by Dana Mentink
Fine. He’d get the information he needed one way or another, and he wasn’t about to wait until the cops made time to search Pauline’s home. The Mitchells could be tight-knit, too, just the two of them. “All right. I’ll be going, then, if you don’t need anything further.”
“Got your info,” Huffington said, looking up from her discussion with another officer.
Donna followed him to the front door, looking as though she was puzzling through something.
“Thank you,” she blurted. “I appreciate what you did for me.”
He stepped onto the porch, a patter of raindrops falling around him. “No problem. Is there a reason you don’t want me to know what’s in that folder?”
The lighting didn’t allow him to see it, but he had the sense her face flushed a rosy red.
“There’s not much, I told you.”
“But there’s something, and I think I have the right to know. She’s my sister.”
“And I think I have the right not to tell you. You’re a stranger and he’s...” She swallowed, a little gulp. “He was my father.”
The vulnerability in that little gulp was the only thing that kept him from pressing. It spoke of irretrievable loss, a phenomenon with which he was familiar. He thought again of his fiancée, Carrie, gentle, trusting and the woman he had been unable to save. Focus, Brent. He would check out his sister’s place again first. Then if he needed to push Donna Gallagher, he’d do it. He extended his hand, grasping her uninjured fingers, still cold to the touch, between his palms. She squeezed back for a moment before pulling away.
“Good night, Donna,” he said.
He felt her eyes follow him as he walked out into the rain.
* * *
Donna’s sisters arrived in short order. Younger sister Angela wrapped her in a smothering embrace. She was a good four inches taller than Donna’s five-six. Donna was so grateful that Angela had been given leave from her job as navy chaplain to minister to her own family after her father’s death.
Angela sat Donna down at the table and listened in that quiet way of hers. Her silence had only intensified since her return from Afghanistan. Their oldest sister, Candace, arrived halfway through the story, her mass of dark curly hair mussed and windblown. Candace’s mothering instinct kicked in.
“You should go to the hospital,” she said to Marco, with a frown of concern. She touched his cheek with her hand. Donna saw a flicker of tenderness flash in Marco’s eyes. She wondered why Candace never seemed to see it.
He ducked his head. “Aww, I’m all right.”
“Try letting someone help you for a change. Let me see how well they bandaged the wound.” Candace inspected, grudgingly agreeing that the paramedic’s work was passable.
“I thought you were catching a flight today, Marco,” Angela said.
“I am. Red-eye.”
It was a difficult time. Marco was flying to Georgia for the funeral of a woman he’d loved since he was a teen and probably always would, even though she’d died of a drug overdose. And this following on the heels of the memorial service for Bruce, the man who’d been his best friend.
Candace sighed and gave him a hug. He reached one big hand around her as if to gather her closer but didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Candace said. “Please go if you need to. We all understand.”
“Not until this situation is under control.”
Angela helped herself to a cup of coffee. “I heard everything you said, Donna, but I see in your face that there’s something more, so tell us.”
“This attack wasn’t random. The guy wanted something in Dad’s files.”
She caught the look Candace leveled at Angela. The “she’s going off the deep end” look.
Angela spoke carefully. “What do the police think?”
“Their position hasn’t changed. They think Dad’s death was an accident.”
Candace laid a hand on Donna’s shoulder and squeezed. “Honey, is it easier to think that Dad’s death was intentional because then you can do something about it? Get justice for him somehow? Or maybe...”
It would help you forget the hurt you caused Dad? The way you flouted his advice and took up with the wrong guy? Donna stood abruptly. “No, that’s not it. The circumstances confirm what I’m thinking. Pauline disappears. Dad dies. Someone breaks into the office. That’s not coincidence.”
Angela sipped from her mug. “Why did Pauline come to Dad in the first place?”
“I don’t know. I wonder if she was afraid someone was after her and the names in the file are Dad’s suspect list.”
Marco cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you tell the coastie what was in the file?”
She wanted to brush aside the question because she was afraid her answer would make her sound even crazier to her sisters, but Marco would not let her look away.
“Because Brent Mitchell’s name is number one on the list.”
* * *
Brent jogged back to the Glorietta Bay Marina and boarded the boat he was taking care of for a buddy. His friend’s 1988 Bayliner motoryacht had seen better days. It was small, but then, so was his studio apartment near the San Diego Naval Base. He didn’t particularly care where he slept so long as it was near the beach and plenty of places to run and train. Coronado would not be his first choice, since he’d learned that Dan Ridley, Carrie’s ex-boyfriend, had been hired as the island’s newest cop. Ridley blamed Brent for Carrie’s death six years before. The guy was right. If it hadn’t been for Brent, they would never have been up in that small plane in the first place.
“I don’t like flying,” Carrie had said. “And it’s stormy today.”
He’d embraced her. He was a brash twenty-two-year-old new coast guard seaman who wasn’t afraid of anything in the world. “I’ll be right there in case something happens, but it won’t. Planes are safer than cars,” he’d teased.
