Tainted (28 page)

“Haffner brought the dog to the house here. Mr. Barrett's car was in the driveway but he didn't respond to Haffner's knock, so Haffner opened the door and let the dog in. He assumed Mr. Barrett was taking a walk. So he left.”

“Which means that your husband was wrong, Mrs. Dane.” Galloway crossed his arms in front of his chest. “And that he may have been the last person to see Mr. Barrett alive.”

“Ask her about his jacket. Jack's jacket.”

Galloway shot Billy a look, but it wasn't as withering as Billy had expected.

“Is there something special about your husband's jacket?” He had turned his attention back to Holly.

“No.”

“Holly . . .”

“It had fish blood on it, OK?” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Because he and Henry caught a lot of fish and cleaned them. So Jack's jacket had blood on it. Mr. Madison doesn't understand it's possible to get messy sometimes.”

“Look, Jack was the last one to see Henry, his jacket was bloody, Henry had discovered about Jack's past on the computer—is that enough for you now, Lieutenant? Will you please look at the computer?”

“Hold on, that's the ambulance pulling up now. They won't be able to do anything and we can't move the . . . we can't move Mr. Barrett until the crime scene people arrive. I'll go tell them what's what. You stay right where you are.” Galloway strode to the front door.

“I'm not leaving.” Billy sat, his heart pumping so hard he felt he'd run five miles at full speed.
Jack has Katy. What's he doing with her? He's just killed Henry. Why? Because Henry found out. OK—Katy doesn't know. She's no threat, but . . . but those two little girls. What threat would they have been?

Tears had started to cascade down Holly's cheeks; her head hung down; she was staring at the cellphone which she had in her hand again, her body shaking.

“Holly, you need to—”

“I'll be all right.” Her head snapped up. “I'll be all right,” she repeated between sobbing breaths. “I'm not talking to you. Leave me alone.” She looked at her watch. “Where are they? Why hasn't he called?”

Because he's a fucking murderer,
Billy stopped himself from screaming.

“Your grandfather was a smoker?” Farley asked Holly. She had covered her face with her hands; she didn't respond.

“He smoked a pipe,” Billy answered for her.

“There are cigarette butts in the fireplace here.”

“Jack—Holly's husband. Jack smokes.”

“Right.” Farley nodded. “So where are the fish, Mrs. Dane?”

“What?” Holly raised her head, palmed off tears.

“You said they caught a lot of fish. Where are the fish?”

Smart cop. I was wrong. Smart, smart cop.

“Are you in it too? You went to a party with him ten years ago and now you believe him and you think Jack—? They're in the fridge.” She wiped more tears away. Billy watched her, saw anger taking over from her grief again. “The fish are in the fridge. After Henry cleans them he puts them in the fridge. I'll show you.” Not looking at either of them she stood up and started out of the room toward the kitchen. Farley nodded at Billy and they both followed her, neither speaking. Holly waited until they were all standing in front of the fridge.

“Am I allowed to open it?”

“I'll do that.” Farley glanced back at the kitchen door—obviously checking to see if Galloway was there—before picking up a napkin from the kitchen table and using it to open the fridge door.

“See?” Holly said to Billy. She wasn't looking at the fridge, she was glaring at him, enraged.

“Eggs, milk, bacon, butter, orange juice.” Farley catalogued the contents. “I don't see any fish.” He put his head nearer, drew out two shelves, pushed them back. “No fish.”

Holly stepped forward, crowding Farley so that he stepped back. She peered in, scanning the contents, biting her lip.

“They must be in the freezer on top.” She ceded her place in front of the fridge to Farley. “Go on, open it.” He did.

“Ice cream. Ice cubes. Frozen peas,” he stated. “That's it.”

Holly stood on her tiptoes, looking in, then turned back. Billy could see that her brain was furiously at work, trying to figure out was going on; he could see from her face that she was coming to conclusions but stopping just before she reached them, like a horse refusing to jump a fence.

