Authors: Julia Spencer-Fleming
Tags: #RETAIL
The city itself was a mess—traffic lights out along with the rest of the power grid, drainage grates dammed with ice that spread in thickening floes across the streets, a constant wail of police and fire sirens.
“Look at this place.” Hadley rubbed condensation from her window as Kevin slowed to a halt for a firefighter signaling a downed line across the road. “It looks like that postapocalyptic flick where everything froze.”
“The Day After Tomorrow.”
He backed up until he could turn around. Plows had been trying to keep up with the freezing rain on the Northway, but here in Albany they seemed to have ceded the roads to the storm. He hadn’t seen a Public Works truck since getting off 787. He could feel his tires floating over the ice, searching for traction. “Let’s hope we don’t get eaten by wolves while we’re here.”
They eventually found the Albany PD’s South Station, a graceful hundred-something-year-old brick building that looked like a larger version of the MKPD shop. Two uniforms were trying to push a squad car out of its ice-and-slush-covered parking spot, so Kevin took the time to back his Aztek in to the curb, trusting that would help him get his vehicle free when it was time to go.
Detective Vince Patten met them at reception. Patten was about as opposite from Lyle MacAuley as a man could be—barrel-chested, bald, and swarthy where the deputy chief was lean, thick-haired, and pale. “Call me Vinnie,” Patten said, signing them in. “All my friends call me Vinnie!” He steered them toward the stairs. “Good to meet you. MacAuley treating you all right? Let me tell you about your deputy chief back in the day. We were partners, did he tell you that? Two upstate boys in the big, bad city—and lemme tell ya, New York in the sixties and seventies was mighty bad.” He led them to a desk and handed a file to Hadley. “Here, hold that, will you, sweetheart? Take a look at this.” He picked up a photo cube and rotated it. “We both made detective at the same time. This was our first day outta uniform.”
Kevin stared in a kind of fascinated horror at the wide-lapeled leather coat and flared perma-press pants on a shaggy-haired MacAuley. Patten had an Afro—an Italiafro?—and wore a corduroy suit.
“They looked like Starsky and Hutch,” Hadley whispered as they headed toward the interrogation rooms.
“What has been seen cannot be unseen,” Kevin intoned.
“Think we’ll look that weird in thirty years?”
“Kind of an incentive to stay in uniform, isn’t it?”
Jonathan Davies and his lawyer were waiting for them. Kevin would have pegged Davies as a smarmy frat boy even if he hadn’t been briefed on the guy. He definitely had money to throw around—his attorney was an older woman in a severely conservative hairstyle and a thousand-dollar suit.
She cut right to the chase as soon as Patten had introduced them. “My client has agreed to come in and assist in your investigation despite the fact that Detective Patten threatened him yesterday.”
Patten spread his hands. “What, with a newspaper story?”
“Linking my client to a drug kingpin being held without bail on a double homicide charge.” She focused on Kevin and Hadley. “Here are the ground rules. My client has immunity for anything he says in this room. My client’s name will be replaced in your reports by a pseudonym.”
“Look,” Kevin began, “we can’t—”
The lawyer rolled on as if he hadn’t spoken. “My client will not testify against Tim LaMar or any of his associates. You, as proxy for the DA of Washington County, will agree to keep his name off any witness lists that have been or may be developed during this investigation.” She slid papers toward them and tossed a pen on top. “Sign here.”
Kevin looked at Hadley.
Now what?
She gave him a how-the-hell-do-I-know look.
“You agree to our terms or we walk.” She glanced up at Patten. “You can see if you can find a judge still at work to issue an arrest warrant. It may take a few days, though. I understand they’re closing the courts down due to the weather.”
Kevin picked up the papers and the pen. Three copies of the terms. “Are you sure?” Hadley asked.
He clicked the pen open. “Mikayla Johnson doesn’t have a few days.” He signed each copy and passed the papers to Detective Patten, who signed and returned them to the lawyer. She glanced at them, then nodded.
“Okay, Mr. Davies.” Kevin sat down. “Let’s talk.”
5.
Russ twisted to catch one more glimpse of Clare’s face, pinched with pain and stiff with determination, as they marched him out of the storage room and through the kitchen.
Oh, love.