Only this Cessna 152 hadn’t been, and a perfect day of whale watching had turned into the worst day of his life when the engine failed and the plane slammed into the Pacific Ocean. The sound of Carrie’s screams and the pilot’s frantic Mayday still echoed in his ears after six long years. Both had died on impact. Brent, for some reason that he could not fathom, had not. Brent pressed down the throbbing in his gut, threw on some dry clothes and hopped on his motorcycle, grateful that the rain had slowed to a mist.
As he drove to his sister’s home not far from Coronado Beach, his thoughts thrummed through him with growing urgency.
Where is she? And what had Donna’s father known about it?
He tried to keep his thoughts positive without success. Being the sole survivor of a plane crash tended to strip the optimism out of a person. He struggled with the tragedy, and the God who allowed it, every moment of his life. And every rescue mission he went on, every time he geared up and strapped into that helicopter, he resolved to defeat the ocean and God in order to get that victim out alive. Most of the time, he won. Sometimes not. This time, he was not about to lose.
He parked the bike in the driveway of Pauline’s quaint Tudor home. White icicle lights decorated the eaves, reflecting sparks on the rain-soaked grass. Up and down the block, strings of lights gave the houses a holiday glow and he thought of his sister’s enthusiasm for Christmas. Pauline insisted on putting out her festive decor the day after Thanksgiving and went so far as to burgle his apartment one year to install a tree on his kitchen table, complete with tinsel and popcorn strings and some creepy elf thing.
“You’re a grinch, Brent,” she’d said. “The holiday is supposed to be filled with rejoicing.”
Rejoicing wasn’t something he’d ever made time for. Fun, sometimes. Mischief, certainly. But now he wondered if he’d missed the mark. Lives were so fragile, blown out in a moment like a candle in a strong wind. His heart thumped hard
.
Quit going to the worst-case scenario. You’re going to find her.
He upended the stone rabbit sculpture where Pauline had always hidden a spare key and where he’d replaced it after his visit last week.
Pausing before he fitted the key into the lock, he noted a car driving slowly by. He stepped into the shadows. It was not the vehicle he’d seen at the Gallagher place. The vehicle continued on. He waited. Another three minutes and it came by again, this time, pulling to a stop.
A familiar figure got out.
“Busy night for you,” he said.
Donna jumped. “You scared me.”
“That’s because you’re the trespasser now. I’m surprised Marco let you come here alone.” Even in the dim light, he could see the chagrin on her face.
“He’s traveling,” she mumbled.
“And you waited until after he left, didn’t you?”
She flipped her hair away from her cheeks, her posture straight, defiant. “I need to know.”
Brent noted how her skin shone luminous in the moonlight. “Thought you were a veterinarian. Decided to take up the family business?”
She stiffened. “Shouldn’t we take a look inside?”
Brent considered. “We? I didn’t think you were interested in working together on this.”
She stayed quiet for a moment. “Figuring out what happened to Pauline may shed some light on why my father was murdered. We’re both after the same thing.”
“All right,” he said. “Let’s go inside, then. I’ve already checked it out, but maybe I missed something.”
Donna considered the house. “This is a nice place. What does your sister do for a living?”
“She’s the activities director for a group home for mentally challenged adults.”
He read the expression, the one that said, “And how does someone who makes that kind of money afford a house like this in Coronado?” “She was married, briefly. Her husband died. She bought this house with the life insurance money.” Not that it’s any of your business, he felt like adding.
They entered the kitchen and Brent turned on the lights. Spotless. It was always spotless, even during his last visit on Thanksgiving, when they’d eaten take-out chow mein after she’d burned the turkey and they’d watched an old Abbott and Costello movie. Everything was painted in soothing ivory, complementing the marbled counters. Fat red Christmas candles sat on the kitchen table, unburned.
Just like last time, he saw nothing unusual, until he noticed the corner of a plastic bag sticking out from the kitchen drawer. Inside, he found a plastic zip-top bag containing travel bottles of shampoo, conditioner and hand lotion. A Post-it note was stuck to the bag. Stop mail.
His heart surged as he held it up for Donna to see. Pauline really was on a trip. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed the bag sticking out of the drawer on his last visit.
“Everything looks neat and tidy,” Donna said. She opened the refrigerator. For some reason, the intrusion into Pauline’s privacy bothered Brent. “There’s nothing left to spoil. That seems to confirm she’s traveling. Her car’s not here, either. What does she drive?”
“Old orange Toyota. I tell her she looks like she’s driving a pumpkin, but she loves the color.”
“Where’s Radar?” Donna pointed to an empty food bowl next to a nearly dry water dish.
“Pauline never leaves Radar behind. If she’s on a trip, she’s probably taken him along,” Brent said.
“Or she might have boarded him in a kennel,” Donna said. “I can check into that.”
The kitchen phone rang, jarring in the silence of the house.
Brent picked it up, recognizing the number, the same caller who had contacted his cell earlier. “Who is this?” He put the phone on speaker.
“I want to know where she left it.” High voice, shaky, nervous.