“Jack must have brought them home. They must be in my fridge.”

Galloway walked into the kitchen, stopped beside Farley.

“What's going on here?”

“We were looking for the fish Mrs. Dane said her husband and Mr. Barrett caught this morning,” Farley explained. “They're not here. No fish.”

“They must be in my house.”

“Well, Mr. Barrett's car hasn't been moved this morning. I just went to check it out. It's been raining—it's muddy and there are no tire tracks visible. Is Mr. Barrett's boat accessible from the beach, Mrs. Dane? Does he have a mooring in the bay here?”

“He keeps it at the dock, at the marina. Look, they probably took my car to the dock. Or they fished from the rocks on the beach. And the fish is in my fridge. This is so stupid. This is just ridiculous.”

“Look at the computer. You'll understand everything if you look at the computer.” Billy wanted to grab one of their guns and force them back into the living room, stand over them as they read.

“Say that again and I'll kill you, Billy Madison. You
know
Jack loves Henry. You
know
he wouldn't hurt him.”

“Folks . . . I know this is a stressful time. But can we concentrate on what's going on?” Galloway sighed. “Did your grandfather smoke, Mrs. Dane?”

“A pipe. We've done this already. He smokes a pipe.”

“Well, there are a couple of cigarette butts ground out on the floor in his room, underneath the window.”

“What kind?” Farley asked.

“Marlboro.”

“Like the ones in the fireplace, Lieutenant. I noticed them before. Is that your husband's brand, Mrs. Dane?”

“I don't know. I don't know if he has a specific brand.”

“I think we should look at the computer, like Mr. Madison says.” Farley backed away from the fridge.

I remember him now. The little red-haired kid at the party who looked about ten years old and didn't say a word. Maybe he was smart even then.

Lieutenant Galloway stood, seemingly deep in thought.

Hurry up. Don't stand there like a lump. Listen to Farley, for fuck's sake.

Galloway turned and lumbered back to the living room. When he reached Henry's desk, he hesitated for a moment.

“OK, Mr. Madison. Show me what you're talking about,” he said as he pulled out a pair of gloves and put them on.

“Click on the ‘Forward' arrow there.” Billy pointed. Galloway clicked, the Google page with the name Thomas Grainger came up. “Click on it again. OK. See those photographs. The boy in both of them is Thomas Grainger—he killed those two girls in the middle. And Thomas Grainger is the real name of Jack Dane, Holly's husband. He's English; it happened in England—the murder of the girls, I mean. Go ahead, read what's beneath. Henry must have been reading it when Jack—when Thomas—came into the house. And he saw it or Henry said something. I don't know; but he couldn't let Henry live knowing what he'd done, don't you see?”

Both Galloway and Farley leaned forward, scanning the text and the pictures. After two minutes, Galloway swiveled to Holly, who was sitting in the chair again. The chair Henry had been sitting in that night Billy had come to question him about Jack Dane.

“Can you come over here, Mrs. Dane, and tell us if this photograph is your husband?”

She didn't move.

“Look, Holly. Please. Just look at the pictures.”

“This is ridiculous. It's a waste of time. If you'd just come with me to my house you'll see the fish there, you'll see Jack and Katy. His cellphone must be out of batteries and he didn't pick up my message on the home phone. They're there right now, wondering where the hell I am.”

“Look at the photographs, ma'am. Then we'll go to your house.”

“All right. If that's what it takes to stop this craziness, all right.” She stood up, walked over to the desk; Galloway and Farley made room for her and she was sandwiched between them as she studied the screen.

“Mrs. Dane?”

Her eyes kept traveling, up and down—from the text to the photos, from the photos to the text.

“That can't be Jack. It looks like him, but it can't be him.” She stepped back. “It's just someone who looks like Jack. You're wrong, Billy.”

“Why was Henry looking at it if it's not Jack? Why is Henry dead, Holly?”