He wasn’t under any illusions. When Hector DeJean started talking about a “good” hostage, Russ knew it sure as hell wasn’t him. These guys didn’t think much of women, and a scared, pregnant female probably seemed like a present wrapped up in a bow to them. They underestimated Clare—lots of men did—and she would use that. No matter what happened to him, she would find a way to save herself and the baby. He held to that thought like the last remaining ember in a dying fire.
“You sure you don’t want me to come along?” Travis said.
“I don’t want Mikayla left alone.” DeJean steered Russ toward the door. He shrugged on his own parka but left Russ’s hanging off the back of a chair. Why bother putting a coat on a man who’s going to be dead soon? DeJean nodded toward Travis. “If I’m not back in an hour, kill the woman.” He looked at Russ. “I don’t want any trouble from you. You understand?”
Russ nodded, dry-mouthed.
Outside, the freezing rain continued. His captor gestured toward the snow-and-ice-covered slope. The stairs were completely impassable now, and would stay that way until the next thaw. Russ broke the trail, the ice so thick he had to stomp each time he put his boot down. It didn’t help that his arms were stretched behind his back. He clasped his hands together to keep DeJean from noticing the holes Clare had stabbed into the duct tape, grateful that the hard slog up the hill and the constant freezing spatter provided distraction. Of course, keeping his bonds hidden wasn’t going to matter if he couldn’t break free before DeJean decided to cap him. The sixty-minute deadline yawned beneath him like a chasm.
The garage door was still standing open, as Russ had left it, its broken lock hanging. Inside, the hood and windshield of the SUV were coated with an inch or more of ice. Noticing this, his captor frowned. “You were busy last night.” He opened the back door and gestured at Russ with the .44. “Get in. Climb into the far back and lie down. If I so much as see your head over the seat, we’re gonna stop until an hour has passed. Got it?”
Russ obediently climbed into the SUV. The wells below the middle seat were packed with plastic containers for gas or kerosene. The accelerants for the MacAllen house fire. He braced his feet and heaved himself over the seat into the storage area, rolling against two twenty-pound bags of sand and a compact shovel. As soon as DeJean fired up the engine and turned the blowers on high, Russ got to work on his restraints, flexing, tugging, stretching, twisting.
The SUV bumped over the edge of the garage door and they were outside. Instantly, Russ could hear the tattoo of rain on the roof and the hood. At least there would be plenty of noise to cover him. He felt one of the holes catch and widen. He strained his arms apart, gritting his teeth to keep from grunting in his effort.
DeJean turned on the radio and began scanning up the dial. Twenty-second blasts of music and talking sliced through the vehicle: hip-hop, sports, an ad for a local auto dealership, a song that had been popular when Russ was in high school. The SUV crept into the turn onto the crossroad. Russ felt another part of the duct tape give way. Despite the chill in the far back he was sweating freely.
“—breaks all records, Stacy,” a voice from the radio said. DeJean locked in the station. “The combination of high and low systems locked into place is giving us the third straight day of icy rain, with no end immediately in sight.”
The tape was fraying in earnest now. Russ twisted his torso. If he could wedge something between his arms, give himself a little leverage … he thumped and jounced against the hard plastic well liner.
The radio snapped off. “Hey!” DeJean’s voice was hard. “Settle down back there.”
“The shovel was poking me,” Russ said.
“Just remember what I said. Your wife’s life is in your hands, not mine.”
What was DeJean’s plan? Would he haul him out of the SUV and shoot him in the road? Truss him up and leave him to die of hypothermia? Was DeJean going to do him before he checked out the cabin? Or after? Russ pictured Bob Mongue lying there, alone, in pain and feverish. Clare at least knew what was coming. Bob didn’t have a clue. But Russ was gambling that he could escape and stop Roy before DeJean found the wounded trooper.
When the duct tape finally gave way, it was with an audible tear. Russ froze, holding his breath, but the beat of the windshield wipers and the roar of the heater covered the sound.
He almost cried out when he spread his arms. It felt like he was being tased. His muscles burned and his joints sizzled with electric shocks. He tried to lift his hand off the floor, but all it did was twitch. He clenched his teeth together and forced himself to relax. He needed time. His abused shoulders and biceps would work again. He just needed a little more time …
The SUV came to a stop.