“What? Who is this?”
There was a muffled sob. “I told her he was dangerous.”
Brent found himself holding his breath. “Who is this and what do you know about my sister?”
“I’ve gotta get out of here.” The man’s voice dissolved into more crying.
“Stay on the line,” Brent commanded, his skin prickling. “Tell me what you know about my sister.”
But the caller had hung up.
Donna’s lips were pressed together in a thin line. “That number,” she said, pointing to the number on the phone’s tiny digital screen. “It’s not the same person who called the office.”
“Was it the voice of the man who attacked you?”
“I can’t say for sure. I don’t think so.”
Two guys?
He stared at the phone, jaw tight.
“Did you hear that?” Donna cocked her head, and he noticed for the first time that her long hair was spangled with raindrops.
He listened. A slow scraping sound teased his skin into goose bumps.
“Where’s that coming from?” he murmured.
“Below,” she whispered, looking to the narrow staircase in the corner of the kitchen. “There’s someone down there.”
He heard it then, a long slow movement, the sound of someone dragging a dead weight.
In the basement.
FOUR
Donna tensed as Brent started for the stairs at a sprint. “Wait here,” he said.
“Not likely.”
He flashed her a roguish smile that made her want to smile back and then eased open the door. The stairwell was dark. She listened, her hand finding his back, reading the tension coiled in his shoulders.
“Is this the only way in and out?” she whispered, catching the fragrance of his aftershave.
“Two basement windows,” he answered. “They open onto the backyard. A small bathroom window, too.” Below them, the sweep of a flashlight beam cut unsteadily through the darkness.
He paused, fingers on the light switch. “Here we go,” he whispered. Snapping on the light, he hurtled down the stairs.
Donna figured they had the advantage. Their eyes were already adjusted to the light. She heard a crash as they emerged into the paneled space, boxes arranged into neat stacks that reached the low ceiling. In the dim light she made out a small table covered with balls of yarn. Three bags of dog kibble were piled nearby. The room was dim. A door slammed.
“Come out of there,” Brent shouted.
It took her a moment to realize the intruder had rushed into the tiny bathroom. Brent was at the bathroom door in a moment. Finding it locked, he kicked at it. The cheap wood began to give way almost immediately.
Donna looked around for something to use as a weapon. Broom? Tennis racket? She found nothing until she noticed a small hatchet next to a neatly stacked pile of wood. She snatched it up, the cold metal seeming to leach into her nerves, freezing her fingertips. The door splintered with a shriek of the metal hinges under Brent’s feet. From inside the bathroom came the sound of glass exploding.
Without a breath of warning, the noises catapulted her back to the memory of her own accident, flying off the seat of Nate’s motorcycle, a vehicle her father had forbidden her to ride with a man whom he had tried his utmost to warn her about. He’d been right, she’d realized when she’d woken up temporarily paralyzed with Nate nowhere to be found. Bruce Gallagher had been dead-on correct, and she’d raged at him for it.
Swallowing the guilt, she regripped the hatchet to rally her senses just as the door failed. Brent shoved it open.
They stumbled through in time to see a pair of legs disappearing through the small window above the toilet. Brent grabbed at the feet, a moment too late. One shoe made contact, smashing him in the cheek, sending him stumbling.
Donna was already racing back up the steps by the time Brent recovered and followed. They spri
nted through the house and out into the backyard. Donna almost tumbled into the pool. Brent snatched at her T-shirt as she teetered on the edge, pulling her tight against his chest for a moment.
She felt his heart hammering, or was it her own? “Thanks,” she whispered, pulling away.
Skirting the water, they made it to the short stuccoed retaining wall that enclosed the yard, fringed with delicate flowers and shrubbery.
On the other side of the wall was a smooth paved path that led down to the beach in one direction and back to the main road in the other. The moon showed silver white on the pavement.
No movement. No sound except the waves.
Brent jogged toward the beach until she lost sight of him. She made her way cautiously in the other direction, ears straining for any sign, any sound. Nothing. She scanned the thick shrubbery that lined the road, part of the charm and ambiance of Coronado Island.
Was the intruder hiding somewhere? Watching? Was it the same man who had held a knife to her throat at the office? Shivers erupted through her body and she wished she had stayed put. She realized she was gripping the hatchet so tight her fingers were cramping. A few more paces and something crackled in the branches. Shivers surged up her spine.
“Come out,” she ordered, forcing the words. Every muscle in her body tensed. What if he did emerge? Would she really have the fortitude to use a hatchet to defend herself?
Her lungs wouldn’t work properly; blood pounded in her temples. She caught a glimpse, the quickest flash of a feline face regarding her, before the cat retreated back into the bushes.
“Nice work, Donna,” she muttered to herself. “Way to scare off a cat.”
Running feet made her breath catch. Brent jogged up to her.
“Anything?” she said.
“No. Whoever it was, I give them points for speed. And I thought my eight-minute time on the mile-and-a-half run was good.” He shook his head. “Not good enough.” He eyed her hands. “Hatchet?”