Lie in Wait (21 page)

 

Chapter 49

“
S
TEP IT UP,”
King said and clapped a big hand on the middle of Victor's back so hard it stung Victor's flesh and made him wince as he bent over a pile of tomato stakes, stapling Take Back Vermont signs to them. He handed a pile of signs over to Banks and Graves to load into their cars. The three men had been at it for hours and Victor felt he might pass out on his feet; but it kept his mind occupied, for the most part.

As King marched toward his truck he pounded a fist in the center of Victor's back again, barked: “Stack ‘em neater. We need to get ‘em out of the vehicles easy and fast.”

Victor rubbed his back where King had struck him. Fran had begged Victor not to come here tonight. She understood the cause was just, but insisted their priority was Brad. Victor had argued that he needed to keep to part of his normal routine, so he wouldn't feel overwhelmed with helplessness and distress. Now, he saw, she'd been right. He sighed and closed his eyes.

“That guy,” someone whispered.

Victor opened his eyes to see Daryn Banks glancing at King, who was loading his truck.

“What?” Victor said, looking to make certain King remained out of earshot.

“Nothing, sorry.” Daryn shrugged. “Judge not.” He smiled. His eyes and easy manner made a person feel like you'd known him all his life. A gift, that.

“What is it?” Victor said.

Daryn glanced at King. “He's just crude, for a man of God. And. Punching you like that.”

“It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing. You shouldn't take it. I wonder sometimes if he uses the Bible, and our faith, not out of love for the word of God, but out of his own mean-­spiritedness.”

Victor thought about the fist-­sized knot of pain where King had just pounded his spine. He thought about Fran's take on the man. Had Victor blindly followed King? He wondered now if King had left the sign in Merryfield's yard. Someone had. And King had been the one out that way the night of the murder; a murder for which Brad was now charged.

“Forgive me. I spoke out of turn,” Daryn said. “I hope your son is faring OK. I've been praying.”

“Thanks,” Victor said. “Some folks we believed were friends have distanced themselves.”

Daryn reflected. “They'll come around. I'd bet. We should put together a prayer circle for your boy.” He lay a hand on Victor's back, where King had punched it.

“OK, ladies,” King snarled as he strode from his truck, glaring at the two men and punching Victor square in the back, the pain flaring up again. “Back to work. This isn't a circle jerk.”

Victor kept an eye on King as the pain throbbed through his back.

 

Chapter 50

T
EST WAITED FOR
the faxed call records to arrive. None appeared. She'd checked the machine twice now.

Time was getting away. She had less than an hour before she had to leave to meet the kids. Pizza might be out of the question; but she had nothing else at home and the kids would be starving, which meant they would be ornery and whiney. And if they got there even a few minutes before her, they would go ballistic when they had to turn off the TV. She called the pizza joint and placed an order.

When she hung up, the faxes still had not come. Whoever had possession of the LUD, she realized, might not have hard copies. Which meant
they
would need to print them first, before they faxed them.

She deliberated calling North and having the records e-­mailed, as he'd suggested. But she did not want to hear his weariness, or admit her flawed thinking. She was berating her poor decision when she heard a fax spit out from the machine in its herk-­a-­jerk manner. A faxed page curled and floated to the floor. She picked up the page. It was a list of the friendly numbers, as provided by the Merryfields. This would make her work easier and faster. If she hurried, she'd get home in plenty of time. If she couldn't finish here, she'd take the work home.

She took a highlighter and started poring over the phone records at her desk as the fax machine spat out more pages.

She studied and cross-­referenced the numbers with meticulous attention. There were a lot of phone numbers and the task proved tedious. No wonder North didn't want his ­people on it.

She'd reduced perhaps a hundred individual telephone numbers down to a list of twenty-­three. Daunting, but manageable. The duration of each call was included in the log. She excluded from her shortened list those calls that had lasted longer than a minute, assuming the calls had been answered by Jon or Bethany, and were conversations.

She narrowed the list to seventeen phone numbers.

Of them, only three numbers had called more than once.

If the killer was not Brad, but someone who had made threatening calls, Test posited the killer would be more likely to leave several threatening messages before escalating to murder.

Of the three phone numbers that had made more than one call, only one of them had made more than three calls; and that number had made five calls.

She would track these three numbers first. It was a place to start anyway. The pages kept spitting out of the fax machine.

On Switchboard.com she did a quick search. Two of the numbers came up. A Kate Atkinson in Clearbrook, New Hampshire, and a Jon Harvey in South Burlington, Vermont. The third number did not appear. She called the number that had made five calls, the one from in New Hampshire.

Test was about to hang up after many rings when the reedy voice of an elderly woman answered, “Yes?”

“Is this Kate Atkinson?” Test inquired.

