by CJ Lyons
"But it was really the cancer causing her delusions, change of personality, right?" Caitlyn wondered if Lily hadn't been at least partially right. Hal seemed to have the same mood swings, paranoid ideas his wife had suffered from.
Sarah nodded, was silent for another long moment. "Hal's never forgiven himself for answering the call that night. He couldn't afford any more sick leave, the village had already given him an extension on his pay so that he could keep the bank from foreclosing, so he tried his best to work from home. By that time, Lily would go crazy at the sight of anyone else, so we couldn't even really help.
"Some kids went skinny-dipping in the reservoir. Got stuck naked in the water, forgot that the way the bank is sloped there'd be no way for them to climb out again from the other side. That was two years ago tonight."
"And Lily?"
"She must have left right after Hal did. I don't know how she made it up the Pike without driving off the side of the mountain. The autopsy showed enough painkillers and sedatives in her to kill a grizzly. When Hal found her missing, he went nuts. We found the truck and we knew what happened." She raised her now cold tea to her lips, her fingers white as they gripped the cup.
"We found her body two days later. In Snakebelly—same place I found that body yesterday."
Caitlyn sat back, her own drink forgotten as she plucked at an itchy patch of skin on her arm. Her veins were still buzzing—with fatigue or sexual excitement left over from last night, she wasn't sure. But her skin felt so tight she wanted to claw her way out of it.
"Must be long hours for a Police Chief around here," she said, shifting in her seat. "Especially one so committed as Hal."
"It's nonstop when the tourists are here in the summer and fall. I've tried to get Hal to take a break, but he's a stubborn man. Just loves this town too much to trust it to anyone else, I guess."
Caitlyn looked down, her fingers still worrying at her forearm. There was no rash or signs of a bug bite, but she couldn't stop. It was as if angry gnats had crawled under her skin and were now trying to burrow further. The same gnats kept buzzing through her mind with a suspicious and ugly thought of how Sarah's loss and Hal's might be connected. "I guess the insurance must have still paid off? That's how he kept his house, right?"
There was a knock of porcelain hitting the wood too hard. Caitlyn looked up, saw the blood had drained from Sarah's face. Ahh, no one ever said the woman was stupid. She'd obviously put two and two together almost as fast as Caitlyn had.
"No," she stumbled out the single syllable. "Sam said it was the worse thing he'd ever had to do, telling Hal that because it was suicide, the company wouldn't pay. Sam even offered to give Hal money to tide him over, help him with the mortgage. He knew how much that house meant to Hal."
"When was this, Sarah?"
"August, just a few days before Sam and Josh..." She looked past Caitlyn, her gaze focused on the refrigerator festooned with its colorful finger paintings, their edges yellowed and curling with age. She made a choking sound, then cleared her throat. "Sam said he talked to Hal about Damian Wright, that he warned him—it would have been the same time."
"Sam said?" Caitlyn leaned forward, engaging the woman's attention. It was the second time Sarah Durandt had referred to her husband as if she'd just spoken with him. "Sarah, what do you mean, Sam said?"
Sarah stared at Caitlyn for a long moment. Her chest tightened and she felt sweat break out all over her. Sam had managed to keep Josh and his secret safe for almost two years. She'd known for only a few hours and first Alan and now Caitlyn were reading her like a neon sign flashing in Times Square.
She closed her eyes, utterly exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally exhausted. No, that wasn't the right word. What came after exhaustion? Breakdown.
Not a bad idea. Sarah slumped forward, resting her head on the kitchen table, and allowed her emotions to swarm over her like a nest of angry timber rattlers. Tears she'd held back for so very long, a torrent of fear and anger and more fear. Her body shook, her shoulders heaved, her head rocked against the tabletop.
Caitlyn's chair scraped back and the FBI agent crouched beside Sarah, wrapping her arms around her. "Jesus, I'm so sorry. I did it again. Mrs. Durandt, Sarah, I'm sorry. Just take a deep breath. That's it, you'll be all right."
Sarah almost felt guilty about tricking Caitlyn into a show of sympathy. Or was it just a show? Caitlyn had come that night with Jack Logan—who obviously knew more about Sam than he was telling anyone. Except Alan.
Now her breath came in ragged gasps for real. Sam was right. There was no one they could trust. If Caitlyn's suspicions about Hal were correct, then Sarah couldn't even trust the man she'd known for over twenty years.
It was all up to her. And so far she'd failed miserably. How the hell had Sam managed to keep his sanity while living in this world of deceit and treachery?
The enormity of what he had sacrificed, what doing the right thing had cost him, eased her anger towards him. A little. Maybe. He'd still had no right to take her son away from her, to let her think they were both dead...
