by J. D. Barker
Inside the house, the air became hazy, thick with smoke. It trailed in from each of the hallways, dark and black, crawling across the ceiling. The silence of the place was broken by a low hum, a slight crackle, as several fires took root throughout the home.
Dobbs’s eyes landed on the nine-volt batteries on the table. She’d removed them from the smoke detectors.
Upstairs, someone shouted.
Footsteps, running, thumped on the second floor.
Begley tossed Dobbs his keys and yanked out his cell phone. “I’ll get Fire and Rescue! Follow her!”
Dobbs was out the door, his eyes stinging from the smoke.
Outside, agents scrambled. Fingers pointed up.
Dobbs jumped into Begley’s rented Nissan Rogue, and as he shot down the driveway after Fitzgerald, he hazarded a glance in the rearview mirror.
Three windows blew out of the second floor, followed by a belch of black smoke and flames.
By the time he reached the end of the driveway, he knew the fire department wouldn’t make it in time.
He hadn’t seen Begley come out—only about half of those who’d gone in were back out front.
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
I wasn’t a fan of what happened the last time Michael had left me alone in a car, so I scrambled out after him, raced up the cracked concrete path behind him.
We were halfway to the door when the shrill clatter of the phone inside stopped.
When Michael reached the house, he turned the rifle around and beat on the front door with the butt end. “Hey, Nicki! Knock-knock!”
He slammed his shoulder into the door, hard, all his weight behind it.
The frame rattled, but the door didn’t give.
“What are you doing? We can’t break in!”
He slammed the door again.
“Michael, stop!”
Ignoring me, he took several steps back, got a running start, and barreled into the door with a heavy push off his legs. This time, the frame splintered and the door snapped open. Michael stumbled inside, nearly lost his balance, but found his footing in a small living room.
“Was that our buddy Larry on the line? Did you say hello for me?”
A door slammed somewhere deep in the house, toward the back; that was followed by a crash. “Don’t worry about me, Nicki! I’ll make myself comfortable!”
Michael grabbed the end of a dining-room table, yanked it up, sent it crashing against the wall. A bowl of fruit, some kind of glass centerpiece, and a few smaller items shot through the air and clattered all around.
“What are you doing?” I shouted.
Three more slamming doors.
He ignored me. He crossed the room and started down a hallway toward the sound.
All the doors in the hallway were closed.
When Michael reached the first, he rested the barrel of the rifle on his shoulder and leaned in close. “Are you in there, sweetie? I can smell your drugstore perfume. It’s that same cheap shit I remember from years back, but it’s your cheap shit. Brings to mind so many fond memories. I used to love the way you dabbed it behind your ears and right between your breasts. Hmm—those other places too. Why didn’t you keep in touch? I’ve missed you.”
He kicked the door. The drywall shuddered. It was a cheap, hollow-core plank. His foot nearly went through as the door flew open and cracked against the wall.
A home office. Cluttered with boxes and filing cabinets. There was the old phone, a red plastic box sitting on the corner of a scratched-up wooden desk.
Michael swung the barrel of the rifle off his shoulder as he stepped into the room and slowly swept the gun back and forth. “I haven’t played hide-and-seek since I was a kid. This is exciting! Come out, come out, wherever you are! Come out, come out, you little whore!”
I took a step back.
Michael looked at me, tilted his head to the side, pouted. “What’s wrong, Meg? You don’t want to play?”
I shook my head, but when I opened my mouth, nothing came out.
Michael smiled.
“You should run now,” he said softly. “I would.”
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Dobbs
The gate to the Fitzgerald estate was wide open and had been since they’d arrived yesterday.
Dr. Fitzgerald didn’t slow as she reached the end of the drive. In fact, she picked up speed. The BMW’s rear wheels bit into the blacktop as she made a hard left onto Danby Road.
Dobbs’s borrowed Nissan was top-heavy and took the turn with less grace, the back end sliding. He yanked at the wheel, tried not to overcompensate, and straightened back out. By the time he’d gotten behind her again, she had added several car lengths to the distance between them. At half the size and a fraction of the horsepower, the Nissan was no match for the BMW. The irony was, she didn’t appear to be trying to outrun him. She was speeding along at a good clip—at least twenty miles an hour over the posted limit—but she was just driving fast. If she wanted to lose him, she could.
The doctor took another right onto Whitetail and vanished momentarily behind a hill. He almost didn’t see her turn right again on East King. If a slow-moving pickup truck hadn’t pulled out in front of her, he surely would have lost her. She weaved back and forth in an attempt to pass the lumbering vehicle, but he was towing a wide trailer carrying several golf carts, the road was narrow, and at this hour, he didn’t expect a need to share it.
Dobbs got up behind her and flashed his headlights on and off, high and low. Hit the horn several times. She looked up at him in her rearview mirror, then her eyes went back to the road.
When the truck lazily swung to the right, she jerked into the left lane and floored the accelerator. The BMW shot past before the truck had a chance to come back in the other direction.
