House of Secrets - v4 (50 page)

She was crying even before she had actually smelled the stinky cloth that was floating toward her face.

T
he two cars sped off the King’s Hook peninsula. The trooper who had remained at the security gate fishtailed in his U-turn, stamped down on the accelerator, and switched on the lights and sirens. The news vans lagged far behind.

Lillian phoned the house as the mini-caravan approached Whitney Hoyt’s property. Jenny answered.

Lillian asked, “Anything?”

“Not yet,” Jenny said.

Lillian glanced at Christine. “Get the gates open, please. My driver here is definitely not going to slow down.”

As the vehicles came within sight of the Hoyt driveway, the paired iron gates were sliding off to the sides. Jenny Hoyt’s car flew past the collected media and through the gate.

Followed by Chris Wyeth in his car.

The state trooper eased to a stop just in front of the gates. He turned off his siren. Behind him, the news vans lurched to a stop.

The trooper flipped off his flashing lights.

The two halves of the iron gate slid silently back together.

“
T
hat’s
the plan?”

Megan was seated on the hood of her car, her feet up on the bumper. Agent Armstrong stood just off the roadway, his arms crossed tightly.

“If the old lady can be extracted, we extract her.”

“You haven’t tangled with this particular old lady,” Megan said. “She might be a little less extractable than you think.”

“It’ll either be simple or it’ll require force. Either way, she comes out.”

“And if Michelle is in there somewhere while we’re laying it all over this woman?”

“If that’s the scenario, we’ll move in. You’re not to worry about that.”

Megan gave him a crooked look. “This is Smallwood’s grandmother. We drag this woman out by the hair, I don’t think Smallwood is going to stand by biting at his hangnails. He has killed
eight
people. And that’s just what we know of.”

Armstrong had donned his sunglasses, even though the area where the two were wrangling was fully shaded by a high canopy.

“It’s our operation, Detective,” Armstrong said. “We’re past pissing time. Do we need to get your superior in on this? We’ve got twenty-three men ready to go. Christ’s sake, you can hardly say you’re being marginalized here. You’re the fucking point person.”

She knew he was right. The plan held plenty of risk, but all other options would require a willingness to dig in and allow time to become a factor. That wasn’t going to happen.

The clean version of the plan made sense. Draw Doris Smallwood off her property one way or another, then establish through her where Smallwood and Michelle were located. The house? The barn? Somewhere else? Together? Separated? Once they had Smallwood’s location pinpointed, the SWAT teams could move in and chemically disable the subject. Textbook all the way.

“We didn’t exactly part on loving terms,” Megan said, slipping down off the hood. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the woman pulled a shotgun on me.”

“You’ll be wearing a vest.”

“The rest of my body thanks you very much.”

Armstrong’s exasperation boiled over. “For Christ’s sake, are you a fucking law enforcement agent?”

Megan held her tongue. Anything less and the operation was shot. “Suit me up,” she said curtly. “I’ll go grab the old lady.”

Armstrong stood down somewhat. “Thank you.” He pointed to the man in the front seat of his car, which was parked behind Megan’s. “Curt will get you wired up. We’ll hear everything. Outside the house is preferable, of course. But if she’ll only talk to you from inside, we’re listening.”

“Your boys can pounce if necessary.”

“Correct. But persuade her if you can. Try not to pull the badge on her. Try that sweet talk of yours. If Smallwood’s listening, he’ll be less suspicious. But if you have to cuff her and drag her, then cuff her and drag her.”

“This woman is a bear,” Megan reminded him.

“Shit. You can handle a little old bear, can’t you?”

M
egan arrived by foot this time, leaving her car at the end of the rutted driveway, blocking it. She paused as the house came into view and scanned the visible windows. She detected no movement.

“Nothing,” Megan muttered. “No one’s outside.”

The fiber microphone affixed under her collar required no unnatural volume on Megan’s part. The technician who had wired her up had told her that he’d be able to hear her swallow.

Armstrong had agreed not to transmit through the transparent earpiece Megan was wearing unless absolutely necessary. What the detective needed was her focus, not a voice chattering in her ear. Even so, the lack of even an affirmative grunt through the earpiece rattled her. The Kevlar vest was bulky, exacerbating her already rapid breathing.

“I’m heading to the door.”

Megan was keenly aware of the house dominating her vision as she approached it. It seemed as if its walls were stretching sideways and the roof growing higher, the entire structure expanding and cutting off her view of all else. Megan was also aware of swallowing hard as she reached the stoop and rapped her fist sharply against the door.

“Mrs. Smallwood! It’s Detective Lamb! I’m sorry to bother you again! I need a word with you!”

No response.

“Friendlier,” Armstrong whispered in her ear.

You fucking try friendly
, Megan thought. She knocked on the door again. “Mrs. Smallwood! This won’t take a minute! Please!”

“That’s better.”

“Shit.” Abruptly Megan stepped back from the stoop.

“What’s up?”

Megan’s eyes played swiftly over the windows again. “Nothing,” she murmured. “Except I just remembered that Smallwood’s known to have a fairly crude way of answering the door.” Armstrong said nothing. Which said plenty. Megan continued, “I want to check the barn.”

Armstrong protested. “No! If he’s in there you’re completely exposed. We don’t want you stumbling into him. That doesn’t do any good. Get the lady. Follow the plan, Detective. We know what we’re doing.”

