by L E Fraser
After a minute, she said, “Caitlyn isn’t the only hacker in the world, and the neighbour couldn’t positively identify her picture as the Hydro worker who entered the yard the day the Alistair’s dog died. I don’t think Caitlyn had anything to do with what happened to the Alistair family.”
An important part of the investigation process was to brainstorm and poke holes in respective theories. For the first time, Sam realized how much she’d miss these exchanges if Reece decided to pursue other interests.
“So you’re saying Bloody Widow attacked Behoo simply as a defensive tactic, to protect her anonymity, and it had nothing to do with the case?” Reece didn’t look convinced.
“I don’t think it had anything to do with Graham’s murder, if that’s what you mean,” Sam said, warming to her theory. “I do think it had to do with her cybercrimes. Think about it. She’d stolen money from the mob. Catching another hacker digging into her online would immediately panic her.”
Reece studied her with a frown. “I get that the mob would try to find her and they’d want her dead, but we’re back to my original objection. The mob wouldn’t bother to move the body,” he insisted.
“Because they didn’t kill her,” she argued. “Let’s back up and look at the motive for the home security. Someone as smart as Caitlyn would understand the risk involved with stealing from the mob,” Sam said, taking short strides around the room. “We can agree that the excessive security had to do with her black-hat hacking. She might have recognized Behoo’s online handle, but she didn’t know who hired him. All she’d know was that a talented hacker was on the deep web, digging into Caitlyn Franklyn, and she’d want to know why. Behoo started deleting data because Bloody Widow was looking into him. Think about it, he assumed it had to do with us because we hired him.”
“Yeah, you’re right. That makes sense,” Reece conceded.
Sam stopped pacing and sat at the table. “The one piece of hard evidence is that she went to the school. What happened a year before Graham’s murder that made Caitlyn risk arrest by violating the restraining order?”
The spark of inspiration glowed and took form. She slapped her hands on the table and smiled. “I think Jennifer told Caitlyn something last year. Something awful. Something about Jordan.”
Reece stretched his arms over his head and yawned. “Maybe but what has it got to do with Graham’s murder?” He stood and cleared a few remaining dinner dishes from the table. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but Roger has lied to us from day one. He was in the house, in the stairwell leading to the crime scene. He has a severe anger problem and low impulse control.”
She didn’t say anything, but privately she disagreed. She was certain that, at the very least, Roger would have had the common sense to retrieve the bouquet of roses from the garden. He wouldn’t leave a time-stamped credit card purchase at a murder scene.
Reece was wandering around aimlessly, gazing up to the bedroom loft, and making a point of yawning. Loudly.
“Jordan’s involved,” she said. “I need to talk to Jennifer alone. If I can figure out a way to convince her she’s protected, maybe she’ll open up.”
Reece nudged her toward the stairs and stooped to pick up Brandy.
“Murder is straightforward,” he argued. “Money, revenge, or love. Brenda, Roger, and Caitlyn all had motives.”
Upstairs, he popped Brandy into bed and went into the bathroom.
Sam flopped onto the bed beside the dog and thought about the tortured cat. “Some people kill because it’s fun,” she called out.
He grunted while brushing his teeth but made no comment.
Long after they’d settled into bed, Sam lay awake while Reece’s breathing evened out. When she still couldn’t fall asleep after an hour, she got up and crept to the back of the walk-in closet. She reached above her winter coats and removed her gun box from the shelf. The Glock was clean and oiled. She grabbed the spare clip and box of ammunition, before tucking the empty gun box back on the shelf. In the bedroom, she put the gun and accessories in the drawer of her bedside table.
There was a custom gun mount under the driver’s seat of her car in a space between the springs. Hard to find if you didn’t know it was there. Tougher to release it without knowledge and practice.