Dobbs crossed into the left lane and jammed the gas pedal of the Nissan down to the floor, but rather than producing the smooth purr of the BMW, the Rogue sounded like a lawn mower bogged down in thick, wet grass. He thought it might stall, but it lurched forward. When he was halfway past the truck and trailer, the driver started to roll into his lane.
Dobbs slammed his palm down on the horn.
The driver looked up from the phone in his hand, offered an apologetic wave, and got back into his own lane.
He didn’t see her turn on Fall Creek Drive. He blew right by. If he hadn’t caught her out of the corner of his eye climbing out of the car, he would have lost her.
Dobbs threw the Rogue into reverse, churning up loose gravel, backed up to the missed turn, and saw the BMW parked up ahead in the wash of his headlights. Fitzgerald gave him an irritated glance, then scrambled down a small footpath without bothering to close her car door.
Dobbs parked behind her, blocking her in, and chased after her. At the mouth of the path, he caught a glimpse of a sign that read CORNELL, with an arrow.
Chapter One Hundred
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
Michael started for the only closet in the room. He yanked open the bifold door and began poking around inside with the barrel of the gun.
I ran to the kitchen and started tugging open drawers, one after the other. “Come on, everybody’s got—” Then I found a junk drawer with a large pair of scissors on top. I snatched them up and ran back down the hall.
Michael broke open another door.
A small bathroom.
He gave me a sideways look. “I thought I told you to run.”
“I’m not gonna let you hurt her!”
“No?” He glanced at the scissors in my hand, amused. “That’s so sweet.”
He stepped into the bathroom, pulled back the shower curtain.
Nobody.
He reached down and jerked hard enough on one of the vanity doors to break off the hinge. The door fell to the side at an awkward angle. He knelt and looked inside.
Nothing.
“I bet yo
u’re hiding someplace dark, Nicki. You always did like the dark. That’s where you were at your best.”
“You’re him, aren’t you?”
Michael smiled at this. “I’m just me. Nobody special.”
He pushed past me into the hallway, ignoring the scissors in my hand.
“You’re Mitchell,” I said behind him.
He eyed the next door, this one on the right. “I’m whoever Dr. Bart wants me to be.” His foot came up, smashed into the door. It flew open and cracked against the wall inside the room.
Bedroom. Double bed, unmade. Clothes piled on the floor. A magazine. A pizza box sitting on the dresser. The scent of day-old pepperoni wafted across the room. “Why do all the women in my life have filthy bedrooms? You’re the psych major, Meg. What does that say about me? Am I attracted to untidy women?”
He hooked his free hand under the mattress, pulled it up and over, stood it on end against the wall. The box spring went next. He shook his head and glared down. “What a mess.”
Probably a hundred books. Hardcovers, softcovers. Magazines too. A couple socks, a few pairs of panties, a single black leather glove. Lots of dust bunnies. Nicole wasn’t there, though. He dropped the box spring and turned his attention to the closet. Another bifold door.
“Stop and talk to me for a minute!”
“About what?” He said this casually, as if we were playing Scrabble.
“Why do you want to hurt her?”
He was facing the closet door. He tilted his head to the left, then to the right, stretching his neck muscles. “Who says I want to hurt her? I’m just excited. I haven’t seen her in such a long time. I just want to give her a hug and a big sloppy kiss.”
He tore open the closet doors with enough force to rip them from their track. One fell to the side with a clatter; the other hit against the wall. The floor was filled with boxes and shoes. Clothes were packed so tight on the wooden rod, it bowed at the center. He shuffled the blouses and dresses around, but it was clear she wasn’t in there.
“Wow, Nicki, have you ever considered donating some of this stuff? This is how you end up on that show Hoarders.”
He gripped the rod in the middle and pulled. The sagging rod let go. Clothes spilled around our feet.
He went back into the hall.
Next door.
He opened it with another kick and stomped inside.
Another bedroom.
The phone started to ring, the bell nearly deafening.
He cocked an ear. “Nicki, you gonna get that? I bet it’s Larry again.”
I ran back into the home office, grabbed the receiver, and pressed it to my ear. “You need to send help! He’s going to kill her!”
There was silence.
“Are you there?”
On the other end of the line, I heard Dr. Bart’s gravelly voice.
Chapter One Hundred One
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
“We’re so close,” Dr. Bart said. “Do you feel it? Like electricity in the air. It’s damn near palpable. Thick and tingly. The hair on my arms is standing up.”
“Hello?” The word slipped from my mouth into the old receiver, nearly a whisper.
In the other room, a mattress hit the wall and rattled the house.
Dr. Bart went on. “If you have to kill her, you can. I promise you, there will be no repercussions. I’ll dispose of her body. You need not worry about that. She won’t be missed. Isn’t that right, sweetie? Nobody loves you. Poor little trashy thing.”
Another tape. Had to be. “Who is this?”
“Do you feel it?” Dr. Bart asked again, his voice anxious, a fever to it. “Who is on the mark?” he asked softly.
Silence then.
The longest silence.
“Mitchell. Mitchell is on the mark.”
“How can I be sure?”
