He spun around and ran down the walk, veering off to the parking area, out of Adalyn’s view. She jumped to her feet and poked her head into the barn. Even now, months later, the smells of the fire were strong. “Fletcher’s missing,” she shouted.
Jolie and Yank were just inside the door and joined her back outside. Adalyn relayed what Rex had told her. “Do you think he sneaked into the barn?”
“I’m sure I’d have noticed,” Jolie said. “I’ll look. Does Rex want to call for help?”
“He didn’t say. Fletcher’s sick. We should help find him.”
Yank smiled at her. “I think you’re more like your mother than you want to admit. Come on. We can take a look around the property.”
24
Tamara heard no sound in her tiny cell except for a few loud birds and clanking pipes. She had no idea what kind of birds or pipes. The stillness felt eerie. She didn’t live on a busy road, but she was used to hearing cars. She hadn’t heard any traffic since she’d woken up in the nasty bathroom. But this is good, she told herself. She’d be more likely to hear the arrival of any cars, wouldn’t she?
She hadn’t screamed for help in a while. Hadn’t done any good, just made her hoarse.
She stood up from her mat—if anything, smellier—and marched in place to get her heart rate up. After a hundred paces, she put the lid down on the toilet and climbed up. She’d absolutely never fit through the window, but maybe she could alert someone she was down here. At least try to get some fresh air and ease her persistent, crawling claustrophobia.
She poked at the thick plastic and pulled on it, but it’d been up there forever and didn’t budge.
“Don’t be a wimp. Work harder.”
She was at an awkward angle, but she fit her fingers under a slightly curled edge of the plastic and tugged on it, cutting herself on a nail hammered in crookedly. She swore at the pain and ignored the blood, continued to work at getting a proper hold on the plastic. Who the hell had banged in so many damn nails? There had to be one every three inches. On a cellar window.
A section of the plastic dislodged, throwing her off balance. She lost her footing on the toilet and grabbed hold of the window frame. She didn’t get a good purchase and dropped to the floor.
She caught the side of her hand on another nail, but she didn’t care. She hardly felt any pain, and the blood was worth it, a signal of her determination, grit and progress.
I’ll get out of here.
She felt a surge of optimism and energy knowing she could break through to the outside world.
She checked her cut hand. She didn’t need stitches or anything. The blood could coagulate on its own. It wasn’t as if there was a first-aid kit in the gross little bathroom.
Next she tackled the door. She wished she’d done some forcible-entry training. Of course, then she’d have appropriate padding and equipment. Now she was in a dress suitable for tramping around in Boston on a hot summer day. She didn’t want to wreck her shoulder, but what were her options? She didn’t know if her captor would be back, or when. She wouldn’t run out of water, but she’d run out of food soon. She knew she could manage for a long time on just water...
I’ve got to get out of here.
Adalyn...
She ached to see her daughter. To find out if she was all right.
With a renewed sense of urgency, Tamara slammed herself into the locked door, throwing her body weight into it, magnifying it with as much momentum as she could muster in the small space. The door opened into the bathroom. That worked against her.
She thought it gave way, at least a bit.
She sank onto the toilet, catching her breath. Her shoulder ached. Her cuts stung and throbbed. Slamming into a door hadn’t done her injuries any favors.
She knew guys in real life who were like Liam Neeson in the Taken movies. Colin Donovan was one. Hadn’t Liam Neeson smashed through a door and walked into a bunch of bad guys with guns? Tamara didn’t want to do that. He’d killed them all, but he was trained.
Maybe that was a different movie.
Tamara was familiar with Colin’s lethal capabilities. She wouldn’t be surprised if she knew more about them than his wife did. Emma, the ex-nun.
As she stood again, Tamara placed a hand on the wall for balance. She noticed a drop of blood on the floor. She checked her hand, realized it was bleeding more now. She grabbed a towel, pressed it to the wound. She’d let herself get out of shape the past year, with work—with Patrick. Did he know she was missing? Did he give a damn?
He’ll see to Adalyn.
He would. That much Tamara knew.