“He got it wrong too. Like before when everyone was wrong about Jack. And then someone broke into the house and robbed him and killed him. That's not Jack. He wouldn't hurt anyone. Especially little girls.”

“Your grandfather's wallet was on the dresser, Mrs. Dane. Cash and credit cards are in it. Nothing appears to have been taken,” Galloway said.

“Well, they took something else then. Or they were interrupted or something.”

“So . . .” Farley put his hands in his pockets, rocked slightly. “What we're supposed to assume is that someone came into the house after your husband and grandfather came back from fishing, Mrs. Dane, stabbed your grandfather for no apparent reason, took nothing from his wallet, smoked a few cigarettes and left?”

“I don't know what they did. I don't know.” Her eyes traveled, resting on all three men, then back to the computer and quickly away.

“Holly, Holly.” Billy clenched his fists. “Listen to me. What did Jack say this morning? Did he tell you where he was taking Katy? Tell us exactly what he said.”

“He said he hoped Katy wouldn't turn into a difficult teenager—you know, wear too much make-up and stuff. He said Henry had to pick up Bones from the vet and then do some chores. And that he'd take Katy into town so I could get some more sleep. He said we wouldn't have to leave Shoreham. That everything was fine.” Relief flooded into her eyes. He could see her mentally grab hold of something, the drowning woman reaching out for the life jacket.

“You see? It's not him in the picture. It looks like him but everyone is making a mistake, like they made about him before. He wouldn't say everything was fine and we could stay in Shoreham if he'd just done . . . done that to Henry. He wouldn't say that, would he? Why would he say we could stay, that it was all fine now? He wouldn't have said that.”

Billy looked at her hopeful face. He didn't want to do it, but he had no choice.

“Jack wouldn't have said that unless he wanted you to go back to sleep, unless he wanted to have some time before you realized what he'd done. He wanted time to take Katy with him and escape. That's Jack in the picture. You know it is. He killed those little girls. And Eliza McCormack was his lawyer. He wasn't in the Mafia, Holly. He killed those girls. Henry found out about him and he killed Henry. It wasn't fish blood, it was Henry's blood. You said you were on the porch having coffee this morning, right?”

She didn't respond.

“And you have milk in your coffee, right?”

“You're crazy. I refuse to have this discussion.”

“So you opened your fridge to get the milk when you woke up and made yourself coffee. Was there a pile of fish there, Holly? In your fridge?”

He knew, he could tell: she was thinking back, remembering.

“You would have noticed a whole pile of fish. But it wasn't there, was it? Henry didn't go into town to pick up Bones or do errands. Jack's not answering his phone. And he's not calling you to tell you where they are. Jack's the smoker. And he's gone, Holly. He's gone and taken Katy with him.”

“No.”

“Look at the picture again and tell me that's not Jack.”

Her eyes went back to the computer, the photograph.

“No.”

“He couldn't tell you what he'd done. He knew if he did you'd never let him anywhere near Katy. He knew, Holly. He made up that story to cover himself. He told you to go back to sleep because he wanted to take Katy. Who is going to come down this private road where you have to stop to let other cars pass—where you can be identified
easily—
who is going to randomly come into this house and stab Henry and not take anything? And carry him up to bed. Would someone who didn't know him, who didn't care about him in some twisted way, do that? He told you to go back to sleep, that everything was going to be all right, because he wanted time. He's got Katy, Holly. He has Katy.”

She kept looking at the photograph. He saw her struggling; he saw her face as she tried to digest the truth—the horse running up to the fence. But this time the horse didn't shy. This time the horse jumped.

“No!”

Her scream ripped through the room.

It was like a coyote's scream, like a terrible howl of pain, the cry of a young woman who was being horribly tortured and raped.

Walter Farley had heard a coyote once on a camping trip; he'd never forgotten the sound. Now he was hearing it again, at the same time seeing Holly Dane's contorted, terrified face. Everyone else in the room involuntarily took a step back, away from her. It seemed like a long, long time before the scream stopped. When it did, she ran up to Galloway.