“Who is this?”

“I'm a police detective, ma'am.”

“Is this a joke?” The woman coughed a dry harsh cough that made Test's throat hurt just to hear it.

“No ma'am.”

“Why are you calling me? How do I know you're the police?”

“Your phone number came up while we were investigating a crime and—­”

“A crime?” her voice was sounded like a creaky hinge now.

“Ma'am, do you recall calling a number in Canaan, Vermont, several times over the month of October?”

“I call lots of numbers, I don't know to who or where.”

“I don't understand,” Test said.

“I make calls for charities and political parties and like that. I can't get out of the house to volunteer anymore, so I help by phone.”

Test was about to thank the woman for her time when an idea struck her. “Does anyone live with you?” she asked.

“I'm all alone, dear,” she said.

“Thank you very much for your time.” Test said and hung up.

Test called the next number. A kid answered, “What's up?”

“To whom am I speaking?” Test said.

“Davy.”

“Davy who?”

“Harvey. Who's this?”

“How old are you, Davy?”

“Fifteen, what's it to you?”

“I'm a police officer.”

Silence.

“Tell me, Davy. Is this your phone you answered?”

“Why should I believe you're a cop? Is this one of those radio shows, am I being punked?”

Test was pleased that neither of her callers believed she was a cop just because she said she was; it gave her some hope for the savvy of citizens, though the statistics on ­people scammed over the phone would not bear out this anecdotal evidence.

“No,” Test said. “You're not on the radio.”

“Ah, damn it. I hoped I would win something. I never win squat.”

“I can visit your house and speak to your parents if you'd rather,” Test said.

More silence.

“Davy, is this your phone you answered?” Test said.

“Yes, so what?”

“Did you make prank calls to an attorney last month?”

For a moment Test thought the kid had hung up.

“Davy? We have the phone records.”

“OK, yeah, me and some friends, so what? The guy's a creep. Or so my mom says. I don't give crap. But. We make a lot of calls. To all kinds of ­people. We're not prejudice against who we prank. I told those idiots to press star-­six-­seven to block the number. Idiots.”

“They did use star-­six-­seven. We have official telephone company records. I'm a real cop.”

“Oh. Shit. We were just bored. We—­”

“How old are your friends?”

“Same as me fifteen, fourteen.”

“Any of you drive yet?”

“I'm the oldest. I get my permit next month, if my grades improve.”

“None of you drive then?”

“I wish.”

“Thank you Davy.” Test hung up.

So. An elderly housebound woman who makes blanket volunteer calls, and a teenager with no ability to drive anywhere who admits making prank calls.

She struck them off the list.

That left the last number that had turned up nothing on the Internet.

She called Officer Larkin at his desk on the other side of the station and asked him to run a check on the third number and see what he came up with, and get back to her as soon as possible.

A harsh beeping took her out of her work trance. The fax machine. It was out of paper.

“Shit!” Test shouted. She looked at her watch with horror.

Time had melted. Shit. She needed to go if she was going to grab the pizza and meet her kids.

Outside, snow was falling. Hard. Shit. If she left now, she could get pizza and be there just before her kids.

Test snatched her coat from the back of her chair and yanked it on. Just in case, she dialed George's cell phone number. George was just seven, but had a cheapie phone strictly for emergencies. This qualified. She dialed and listened to her son's cell phone ring and ring. Then, her heart sinking, listened to her own voice on the voice mail. She left a message, clear and direct. Mommy would be home very soon, she was on her way. Watch all the TV you want. Just don't horseplay or use the stove. Don't answer the door for anyone, and
lock it
.

She hung up and sent a text with the same message.

She contemplated calling Claude, but he was an hour farther from home than she was, maybe more with the snow always worse in the mountains he had to travel.

She hurried out of the station thinking she'd pick the kids up some hot wings, too. They loved the hot wings.

T
HE PIZZA JOINT
was packed. A man in line ahead of Test had to dole out exact change. A pack of teens kept changing their orders. Test cursed herself. Checked the time on her cell.
Come on come on come on already
, she thought, tapping a boot. All she could think of was Charlie. Poisoned Charlie. And her kids. She called George's number again. Left a similar message. Again. Texted it. Got no reply.

When she reached the register, the kid behind it shoved her boxed pizza across the counter at her and, wiping his sweaty, pimpled forehead with his forearm, said, “Anything else?”

She thought about the wings. “No.” She paid and grabbed the pizza box and hustled out to her car.

Where someone had double-­parked a Jeep and blocked her in.

She tossed the pizza onto her car's passenger seat and hurried inside. She brandished her badge over her head: “Whoever double-­parked a Jeep better move it right now!” she shouted.