"I talk to Sam every day," Sarah said, finally raising her head. Caitlyn grabbed a dishtowel from the oven door and Sarah used it to wipe her tears and blow her nose. "I'm sorry. I've never lost it like that before. It must have been finding the body yesterday. I really thought it would be Sam. That maybe if I had found him and Josh I could find some peace."
Sarah stared into the yellow daisies that covered the cotton towel, hoping Caitlyn bought her performance. The agent was silent for a long moment before resuming her seat at the table.
"Sam told you he'd spoken with Chief Waverly about Damian Wright. When exactly did you speak with him, Mrs. Durandt?"
Sarah noticed the way Caitlyn lowered her voice and raised her inflection, to soften any hint of accusation in her question. She could feel the agent's eyes on her as she left the table and busied herself by clearing the cups and silverware.
"Whenever either one of us traveled, we talked every night. On the phone. So it must have been whatever night Sam told Hal. Surely it's in the files somewhere. I must have told you this before. After all, a father would tell his wife that a pervert was trying to take photos of their child, wouldn't he?"
Caitlyn was silent and Sarah realized the agent was allowing her to incriminate herself. The strident tone she'd fallen into, the bitterness she'd revealed with her last statement was all too obvious. No, Sam hadn't told her about Damian Wright. She wasn't sure if that was because Hal asked him not to or because Sam really hadn't believed there was a threat to Josh after all.
Or because that last time they'd spoken that summer, she'd spent all their time ranting about the educational system and the dunderheads in the government who were wasting her time and had threatened to walk out of the mandatory seminar and quit her job. She'd been so upset that it had taken Sam twenty minutes to calm her down, convince her to stay in Albany.
Oh God, was this all her fault? If she'd given him a chance, would he have told her? Would she have raced home, been able to prevent all this?
Sarah banged the ceramic mug onto the counter top. It exploded in her hand. "Damn it!"
Caitlyn rushed to her side, but Sarah waved her away.
"This isn't a good time to talk," Sarah said, trying to sound calm. Instead she sounded demented, a raving lunatic trying to hold the beast within her in check. More tears burned at the back of her throat, as if once started it would take a lifetime to drain them all.
"So I see," Caitlyn said, her tone now neutral and professional. "But it really would be best if we spoke now. Cleared everything up." She paused and Sarah focused on the broken bits in the sink, looking anywhere but into Caitlyn's all-knowing eyes. "Once and for all."
Caitlyn's cell phone trilled. Sarah was grateful for the reprieve. She cleaned out the sink, dumping the shards of glass into the garbage. Grabbed a sponge to take care of the puddle on the floor. Before she could start, she looked up to see Caitlyn hanging
up. She'd only said three words during the entire conversation: "Are you sure?"
Now Caitlyn was staring at Sarah the same way she had glared at Logan earlier. "Mrs. Durandt, I'm afraid we definitely do need to question you further."
"Why? I haven't done anything wrong."
"That was Quantico. The gun you had in your possession belonged to US Marshal Leo Richland."
Sarah shrank back against the counter. "You think I killed him?"
Caitlyn took a step toward her. "What makes you think he's dead?"
She couldn't tell them how Sam had come by the gun, not without exposing him and Josh. Her vision began to darken with red spots as her head throbbed. What was she going to tell them?
She couldn't be arrested. Not now, not today. She had to keep Alan and Logan from going after Sam or telling Korsakov where to find Josh. She couldn't do that if she was in jail, deflecting questions she had no answers for.
Sam had been right. Her only choice was to run.
She dried her hands on the dishtowel and turned her back to Caitlyn as she hung it on the oven door. Then, faster than a whipsnake, she grabbed the cast iron skillet and swung it at Caitlyn.
CHAPTER 43
Caitlyn saw the skillet coming at her an instant too late. She blocked the blow with her arm, but lost her balance, her feet slipping on the wet floor. She did a banana peel slide, landing on her back with a thud.
She thumped her head against the table edge going down, but didn't black out. As she reached for her weapon, Sarah threw the skillet down, a look of horror on her face, and raced out the back door. By the time Caitlyn regained her feet and chased after her, she was a distant blur at the forest's edge, vanishing into the trees.
Caitlyn ran a few steps then stopped in disgust. No way in hell she'd ever catch Sarah. The woman was like a deer or some kind of wild creature. She rubbed her forearm where the skillet hit her. No major damage except to her pride. She should have seen it coming, but Sarah Durandt was the one person she'd believed to be innocent in all this.
Now she wasn't sure of anything—especially Hal Waverly's motives and actions.
