the windows of the police headquarters.

“All nonessentials down into the basement!” Chief Davis barked.

“Guess that's us,” Joe said. “Can't be solving murders out there right now.”

“I hope my babies are okay,” Aggie said.

“They're safe and warm, Agg, don't worry about a thing,” Joe reassured her as he followed her down into the basement, his strongbox of files tucked securely under his arm.