“Who the hell is this?” I screamed into the receiver.
“I have no reason to lie,” the voice told Dr. Bart.
I heard him cluck his tongue the way he used to do. Twice. Then another. “If you kill her, I’ll believe you.”
“Okay.”
The line went dead then.
And four shots rang out from the other room.
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!
Chapter One Hundred Two
Written Statement,
Megan Fitzgerald
I dropped the receiver and ran down the hall toward the gunfire.
Michael was in the second bedroom, his back pressed against the wall. There were four splintered holes in the closet door next to him, all grouped close together about two feet off the floor. The rifle was hanging from his back; he hadn’t fired. His eyes were wide, and a thin layer of sweat covered his forehead.
If he’d been hit, I didn’t see a wound. No blood anywhere.
We both heard the next sound.
Click.
Followed closely by two more: Click. Click.
Michael reached over, grabbed the handle of the bifold, and yanked it away. Nicole Milligan was on the floor, her knees pulled up tight against her chest, some kind of revolver in her hand pointing forward. Her face was streaked with wet mascara, her entire body quivering. Stringy long brown hair hung down her back and shoulders, partially covering her left eye.
“There you are!” Michael beamed.
He reached down for her, pulled her up with a fistful of her tank top in his right hand while snatching the revolver from her with his left. He tossed the gun off to the side, then lifted her off the ground and slammed her against the wall.
Nicole’s frightened eyes glared at him, her head shaking from side to side.
Michael leaned forward and kissed her even as she squirmed. Nicole bit his lip, and he pushed her away, slammed the back of her head into the wall again. He wiped his mouth with his free hand and looked at the holes in the broken closet door. “A little higher and to the left, and you might have pegged me!”
Nicole’s feet dangled about a foot off the ground. Michael had her around the throat now, and when she tried to speak, nothing came out. Her eyes found me, pleaded. She kicked, bucked at him, thrashed, but he was too strong.
“Where is it?” Michael asked calmly.
Nicole glared at Michael as she gasped for air.
Michael loosened his grip and lowered her just enough so her toes could touch the ground. “It’s mine, Nicole. You stole it, but I’m a forgiving guy. Tell me where it is, and I’ll look past all of this. I’ll walk right out of here. No harm, no foul.”
She still said nothing.
Michael’s grip tightened again. “Or I can snap your dainty neck and find it myself.”
Nicole’s eyes darted to me, then back to him again. She finally looked toward the dresser on her left. “Music box.”
Michael’s eyes followed hers to a small wooden box with a mirror embedded in the top. He went over to it, dragging Nicole along as if she weighed nothing. When he opened the lid, a tiny ballerina popped up, and some song I knew I’d heard before but couldn’t name began to play.
“Under the tray,” she said, her voice raspy, raw.
Michael tugged the felt-covered tray from the box and tossed it to the floor, spilling several rings, earrings, and a necklace around his feet. He reached inside and took out a folded piece of paper, opened it with his thumb and forefinger.
The paper was cream-colored with an intricate pattern along the edges in gold. The text was large, in black ink. I couldn’t make out the words.
“Nobody is real without one of these,” he said. “You don’t exist. Not in today’s world.”
“What is it?”
He folded the paper again and shoved it deep into his pocket. “My birth certificate.”
Michael’s gaze dropped back to Nicole. The lines of his face tightened and burned red. “This whore stole it. Figured she could use it against me. Thought she had some kind of leverage over me.”
Nicole was shaking her head again. �
��Dr. Bart gave it to me. Told me to protect it. I would never take it. I’d never do anything to hurt you.”
His fingers tightened around her neck again, slowly, like the patient grip of a python. He was choking her.
I held up the scissors, point out. “She gave you what you wanted. Let her go.”
“You gonna stab me, Meg? How ’bout you give her a good poke instead? I’ll hold her still for you, just like this. You remember how to do it, right? I’m sure Dr. Bart showed you.”
I did remember.
I shot forward and, putting my weight behind it, buried the scissors up to the bright purple handle in Michael’s back.
None of us moved. Michael stood perfectly still, his stiff arm pressing Nicole up against that wall. My fingers were still wrapped around the handle of the scissors and didn’t seem to want to let go. They’d gone in so easily. I guess I’d expected some kind of resistance, but the sharp blades slipped right into him. Through the shirt, the skin of his back, fat, muscle, and whatever was on the other side of all that.
The moment passed, and Michael’s face turned white.
His fingers loosened, and Nicole sagged to the side.
I let go of the scissors.
I grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the hallway as Michael’s left hand fumbled around the air behind him, his fingers searching for the scissors, as he spun in a slow circle. “You’ve done some stupid things in your life, Meg. But that was epic. I’ll give you a solid ten count, and you’d better hope you can find a more creative spot to hide in than little Nicki did on her first shot out.”
Hallway.
Living room.
I pulled Nicki behind me—she was partially unconscious from the choking. Her feet were dragging, kept catching on the carpet. “Do you have a car?”
She tried to talk, but nothing came out except for a choked gasp. She shook her head.