She wasn’t going to carry the gun around on her hip, but it couldn’t hurt to keep it handy.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sam
BRENDA’S CAR WASN’T in the yard when Sam arrived at the farm. No one answered her knocks, and the property had that vacant feel. She wandered around the house and pounded on the back door. No answer. A woodpecker tapped a message against a tree in the copse where she’d found Jennifer traumatized, cuddling her murdered cat. In the distance, a tractor rumbled and burped, but sound travelled on a clear day, and it could have been a kilometre or more away. It wasn’t working on the Harris farm, which wasn’t a surprise since no one had sown those fields in decades.
Stupid to have driven all the way out to the farm without calling first. She’d taken her car to her usual service station in north Toronto to have the oil changed. Afterwards, she’d made the decision to continue north to visit the farm. Now here she was, wasting time when she had a mountain of schoolwork. She strolled aimlessly around the property, wondering where everyone was. It was three-thirty and the kids should be home from school.
“Damn phone,” she mumbled. Her cell was dead and she couldn’t call Brenda to find out when they’d be home.
Worse, since the trip was impulsive, Reece didn’t know where she was and expected her to meet him at the office. She’d intended to call him from the car, but the car charger wasn’t working again. Reece had borrowed the portable charger from the glove compartment and had forgotten to put it back. Regardless, he’d chirp at her about being inconsiderate. This morning, he’d made a big deal out of staying in close contact, and she’d bitched about having a babysitter.
She was turning to leave when something caught her eye. A twinkle. She peered across the fields. There seemed to be something on the ground that was catching the sunlight. It was between the barn and a large shed that wasn’t in bad shape. Fresh black shingles protected the roof, and someone had spruced up the exterior. No windows, but white trim and a yellow door with brass fixtures. Sam cheered up and smiled. Maybe the trip didn’t need to be a write-off. The deserted farm offered the perfect opportunity to snoop. It was closer to trespassing, since she hadn’t sought explicit permission to poke around the outbuildings, but no matter. Encroaching on people’s privacy didn’t faze her. She headed for the barn.
Between the house and the barn was a weed-infested field that was about the length of a football field. Brenda—or Graham before his death—had hired someone to aerate the field. Sam recognized the cylinders of grass-topped dirt that littered the ground. Her mother had hired a landscaper to aerate their back yard every spring. Sam’s chore had been to collect all the dirt chunks, a tedious job that she’d always resented. Simply looking at those clumps of dirt dissolved her excitement over snooping. It was funny how childhood memories had the power to change your mood. As she clumsily picked her way across the field, avoiding divots of soil, she grew irritated and impatient. It took nearly five minutes to navigate the terrain and reach the barn.
Beside the barn was a stone structure. Sam thought it was probably a grain silo. Stones had collapsed on the right side, and someone had heaped crumbling rocks next to a full wheelbarrow. A weather vane lay in a rusted tangle adjacent to the wheelbarrow. It retained a clean spot of metal that reflected the sunlight, and she figured that was what had caught her eye.
The barn was even uglier up close. The wood was rotting, and a large gap at the bottom of the door testified to the many trips people had made over the years. Footprints had worn down the earth, and the middle of the sill had crumbled, leaving a six-inch space at the base of the door. Handy for rodents and small animals. There was a padlock attached to a crooked safety hasp, and heavi
ng on the lock didn’t loosen the screws that held the hardware to the door. She swore in frustration and pounded her fist on the closed door. With a sigh, she walked around to the other side, and it delighted her to find a large sliding door that was slightly ajar. She tugged and the door opened further.
Before going in, she decided to walk around the barn, checking to make sure the structure was sturdy. There were half-inch gaps between some of the timbers in the wall. She cupped her hands and peered inside. Not much to see, but sunlight streamed from the fissures and produced sufficient interior light to explore. Good news since she didn’t feel like trudging all the way back to the car to fetch a flashlight. She returned to the sliding door, shoved it open three feet, and stepped into the barn.
It was warm and quiet inside with swirling dust floating in the sunbeams. One wide cement platform ran the length of the building, divided into corrals by metal frames. The long platform sloped up on a gradual angle to rusted metal stanchions designed to hold animals’ heads. Her grandparents had been dairy farmers, and her father had taken her family to Nova Scotia to visit when she was young. Her mother had hated the trips and the farm, but Sam had always looked forward to playing with the cows. They were like big, dumb dogs.