She sank onto her mat. She was so damn tired. Hungry and sick to her stomach at the same time. What if she managed to break open the door? Then what?
I’ll find a way out of here.
She shot to her feet with a burst of energy and pushed on the door with both hands. It didn’t budge. She shoved it with her aching shoulder, then shoved harder. Maybe she’d loosened it and she could pull it open now. She yanked on the knob.
Zip. Nothing.
She swore. “Let me out of here! Help! Someone, help!”
She gave up. Maybe someone would hear her now that she’d managed to peel back some of the plastic, but there had to be someone out there. She climbed back onto the toilet, reached for her bloody towel, wrapped it around her hand and smashed at the plastic and glass. If the glass broke, maybe it would tear up more of the plastic. It was damn tough stuff.
Nada.
She climbed down from the toilet and tossed the towel into the sink. She hadn’t cut herself further, but she was spent. She was alone. No one knew she was here. Her captor had left her.
I’ll die here.
She should never have helped Adalyn go to London. She couldn’t have done it without financial support. Tamara had discussed her misgivings with Patrick. Three months, Patrick. London is expensive. It’s such a big city.
Adalyn’s used to Boston and Washington. She’ll be fine.
If Tamara hadn’t gone along with the plan, she’d have alienated Adalyn—and Patrick would have shouldered the cost. She’d compromised, asking Adalyn to adhere to a few simple precautions and protocols. Adalyn had been disgusted, of course. You’re paranoid because of your job.
Probably true.
She loved her daughter with all her heart, but that didn’t mean their relationship didn’t have its ups and downs. The divorce had put tremendous strain on both of them. Patrick was happy as a damn clam playing the single, high-powered Washington defense lawyer.
Not playing. He was one.
“I’ll kill you if you hurt my daughter.” She raised her voice, yelling as if her captor was on the other side of the door or out by her window and could hear her. “I promise you. I’ll kill you.” Tamara shut her eyes, fighting tears. “I’m so tired.”
This last was a hoarse croak. Her throat was raw. She heard the defeat in her voice, felt it to her bones. Never in all her life had she felt so alone.
She heard a noise outside the window.
Voices.
“Tamara? It’s Yank.”
Yank! She went still, listening. Nothing now. But she was positive she’d heard something.
“Mom—Mom, are you here?”
“Oh, my God, Adalyn.” She reached up and held on to the sink as she pulled herself onto her feet. “Hello! I’m in here. Help!”
She climbed onto the toilet. She’d stick her face against the plastic and yell. But why were Yank and Adalyn here? Where am I?
A gunshot ripped through the silence.
She was so startled she fell off the toilet, wrenching her knee as her momentum smashed her into the wall.
A man swore nearby, just outside her window. Yank?
Her daughter screamed. Tamara recognized Adalyn’s voice, felt her terror.<
br />
Another gunshot.
No, no, no...
Tamara didn’t know what was happening. She lunged at the door. She had to get to her daughter. She heard footsteps—someone half running, half falling down the stairs outside the bathroom door.
“Tamara. Tamara, it’s Matt Yankowski. Adalyn’s okay.”
Her heart leaped. She pounded on the bathroom door.
He pushed it open, collapsing onto the floor just across the threshold in the cellar. He clutched his right shoulder. Blood oozed through his fingers. She swore, kneeling next to him. “My God, Yank. Is Adalyn...”
“I’m here, Mom.”
Tamara looked up, saw her daughter crouched by an empty clothes rack. “What happened? Who shot Yank?”
“I don’t know. I think Fletcher Campbell got hold of a gun. Yank—he saved me. He saw something or heard something and he grabbed me...”
Those details could wait. Tamara knew they had to focus on the immediate situation. “Where is the shooter?” she asked sharply. Her daughter stared blankly at Yank. Shock was setting in. “Adalyn. The shooter.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t see anything. Rex said his father was asleep in the guest cottage but wandered off. Then he went to look for him.”
“Guest cottage?”
“That’s where we are, Mom. The Campbells’ guest cottage on their farm.”