“Where is she? I have to go home. Let me go home. She might be at home. I have to go, I have to find her. I have to find Katy.” She ran for the door, but Galloway blocked her, standing in front of her.

“Calm down,” he said.

As if. No way is she going to calm down. We've never dealt with a case like this. This is nuts. This is out-of-the-ballpark crazy and we're both winging it. But Garth is even more out of his depth than I am here. Garth is all about routine. He wants a rulebook for this. Fat chance.

Galloway wouldn't move. Holly Dane kicked out at him but didn't connect.

“What are you doing? I have to find her. Please,” she sobbed. “Please. I have to go home.”

“Calm down—”

“She's my
daughter
. She's five years old. She needs me. Let me go.”

“You're not going anywhere, Mrs. Dane, until you calm down.”

“Two minutes. One minute. My house is just there.” She pointed out the window to the left. “I'll calm down, I promise. Just let me go home. Please. She's my daughter. She's my baby. I have to find her. Please.”

“I could go over to the house with her, Lieutenant,” Farley volunteered.

“Or I can go,” Billy Madison said. “If Holly needs to stay here, I can go.”

Garth was thinking. It always took him forever to think. Like some slow-moving freight train.

Meanwhile Billy Madison was straining at the bit. He'd been that way the whole time; desperate to be listened to. Walter recognized his frustration.

Try being a red-haired guy who looks younger than he is. You get used to not being taken seriously.

Billy Madison—always the cool kid. The one people looked up to at parties. With the gorgeous sexy girlfriend Ann or something. Billy Madison's jumping out of his skin now, a long, long way from cool.

“All right.” The freight train was picking up some speed. Galloway had made a decision. “You go with them both, Farley. I'll stay here with the body.”

Galloway was exasperated with these two, Walter could see. And also probably scared of Holly Dane, how crazy she was looking. He was still chewing over the computer information too, trying to figure out what was going on, playing catch-up.

But then he didn't know some of what Walter knew—the relationship between Billy Madison and Holly Dane, what had gone down in the past. Walter knew—thanks to a coffee with Charlie Thurlow a long time ago. Charlie saying, “Hey, did you hear Billy Madison got some girl on the point pregnant and skipped town?” And Walter's feeling of . . . what? A small twisted pleasure that Billy Madison, who hadn't even said hello to him at that party, that Billy Madison who went to some hotshot private school in Boston and had the sexy girlfriend, had screwed up.

Galloway stepped aside, obviously not anticipating the speed with which Holly Dane ran out of the room, out of the house. Walter raced off after her, Billy right behind.

She could run. It took until she reached the door of her house for Walter to catch up to her.

“Wait,” he panted, but she didn't break stride—tore through the door, into the house. He pulled out his gun, said, “Wait,” louder. There was no car in the driveway, but this Jack guy could be in the house. Probably not, but he had to be careful.

“Katy!” she was yelling. “Katy! Sweetheart, are you here?”

“Mrs. Dane, stay here.”

She wasn't listening, wasn't going to listen.

“He's not in the house.” Billy was beside him now, all of them in the living room. “You can put that gun away. He's not here. He's gone. That's the whole point. He's gone.”

Right. I wouldn't be here either if I'd just killed Henry Barrett.

Walter put his gun back in its holster; he and Billy followed Holly into the kitchen.

“Katy! Chicken—are you here? Sweetheart—it's me.” She searched the room, ran back out, made a dash for the stairs. He and Billy in her wake again.

“Katy?”

She was in what was clearly the kid's room, on her knees, searching under the bed, then off them, up and opening the closet door.

“She's not here, Holly. Jack's taken her.”

She was in hysteria mode. Not about to listen, off and running into another room, another bedroom. Hers and the guy's, it looked like. Her eyes going around every corner wildly then suddenly stopping, hugging herself.