­People gaped at the crazy shouting lady, until they saw her badge.

A middle-­aged man in a cheap suit looked at her sheepishly as he stood at the counter with his wallet in his hand, about to dole out cash to the kid at the counter. He started to make a gesture to Test to give him just a second to pay. “Right fucking now,” Test snarled.

The man scurried out past her, mortified, but also shaking his head incredulously.

“Watch the attitude,” Test admonished and tracked him outside.

She kept her eyes locked on him as he moved his Jeep, then hopped in her Peugeot and headed home, car sliding as she shifted into second gear.

She was halfway home, making better time than she had expected and glad for it. She'd be no more than a half hour late. Tops.

She was beginning to calm when a thought struck her and her mind went frantic.

George didn't have a house key to let himself and Elizabeth in the house. The few times Test and Claude had even thought they'd be late, they'd left a key hidden for the kids. She did not think George knew of the key hidden in the carriage barn.

It would be dark before she got home. George and Elizabeth would be sitting on the porch in the snow. Hungry. Cold. The person who poisoned Charlie still around.

Damn it.

She pulled over on the side of the dirt road and texted George.

If u r locked out get key on nail under canoe in carriage barn let urself in & lock door! Pizza coming! Luv mama!

 

Chapter 51

T
HE SNOW GREW
heavy and impeded progress as paranoia and guilt gnawed at Test.

She finally pulled her Peugeot into the dirt drive so fast she nearly smashed into the back end of Claude's Bronco II.

Relief washed over Test.

But relief was swiftly overridden by unease. She'd not imagined getting home so late that she'd arrive after Claude. She'd hoped to be at the table eating pizza with the kids by the time he came home; the kids coached not to mention her tardiness to Dad.
You know how he is.

She could only imagine the kids' distressed state, and Claude's reaction to finding his kids stranded on the porch so soon after their dog had been poisoned. George had never called or texted back, so Test had no idea if he'd received her messages. It was unforgivable if her kids had waited in the cold. Claude would say he forgave her, and he'd probably believe it. But there would remain a piece of him that wouldn't. Couldn't. Justifiably. It's how she would feel if Claude did such a thing. Which he never would.

The front door was locked. Which worried her. Claude never locked the door when it was just him and the kids at home. But perhaps he'd locked it because of Charlie. She unlocked the door and entered as she readied herself to plead unpardonable selfishness and throw herself on her family's mercy.

Out of habit she hoisted the pizza box over her head to prepare for Charlie's crazed greeting.

She was greeted by silence.

She set the pizza box down on the mudroom bench, her palms greasy from the underside of it.

No boots or jackets hung in the mudroom.

That couldn't be. They had to be here. She went to the kitchen and looked at the clock. It was 6:12. The kids got their bath at 6:00, and as freewheeling as Claude was with his own time during the day, he was regimented about the kids' schedules. She pieced together the evidence: The kids had waited outside for her in the cold; Claude had swept them into the house and straight up to a warm bath, no time to take off their gear.

Except there should have been water, melted from their snowy boots.

She called up the stairs.

No response came.

She'd expect Claude to give her the silent treatment. But not the kids.

Disquiet fluttered in her chest.

Calm yourself
, she said.

She hurried around the kitchen island, kicking Charlie's old feeding bowl and scattering the kibbles across the floor. She went to the back playroom. The kids and Claude were not there.

She took the stairs two at a time, thinking maybe the bathroom door was shut, or the kids had already bathed and were exhausted and in bed, and Claude did not want to yell down to her for fear of waking them.

That was it, she told herself.

It had to be.

The bathroom and the kids' rooms were empty.

Her family was not in the house.

The barn. Of course. They were all out in Claude's studio.

She looked out the upstairs hallway window at the old carriage barn studio, eyes searching. But there was no sign of lights coming from inside the barn.

There'd be no reason Claude would take George and Elizabeth to the barn studio. The kids disliked the studio. The noxious odors of oil paints, thinners and solvents were hard for Test to stomach for even a few seconds with the windows open wide. The fumes gave her a constant worry about Claude's health. Whenever he got a nasty cough, her first thought was lung cancer.

Still, if he and the kids had to be out in the barn. There was nowhere else they could be. No reasonable explanation. Unless.

She shoved the thought out of her mind as she reached under her jacket and brought out her M&P40.

She took the stairs back down three at a time and raced out the door and into a heavy wet snow that fell in big wet flakes the size of crabapple blossoms.

As she strode toward the barn, sidearm in her hand, she kept her senses keen, eyes sharp, images of poisoned dogs and Jessica corroding the edges of her panic.

The snow fell fast, watering her vision.

She peered in a window of the carriage barn's door. The inside of the barn was dark. She knocked.

No one came to the door.