Not Maine, then. Tamara pushed back her questions. Yank still had his gun in his right hand. She knew better than to ask him to give it up to her. He tried to speak but Tamara stopped him. “Don’t talk. Let me help you. Adalyn, can you grab some towels? We need to stop the bleeding.”
Adalyn leaped into action, running into the bathroom. In a moment, she returned with a hand towel. “He’ll be okay, won’t he?”
Tamara took the towel and pressed it against Yank’s wound. He winced and lowered his hand. “Be still, Yank. It looks like a through-and-through wound.” It did, but she had no idea if she was right. She just wanted him to stay optimistic. “We need to get help. How did you get down here?”
“We went through the bulkhead,” Adalyn said. “It’s still open. We heard you. We thought Fletcher...” She gulped in air. “We didn’t know. Yank was trying to protect me.”
He shifted despite Tamara’s instructions to stay still. “My phone’s in my right jacket pocket. See if you can get a signal.”
Tamara managed to dig out his phone, but she saw no service on the screen and set it aside. Yank slumped, still managing to keep a decent grip on his nine millimeter. She didn’t have a plan formulated yet, but he needed medical attention. Soon.
“Mom, he’s not dying, is he? Verity overdosed and Graham is dead...”
“Adalyn. Listen to me. We need to stay calm. Who else is here?”
“Rex. He’s looking for his father. Jolie. I don’t know where she is. Fletcher.”
“Did you actually see Fletcher?”
“No,” Adalyn said. “He’s sick. He has Alzheimer’s.”
Tamara had no idea what to do next. Had an old man with Alzheimer’s shot Yank? Was he out there now with a gun? How would he get a gun?
No.
Something else was going on.
“Mom...” Adalyn’s breathing was noticeably shallow. “Those are drugs.”
Tamara followed her daughter’s gaze to a box by the washer. Pill bottles, syringes, patches. And painting materials, in another box. “That’s for later,” she said quietly. “Adalyn, can you keep the towel pressed against Yank’s wound?”
She nodded, her face pale. “Yeah.”
“We’re going to be okay. We’ll figure this out.”
Tears glistened in her daughter’s eyes. “I guess you’re not on the ferry to Nova Scotia.”
Tamara managed to smile. “No, I guess I’m not.”
* * *
Emma parked next to Yank’s sedan at the Campbell farm, a spectacular place with sloping lawns, a white clapboard house with black shutters, a red barn and what she assumed was a guest cottage, also white. Yank hadn’t responded to her text on the forty-minute drive from Maine. She checked her phone again when she got out of the car. Not much of a signal.
A stone walk led up to the main house, the climb steep enough there were intermittent steps. She noticed the driveway circled up from the cottage parking area to the barn. She couldn’t see if anyone was parked there. The house blocked her view. A pleasant breeze wafted through mature maple trees that dotted the sloping lawn. A plaque by the cottage’s front door noted it had been built in 1811 by an Elias Jones. An empty pottery flowerpot on the doorstep was the only indication of the troubles the property had seen in recent months, with Ophelia’s death, the fire and Fletcher’s decline. Rex probably hadn’t had time for flowerpots.
As she started up the walk, Emma heard a noise to her right, by the cottage. Jolie Romero waved to her from a narrow spot between a cedar tree and the side of the cottage.
Emma crossed the grass to her. “Is something wrong?”
Jolie placed a finger on her lips. “Shh.” She didn’t budge from her spot. “I swear to God I heard gunfire. I ducked behind the first tree I saw.” She spoke in a whisper. “I was looking for Fletcher. He’s on the loose. I don’t know how he’d get hold of a gun. I would think Rex would have any weapons locked up.”
“Where’s Agent Yankowski?” Emma asked.
“He and Adalyn went to help look for Fletcher. It’s a big place.”
“Before the gunfire?”
Jolie nodded. “I could be wrong. Maybe it was just a car backfiring.” She motioned vaguely behind her. “I heard something back there. The bulkhead’s open. Maybe Fletcher’s hiding in the cellar. He’s probably scared and confused. Don’t shoot him or anything.”