“He wouldn't hurt her. He couldn't hurt Katy. He loves her. There's an explanation. There has to be. This is all wrong. He's innocent. He didn't kill those girls. Or Henry. It's a huge mistake.”

Billy, about to say something, stopped. Like he didn't want to hurt her any more, kick her with the truth. Hear that coyote scream again.

“Wait.” Her whole face changed, some ray of hope sneaking into it. “Jack must have left a message on the phone—the house phone. He must have.” She rushed out back downstairs, back to the living room, making a beeline for the phone.

It was feeling like a surreal game of sardines in the can.

As soon as he saw it, he was pissed at himself for not having noticed before. He was the cop. He should have seen the blinking light on the telephone message machine.

She looked at it like a lighthouse in a storm.

“He's left five messages,
five.
It's OK, it's all going to be OK.” She pressed the “Play” button. “Get back!” she shouted at him and Billy when they came up to her. “I need to listen. Get back!” They both moved forward to hear.

“Message Number One received at 9:42 a.m.: ‘Jack—I can't get you on your cell. If you're home, please pick up. I need to talk to you. Right away. Call me. Please. I need you.' ”

Click.

“Message Number Two received at 10:01 a.m.: ‘Mrs. Dane, this is Southeast Telephone. We have a special offer on long distance—' ”

She swore, pushed “Skip.”

“Message Number Three received at 10:15 a.m.: ‘Holly?' ”

“Jack!”

‘Holly, if you're in, pick up . . . OK. You're not.' ”

Click.

“Don't—don't hang—”

“Message Number Four received at 10:26 a.m.:
‘Holly? . . . Pick up if you're there.' ”

Click.

“Jack! Jack! You see—he's calling. It's going to be OK. It's all a big mis—”

“Message Number Five received at 10:30 a.m.: ‘Holly. I heard sirens before. I have to think they've gone to Henry's house, don't I? You see, the thing is, I was going to tell you before that Katy and I will be out for a while. Not to worry about us. We're having fun. But I'm guessing that now, well now, you're not there because you've been over to Henry's. How'd that happen so quickly, I wonder? Well, it has, so it has. Nothing we can do about that, is there? Anyway, I don't want you to worry. Katy is now my traveling companion. And you know I'm a good traveling companion. I might even sing to her. You never heard me sing, did you? I'm not bad. I'm pretty bloody good, to tell you the truth.' ”

There was a pause. Walter could hear him inhaling a cigarette. The upbeat tone he'd just been using in that English accent of his suddenly changing.

‘Holly. Listen to me. Believe me. None of what happened was supposed to happen. You have to believe me. He was going to make me tell you. I couldn't. I couldn't stand the look I knew I'd see in your eyes.

‘I don't want to use up all your tape and I'm about to throw my cellphone away so I have to say goodbye now. I really do love you, Holly Barrett Dane, but the salient—good word, right?—the salient point here is that you can take care of yourself, I know you can. You're much stronger than you believe. Katy can't, though. She's a child. Katy needs me.' ”

Click.

“We need to put out an APB,” Walter stated. “What's your license plate number, Mrs. Dane?” He checked his watch. “That call came in ten minutes ago. He said he heard the siren so he can't have gotten too far.”

She stumbled to the sofa, fell onto it, her body shaking, her eyes closed, whispering, “No,” over and over and over again. Shut down. She'd shut down, cracked. Billy Madison went and sat down beside her, looked up at Walter.

“3786. It's one of those old family plates; they've had it forever,” he said. “Holly?” He put his hand on her knee, but she didn't open her eyes; instead she sat there, crumpled up in a ball, still saying, “No,” like a mantra.

“She's in a state of shock. I should get someone medical here.”

“No—I'll deal with it. You have to find Jack, the car. I'll get her out of this somehow.”