She blinked back the fat snowflakes from her lashes. Her face hot and slick with sweat as her body hummed with fear.

Where were they?

She yanked on the carriage barn handle.

As the door slid back in its track, Test took a shooting stance. But no one advanced on her from the darkness. What was going on here?

She looked back across the darkening yard to Claude's Bronco II.

She told herself to calm down. Still, she found it hard to breathe, on the edge of hyperventilating.

She should never have even called North. The case was wrapped up. She'd obstinately followed dead-­end theories out of pride or naivety. Left her kids alone, in jeopardy.

If someone had done something to her family because—­

She tried to clear her mind of rampant thoughts that did not serve her.

She switched on the barn lights. The ground floor of the barn was empty. Test rushed to the door to the stairway that led to the studio in the barn's old loft. The door was locked.

She looked under the canoe. The key chain hung on its nail. There was no way to lock the door from the other side. Her family could not be upstairs.

Where is my family?
her mind screamed.

She looked out into the strengthening snow.

The floodlights had blinked on with her movement and cast a swath of yellow light in which the snow jigged. She heard a grating sound and flinched, tightening her grip on her sidearm.

The weather vane atop the carriage barn, a copper pig, squeaked in the changing wind.

Damn it. Where were they?

Her eyes lit on Claude's Bronco II, parked in the shadows beyond the reach of the floodlight.

It was the only place left for them to be.

Except
.

An image of Jessica in the Merryfields' cellar flashed in Test's mind.

And if they are in the Bronco II. They—­

She ran to the vehicle as if it were on fire, her family trapped inside.

She got to the driver's door—­too dark to see inside the vehicle—­and yanked the door open.

The wind blew snow straight into her face.

Her gun was cold in her hand. Her fingers stiff around its grip.

As her vision returned and she stared at the empty vehicle, a shriek rose from behind her. Her heart jumped and she wheeled around, her gun coming up, thumb blindly tripping the safety, finger slipping inside the trigger guard.

She leveled the M&P40, ready to fire this time.

The shriek rose through the snow.

A figure bore down on her.

She gripped the pistol, finger against the trigger.

One step closer and she'd fire.

“Mama!”

Test's breath left her in a heaving rush, as if she'd been struck by a wrecking ball. She collapsed to her knees, staggered with relief and by the horror at what she'd almost done. “Oh God,” she said, fingers limp around her handgun as Elizabeth crashed into her. “Oh God.”

George smashed into the both of them, knocking Test onto her back on the wet gravel, grinding her cheek against it. She slipped her weapon's safety on and tossed the sidearm under the Bronco II.

“Mama!” her kids wailed as they mobbed her and pinned her to the ground with smooches. Her heart seemed about to burst as their father materialized from the snow.

“Let your poor mom up,” Claude said.

“They're all right,” Test said and wrapped her arms around her kids and pulled them to her, pressing her face into them so they could not hear her sobs. “They're all right.”

After the kids quieted and eased up, she rose.

“What are you doing out here?” Claude said. She tried to gauge his tone, but her mind was free-­falling.

“Where were
you
?” she said, trying to mask her shame, an irrational anger smoldering in her.

“Behind the barn.”

Her anger flared, tamped down quickly by confusion. “
Why
?”

“The kids wanted to visit Charlie. Put some pictures they drew for him on his resting place.”

If she'd thought she could not feel more sorry or pathetic, she'd been mistaken.

“Why didn't you wait for me?” she said.

Claude slung his arm around her shoulders as the kids ran ahead of them into the house. “You were late, so we figured you'd be a while, picking up pizza and fending off the snow.”

“When did you get home?”

“A half hour ago.”

“The poor kids,” she said. “I'm—­” He must have sensed her anguish, because he took her face in her hands and kissed her. She felt repulsive. She did not deserve forgiveness.

“The kids were fine,” he said.

Fine, how could they have been fine left in the dark and snow alone?

“George got the key just like you told him and they went inside and vegged in front of the tube,” Claude said. “He even brought it back out to its hiding spot. Our son is nothing if not diligent.”

She swallowed a sob, but felt the tears welling at the rims of her eyes.

“I'll be right in,” Test said, slipping from under her husband's arm. “I'll get the barn door.”

He stared at her.

“Go on. Get the pizza warmed up for the kids.”

Claude shrugged and walked toward the house.

Test shut off the barn light and closed the door.

She went to Claude's Bronco, reached her hand underneath it and dragged her weapon to her. She double-­checked that the safety, then holstered the gun. She'd almost pulled the trigger. On her own child.

She sagged against the Bronco and let the tears come.

After a spell, soaked by the snow, she managed a deep breath and strode toward the house.

The floodlights had blinked off to leave the yard in full dark.