Graham’s ancestors were dairy farmers, from the look of it. The building interior was clean. Someone had removed the straw and hosed down the cement platform, but the space retained the gamey odour of fermented grain, sour milk, and linseed oil that sealed the ash and earthen floor.
To the left of the padlocked door that led outside was an old tack or feed room. As she moved closer, she smelled fresh paint. Taking a cautious step into the gloom, she glided her hands down the walls on either side of the door. Her fingers hit a switch on the right side. Light flickered and there was a whirring noise. Twelve feet above her head, suspended from a beam that connected opposite rafters, was an old ceiling fan with a wrapped electrical wire that ended in a naked bulb. The light swung in the downdraft from the oscillating blades. A dull thumping resonated from the unbalanced fan every time it hit a certain point in its rotation.
Sam closed her eyes and listened to the sound, counting seconds between the soft thumps. It was definitely the background noise from the threatening calls. The caller had been in the barn, meaning it was someone from the Harris family. Then again, the calls were late at night. If Reece was right and Caitlyn was somehow involved in Graham’s murder, she could have crept onto the property under the cover of darkness. Maybe she’d intended for Sam or Reece to identify the background sound, hoping it would implicate Brenda.
Excited to see what else she might discover, Sam entered the room. There was an old wooden desk in the corner with a narrow centre drawer and two file drawers banking a kneehole. She searched through the right drawer. Mould and mildew wafted from old file folders. Nothing but ancient receipts for grain and a handwritten accounting journal that recorded purchases and milk sales from 1955.
While rummaging through the second drawer, there was a loud clang from outside and she jumped. A second clang followed. It sounded like something hitting metal. She hurried from the office and stood in the centre of the barn, looking around. A shadow moved across the wall to her left. She sprinted to the sliding door. Closed. No matter how hard she pushed, the door refused to budge. Someone had locked her in the barn. He or she probably hadn’t known anyone was inside, had noticed the open door, and had closed and locked it. There wasn’t any reason to panic.
She ran to the back of the barn to hunt for another exit. If she stayed calm and didn’t jump to conclusions, she’d be able to get out. Explaining what she was doing in the barn might be tricky, but so long as she didn’t tip anyone off that she’d connected the fan to the threatening calls she’d be fine. Taking a deep breath, she peered through an opening in the boards along the back wall. There was definitely a person out there. But the hole was too low and all she could see was a pair of denim-clad legs.
“Hey! It’s Sam McNamara. Open the door,” she called.
There was a scuffing noise—feet shuffling along the ground—and a nasty odour. Gasoline. Her heart dropped to her feet and she felt a flutter of panic. Locking her in wasn’t an accident. She pounded against the wall, her heart racing. “Hey! I’m still in here.”
The shadow retreated. Sam ran to the right side of the barn. The stench of gasoline was stronger. She tucked her fingers into a gap between the wallboards and pulled. No give. Pressing her face against the slit, she started shouting at whoever was out there.
“Brenda? Is that you? Let me out, now. I’ve called the police!”
The terrifying sound of crackling wood stopped her in her tracks. She immediately felt a flight, fight, or freeze sensation that made her legs turn to jelly. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Fighting to stay calm, she moved slowly to the centre of the room, concentrating on taking even breaths to control the psychological need to run aimlessly.
Think, she willed herself. Panic killed people.
There had to be a way out. If she could find a tool, she could pull apart the rotted boards. She tore into the office, tugged out the centre drawer, and spilled the contents to the floor. Nothing. A quick check of the drywall seams confirmed that multiple screws mounted it tight against the frame. Impossible to pry it loose with her bare hands. Staying in the room, closing the door, and trying to barricade the bottom to reduce the smoke was too risky. Flames would roast her alive if smoke inhalation didn’t kill her first.