Megan didn’t care for the implication. But now was not the time to stand there arguing into her collar.

“No response to my knocking,” she said tersely. She remembered all of a sudden that her transmissions with Armstrong were being recorded.
Use manual-speak
, she reminded herself. “I’m going with a verbal warning and then entering the location.”

Armstrong had picked up on the tone. “Roger that.”

Megan knocked again, and again called out. “Mrs. Smallwood! I left state property behind in error! I’m coming inside to retrieve it!”

A lie, but sufficient cover if she needed later to justify her entering the private home without a warrant or invitation.

The door was unlocked.

Megan moved through the mudroom and into the dining room. “Empty,” she said softly. “No one yet.”

“Weapon?”

Despite her queasiness, Megan smiled. She unholstered her weapon. “Definitely.”

Logic said that the woman was still in the house. The fact that she was not responding to Megan’s calls suggested either unwillingness or inability to respond. Doris Smallwood seemed far too voluble a person to simply opt for clamming up. This was not the woman’s style. Smallwood was here. Megan gave Agent Armstrong a nice solid swallow to groove on.

“Commencing room search,” she whispered. “First floor. Dining room clear.”

The search proceeded swiftly. Rooms. Closets. Behind large furniture. “Negative,” she murmured with the conclusion of each room.

Armstrong and Megan had discussed the matter of the house’s basement and attic. The decision had been made that Megan was not to pursue either option. Both were considered too remote and too dangerous. Barring the easy removal of Doris Smallwood from the house and her cooperation in identifying Smallwood’s location on the property, the waiting SWAT teams would have to resort to an upscaled siege. Not the preferred option, but there it was.

The possibility of the elderly woman’s vanishing had not been covered, but Megan swiftly went over the territory in her mind. If the woman was not on the first or second floor but was still in the house — presumably now with her grandson — they had to be in either the basement or the attic.

Or the barn.

Or anywhere else.

Damn. This operation was methodical, but whether it was brilliant or bogus was still anyone’s guess. Megan felt vaguely like a bug on a string being lowered into a pit of spiders so as to get a good read on their hunger level.

As she headed for the second floor, the old wood steps had a lot to say. Naturally. The lighter Megan landed her feet, the more robust the snap and the creak.

The hallway at the top of the stairs was unlit and cold. She counted the doors. Seven. All closed. It was lady’s choice.

Megan pushed open the door nearest her. “Bathroom. East side.” She gave the room a quick look. “Empty.”

She moved on.

“Looks like the master bedroom. No one. Closet empty. Nothing under the bed.”

She continued.

“Unused bedroom. Trashed. Junk. Old furniture. Clear.”

“Closed door… hallway closet. Clear.”

“Small bedroom. One bed. Empty. Closet clear.”

“Another hallway closet. Nothing. Got one more door at the end of the hall.”

Doris Smallwood was in the bedroom at the far end of the hallway. She was lying on the twin bed farthest from the door. She was lying on her side, the large expanse of her back facing Megan. The hinges on the door had certainly announced Megan’s entrance, but there was no movement from the woman on the bed. Megan whispered hoarsely into her collar.

“I’ve got her. The grandmother. Back bedroom. North end. She appears immobile.”

Her earpiece crackled. “Immobile? Is she alive?”

“I’m checking now.”

Megan crossed swiftly to the bed. “Mrs. Smallwood?”

Megan reached out and placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder. When there was no movement, she tugged, and the woman shifted like a large sack of oatmeal. She rolled heavily onto her back.

“Mrs. Smallwood? Are you—”

The eyes popped open, and Megan’s head jerked back. More startling than the sudden movement was the thin grin that spread wickedly across the woman’s face. Megan had less than a second to realize that the smile was not aimed at her. She noted a shift of the light on the peeled wall paper next to the bed.

Megan spun. But it was a spin into blackness. Her gasp was choked by the coarse blanket that instantly enveloped her. Before she could respond, her arms were pinned to her sides by something strong wrapping swiftly around her small body and yanking her tight. She jerked her shoulders impotently as her assailant grunted hotly, right next to her ear. Her feet were leaving the floor; her ribs were being crushed against an unyielding surface. Megan’s next attempt at breath brought a mouthful of rough wool, simultaneous with a violent blast against the side of her head. Then another. Sparks exploded in the dark, and Megan’s head dropped limply to the side.

M
egan Lamb had no notion of direction as she slipped back to partial consciousness. Her immediate sense was that her head was in misalignment with her legs and with the rest of her body. She was being jostled. She was being carried. A fire seemed to be blazing at the base of her neck. She sucked desperate breaths of hot air.

She was still wrapped in the blanket that had been brought around her like a net, and she was doubled over across her assailant’s shoulder. His grunting kept rhythm with the bouncing.

Then she dropped.

She landed on a hard surface. A floor. The fire at the base of her neck raced into her entire skull, and Megan panicked she might be sick. She’d choke. She needed air.

“Robbie?”

It was Doris Smallwood. The voice was distant. The answering voice — a man’s — came from right next to her ear.

“Not now!”

“But—”

Megan heard a familiar metallic twanging sound. The spring mechanism on a classic attic trapdoor. She sensed the faint sealing off of an attic door swinging closed. She pressed her chin toward her throat as hard as she could and prayed that the fiber microphone was still in place. She whispered so softly she could barely hear her own words.