He heard the jingle of keys being pocketed. “Okay, Van Alstyne. I’m gonna check your place out. If it’s all good, I’ll come and get you.”
I just bet you will.
The door thudded shut. Russ counted to three, then sat up. Through the windows, he could see the back of DeJean’s head as he descended from the road to the cabin. Avoiding the iced-over stairs here, just like they had at the other lake house.
He needed to get those keys. He needed to stop DeJean, to put him down for good, and to get back to Clare. And he needed to do it in the next forty minutes. DeJean’s head disappeared from view. Getting close to the cabin now. In a minute or two, he’d be walking in on the unsuspecting and unprepared Mongue. Under normal circumstances, Russ had no doubt the statie could more than hold his own against one bad guy with a .44. But flat on his back with a busted leg? Mongue was dead meat unless Russ did something.
He rolled into the middle seat and carefully opened the door. The wrenching pain in his shoulders brought tears to his eyes. He staggered to the rear of the vehicle and cupped his hands around his mouth. He sucked in enough air to make himself heard across the lake.
“Bob Mongue!” he roared. “One man, armed, approaching kitchen door!”
He heard DeJean’s scream of rage from downslope. He was going to shout another warning when a gun went off, its bullet biting into a pine branch above Russ’s head.
Warning enough.
He took off up the road, running hard, head down, his boots crunching and catching where the tires had roughed up the ice. He counted on the steep slope and the difficulty of moving fast through the crusted snow to give him an extra few seconds before DeJean had a clear line of fire.
Another shot. Russ hurled himself over the mounded snow banking the edge of the road. He hit with an ice-cracking thud and let himself roll, arms and legs flung out, like a kid playing on a grassy hillside. He hit a tree, slid sideways, ricocheted off another. Shouting and swearing above him. No gunfire yet. DeJean would wait until he had Russ in his sights. He tucked his hands over his head and somersaulted down the slope, thudding into tree trunks, whipped by saplings, torn by bramble.
He slowed as the slope evened out. He uncurled and came to his feet, scrambling toward the lake’s edge. The trees and brush he had pinballed through screened him utterly from the road. If DeJean wanted him, he’d have to come down the same way Russ had.
Two shots, one, two bullets tearing away ice-encased branches, the echos falling away fast in the rain-thick air. “Van Alstyne!” It was DeJean. “You come up here right now and I won’t take it out on your wife! You make me come after you, we’ll peel her skin and carve that kid right outta her.”
Russ squeezed his eyes shut against his visceral reaction to DeJean’s threat. The best chance for Clare—the best chance for all of them—was his freedom. He gritted his teeth against his rising gorge and leaned into the hemlock sheltering him.
“I know you can hear me, Van Alstyne! I’ll give her to Travis first!” There was another long pause. “You ain’t gonna make it anyways! You got no gun and no truck and no place to go!”
Another shot, then another, and another, closely grouped, professional. Mongue. He wasn’t out for the count yet. Thank God.
Take advantage of confusion,
Clare had said, and he did so, slogging down the rest of the way to the lake and stepping onto the frozen surface. He half ran, half shuffled along the shore, moving fast without trees and brush and deep snow to trip him up. Then he was past the heavy wood beside the cabin. He dropped to the ice and elbow-crawled along the embankment until he could see up the clear slope to the glassed-in porch and the windows where Clare had sat and read and looked at the lake about a million years ago.
There was no sign of DeJean. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t flat on his stomach in the brush at the edge of the clearing, ready to blow Russ’s head off the minute he came into view.
He forced himself to breathe, to slow his racing heart and mind. What did DeJean know? What did he want? And what was he going to do to get it? He knew there was at least one armed man in the cabin. He didn’t know Bob was injured, his mobility severely impaired. He didn’t know the sum total of their weaponry was limited to one service piece and whatever clips Bob had had in his duty belt. So right now, the cabin must look like a hard and potentially dangerous nut to crack.
DeJean wanted the cabin, though. Or at least a safe, warm place for his daughter. Russ stopped at that thought. Why was DeJean still here? He and Roy had snatched the girl in the wee hours of Friday, well before the ice storm had begun. He could be in Texas by now, headed over the border to Mexico or Honduras, leaving Roy to take the fall for the MacAllens’ murder.