“Keep your hands where I can see them, Jolie.”
“Of course. Will do.”
Emma quickly patted her down but didn’t find a weapon. As she stepped back, a frail-looking, elderly man stumbled toward them, from behind the house. He had a small .22-caliber pistol in his right hand, pointed at the ground.
Jolie gasped. “Fletcher. Jesus...put that gun down.”
He dropped it at once. Emma eased over to him and grabbed the weapon. “Let’s see your hands, Fletcher.” He splayed his hands in front of her, and she quickly patted him down, not finding any other weapons. He had on baggy jogging pants, a hoodie and sneakers. She stepped back. “My name’s Emma Sharpe. I’m with the FBI. You’re Fletcher Campbell?”
A curt nod. “I know who I am.”
“Did you fire this weapon, Fletcher?”
“What weapon?” He looked helplessly at Jolie. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Jolie, Fletcher. Jolie Romero. We’re here to help you. I heard a gunshot—do you know what happened?”
He stared at the gun in Emma’s hand. “We went shooting with Graham. I hated it. Ophelia and Rex loved it. They never killed anything. Birds. Graham’s father shot birds. No, no.” He looked pained and confused. “I heard a gun go off.”
“Where did you get this gun?” Emma asked.
“That’s not my gun. Rex locked up my guns. He doesn’t trust me. He’s always grumpy.” Fletcher stared at Emma and then at Jolie, confused, frustrated. “Who are you? Where’s Ophelia?”
“It’s okay, Fletcher,” Jolie said gently. “We’ll get you home. Emma is here to help. Have you seen Rex?”
“Rex is here? Where is he?” Fletcher stared blankly at Emma. “Who are you?”
Jolie glanced at her. “We aren’t going to get anywhere with him. Even if he tells us something, it won’t be reliable.”
“I see that,” Emma said. “Did Agent Yankowski come in this direction?”
Jolie nodded. “Yes, with Adalyn. Maybe they ducked into the cottage cellar when they heard the gunshot? If Fletcher woke up confused
and scared and saw people he didn’t recognize—strangers...” She looked helplessly at Emma. “He’s not in his right head. You can see that, can’t you?”
“Where’s Rex now?” Emma asked.
“My van isn’t here,” Jolie said. “I assume he took it and went to Fletcher’s nursing home to see if he’s there or making his way there. The home’s just a mile up the road.”
Emma peered around the corner of the house. She could see the open bulkhead. “Yank? Adalyn? It’s Emma Sharpe. I’m here with Jolie and Fletcher.”
She heard a moan. Then Yank crawled out from the open bulkhead, falling onto the grass. “Emma...”
Tamara McDermott poked her head out. “He’s been shot.” She scrambled out of the bulkhead and knelt next to Yank, her eyes fixed on Emma. “He won’t bleed out but he needs an ambulance.” Tamara pressed a blood-soaked towel to Yank’s shoulder. He still had his gun in his hand. She gave Emma a faltering smile. “He won’t let me touch it.”
Adalyn burst up the bulkhead stairs past her mother. She gulped in air. “Emma—Agent Sharpe, I told Agent Yankowski about the convent. I know you found out I visited Verity in Heron’s Cove on Friday. I’m so sorry I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think it mattered. It didn’t get anyone hurt, did it?”
“Let’s focus on getting Yank medical attention,” Tamara said.
“Mom—”
“It’ll be okay.”
“You don’t know that.” Adalyn pivoted back to Emma. “Mom was held in the bathroom in the cellar. There are drugs down there. By the washer. Patches, pills. Syringes.”
“Ophelia,” Fletcher said softly. “She’s been sick a long, long time. She likes her pills. Rex keeps track. He doesn’t want her to overdose.” He stared at the ground, as if he was trying to figure out if what he’d just said made sense. He looked up. “Where is Ophelia?”
“They aren’t legal meds, Emma,” Tamara said. “There are painting materials down there, too. They’re in boxes mailed from Oxford in the UK.”
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