She dashed through the door and searched for something to use as a jimmy to wrench away a board. At the dairy stalls, she yanked at the metal stanchions. They held fast.
Smoke billowed while flames sucked oxygen from the air. Fire spread against the back wall, licked the upper trusses, and ignited the roof.
“Stay calm, don’t panic,” she said aloud. Her voice shook and she closed her eyes to concentrate.
She’d dated a firefighter years ago. She tried to remember stuff he’d taught her. Air circulated through the wall cracks. Dry wood burned hot and quick, but it wouldn’t create a lot of smoke right away. When the smoke turned thick and black, her chances of surviving smoke toxicity would decrease.
“There’s time. Stay calm,” she repeated. There must be a weak spot on the decaying walls.
To her horror, the smoke was getting thicker much faster than she’d predicted. The temperature was skyrocketing and sweat poured down her face. She stripped off her T-shirt and tied it around her mouth and nose. Carefully, she examined the right wall, avoiding the back where the fire roared strongest, and hunted for a spot to break through. The flames at the point of ignition were burning blue.
“Don’t look at it,” she yelled.
Crouching low to the ground, she duck-walked along the wall at the front of the barn, where the flames hadn’t reached. There wasn’t sufficient wood rot anywhere. She stood and kicked the wall as hard as she could, but the boards held. The fire was advancing fast. Feeding off the dry wood, it was consuming everything in its path. She gasped for air and stumbled to the centre of the large space away from the flames. She had to try the other side. There had to be a weak point she could get through. A tie beam from the ceiling crashed down. She dropped and rolled, narrowly avoiding the burning joist. The floor of the hayloft crumbled, raining down fiery particles of hay, and she screamed. A smouldering ember fell on the edge of the T-shirt she held against her mouth. She tore it from her face and dropped again, rolling frantically to extinguish any sparks on her jeans. She managed to climb to her feet, gasping and choking on smoke that filled her lungs and seared the inside of her nose. Between the smoke and the tears streaming from her stinging eyes, she could barely see.
Getting out took a backseat to finding fresh air. She had to get to the padlocked door. There was a large gap at the bottom. It was at the front. Away from the ignition point. Weaving around clumps of burning hay, she moved as fast as she could toward the front of the barn. Her head throbbed. Her thoughts were a jumble. He
r lungs ached with the need for clean air. She fell and dragged herself across the floor. Finally, she glimpsed a flicker of light through the smoke. Crawling on all fours, she held her breath and fought her way to the light.
Lying on the floor by the padlocked door, she gulped oxygen from the six-inch crevasse. After each huge inhalation, she popped onto her knees and dug under the door like a dog to widen the space.
A horrific crack thundered behind her. She whimpered and cringed against the door. The moan of collapsing wood behind her sounded almost human. Terrified to look back, she lay flat against the ground and stuck her lips and nose into the door gap. Heat pushed at her back and the smell of her own burning hair mingled with the ever-thickening smoke. A glowing splinter fell on her forearm and she shrieked. Frantic, she brushed it off and swatted at another sudden scalding pain on her neck. Sticking her face against the door gap again, she tried to suck in more air. She choked and spit out a mouthful of dirt. Sitting up, she grabbed handfuls of loose dirt from around the opening and hurled them over her shoulder. After she’d widened the gap another inch, she dropped to her stomach, stuffed her face against the opening, and breathed deeply. If she could keep her strength, maybe she could widen the gap enough to wiggle underneath the door.
As she dug manically at the dirt, she thought she heard something from the other side of the door. A yell that sounded panicked. Was someone out there? Someone other than the person who had lit the fire?
A female voice shouted outside the door but Sam couldn’t make out the words. Something hit the door hard.
“Help, I’m—” A stabbing pain pierced her temple. She couldn’t yell, could barely even speak. Tears streamed from her burning eyes. She spat up a wad of sooty, dirty phlegm. Hitting the door with one hand, she waggled the fingers of her other hand under the door. “In here,” she croaked.