Walter called Galloway, gave him a quick rundown, told him the license number, watching Holly as he spoke. Her expression set off a weird chain of thought, making him remember an old toy from his childhood. A wooden box with little wooden pins standing in it and a keyhole at the front. You wound up a wooden peg with string, placed it into the keyhole, twirled the string to set the peg loose. It spun wildly around the box, careening off the walls, knocking down the pins.

He could see that's what was happening in Holly Dane's head now. It was spinning wildly, knocking into walls, unwound, unhinged.

“Right.” He flipped the phone shut. “Lieutenant Galloway is putting out an APB. We'll find him, Mrs. Dane, and your daughter.”

Her body was shaking so much she looked as if she were sitting naked in a deep freezer. And still that “No, no, no . . .”

“Traveling companion. He said traveling companion.” Billy Madison turned to him again. “You need to check the buses too, the planes. The trains. Whatever. He's taking her somewhere. Where would he take her? Think, Holly.” He put his hand on her arm, squeezed. “
Think
.”

Billy Madison had been the blond-haired blue-eyed boy wonder, great at sports, sure of himself. He would have been prom king if he'd gone to Shoreham High. Now that arrogance had drained out of him. The man was desperate, trying to find the kid he'd abandoned. Trying to get Holly Dane to surface from the dark hole she'd gone to—but she wasn't coming up for air. She was catatonic.

“Mrs. Dane, we have the APB out.” He approached her, trying his most official voice. “Finding the car is the important thing now. Try to concentrate here if you can. You have any idea where he'd go?”

The “No, no, no” suddenly stopped, but she didn't open her eyes, didn't respond to his question. Walter looked at Billy. “Do
you
? Any idea at all?”

“We weren't exactly friends. No, I don't. Listen, I need time alone with Holly. I can snap her out of this, I know I can. And maybe I can get her to remember something. Figure out where Jack might have gone. She knows him.”

“Not that well, apparently.” Billy shot him a dark look; Walter ignored it, continued talking. “I'd get her a blanket. And something hot to drink. She's shivering like crazy. Give me her cellphone number and the number here. And I'll give you my number. There's nothing either of you can do now except try to figure out where he's gone. If you have any ideas at all, call me. And I'll call you if I hear anything. OK?”

“OK.” Billy nodded.

“When she comes out of it, she'll want to get out there and look for them herself. Which is not a good idea. She should be here in case he calls again. I'll get a tap on the phone, OK? And if she doesn't come out of it soon, you call me. She'll need a doctor. She will need professional help. I'll be back here as soon as I can.”

Walter looked at her, looked away. Holly Dane's face was too painful a sight, too lost, as if she'd been standing on a pier and the whole structure had crumbled, every single thing she believed in falling away, taking her with it to the bottom of the sea.

His eyes landed on a photo on the table beside where she was sitting, a family photo, taken on the beach. Jack Dane was a handsome guy. A little older obviously than he was in the computer picture, but he'd been good-looking then and he was even better-looking now. And Katy—she was pretty with that blonde hair and shy smile. A really cute little kid.

Those twin girls on the computer had been really cute too.

What makes an eleven-year-old boy kill two little girls
? he asked himself, knowing he didn't have even the beginning of an answer. And what was Jack Dane doing with Katy now?

He'd take the photo with him so he'd have a description to send out.

If they didn't find Jack Dane and the girl soon there probably wouldn't be enough professional help in the world to make Holly Dane all right.

It was that “We're having fun” comment of Dane's, that and the “I might even sing to her” line. The way he'd said it, in that happy-go-lucky tone of voice with the Brit accent.

After Walter Farley had switched numbers with Billy Madison, told him to stay put whatever happened, reminded him about calling if Holly didn't come around soon, he headed for the door, feeling a little guilty relief about getting out of there. He couldn't stand to see her face. He didn't want to hear that scream of hers, not ever again.

And after that message, he was beginning to think he might have to hear it: because Jack Dane had sounded like a natural-born psychopath.