Caitlyn pursed her lips, squinted at the sun. High noon. Just like Gary Cooper she was on her own. In a town where nobody could be trusted and everybody lied.
She stared at the spot where Sarah had disappeared. Sarah had been telling the truth during most of their interview, Caitlyn was sure of it. Right up to the point where Caitlyn had practically accused Hal Waverly of being involved in her husband's disappearance. Had they been in it together?
Caitlyn had seen a lot of things in her law enforcement career, including mothers capable of harming their children, but Sarah Durandt didn't fit the profile. Maybe the kid had been an accident, had gotten in the way.
Then where did Leo Richland fit in? And this lawyer dude, Alan Easton. Was he the one who had blown Sam's witness protection identity? Maybe Richland was an innocent victim and it was Easton who had killed him. Easton obviously had something on Logan. What the hell did those two want?
Caitlyn bounced on her heels, pacing the wooden floorboards of Sarah's veranda. She listened to the way her footsteps echoed, liking the tap-tap-ratta-tap. She sped up, then slowed again. Her skin had stopped crawling and itching, now she felt energized, jazzed...
Actually, she had been pretty edgy, hyper since last night. But it wasn't the sex—or almost sex. What the hell had she been thinking, considering having unprotected sex with a total stranger? The way she'd practically attacked Waverly—that wasn't her. She kept her feelings under control, just like she kept her migraines under control...
Oh shit. She stopped before a planter bustling with snapdragons. Their vibrant colors blurred before her as the breeze swept through them. Were these strange feelings, her recent irrational behavior, more reactions from her migraines? Maybe she couldn't even trust herself.
She pursed her lips and turned back into the kitchen. Grabbing her bag, she strode through the house, ignoring the photos of Sarah, Sam, and Josh, the lovingly balanced comfortable décor, or the sweet scent of cinnamon. She needed the bullet Hal had taken from Richland's body. If it matched Richland's gun, she'd charge Sarah Durandt with the murder of a Federal Agent.
"The old man was right," Grigory said as they cruised along Lake Road, coming to a stop where it dead-ended at the dam. "Only one way out of town."
"Except for that old dirt road leading up the mountain," Max supplied helpfully. "But according to the map, it don't go nowhere either."
Counting the cook and the kid at the dinner, they'd seen only a dozen people on the streets. Only three vehicles, two commercial vans and all leaving Hopewell, going down the mountain. Some morning rush hour.
There was a small shed near the dam. A twelve-foot tall chain link fence topped by razor wire surrounded the reservoir. At the far edge of the clearing stood a rickety fire tower. Mountains crowded them on both sides, leaving the bottom of the gorge soaked in a cool, dark twilight. Far above the sky opened out again, revealing a cloudless blue canvas. Nothing stirred except the occasional ripple of water driven by a stray breeze.
Peaceful. Calm. A place where no one would hear you scream.
He rubbed his thumb and fore-finger together in anticipation. "Let's go visit Stan's lady friend."
CHAPTER 44
Caitlyn spotted the lone man standing near Sarah's car as soon as she turned down the path leading from the house. Who could miss him? Even if it weren't for the black suit and flashy red tie, energy radiated from him, flashing a neon warning sign: Beware.
As she drew near, he stopped his quick-jerk pacing to lounge against Sarah's Ford Explorer. His stare as he watched her approach was palpable, intensely compelling. The hairs on the back of her neck cringed.
So this was the infamous Grigory Korsakov.
How could she have thought him ordinary when she'd seen his picture? A short man, no more than an inch taller than her own five-foot-six, he was anything but ordinary. Energy danced from him, swirling like storm clouds before a bolt of lightning. He smiled, drawing back rich, full lips to reveal a perfect set of brilliant white teeth.
Not bad for a guy who'd just spent seven years in the pen. She wondered how much it had cost to protect that perfect smile and face while he was inside. Using her peripheral vision, she scanned the area. No signs of another vehicle, no signs of other men. She kept her focus on Korsakov. Definitely not ordinary. He was as mesmerizing as a hooded cobra and just as deadly.
"Are you Sarah Durandt?" he asked in a richly mellowed voice sounding of fine wine and caviar.
"Sorry, no." She stopped an arm's length away from him, sliding her hand inside the outer compartment of her bag to rest on her gun.
He cocked his head, his smile growing wider as if she'd made a joke. "Are you sure? I was told that she lived here alone."
"She's not at home right now." A fleeting frown creased his features and Caitlyn saw the only flaw in his facade. His eyes were leaden, flat, with irises so dark it was impossible to tell where the pupils stopped and the color began. She'd faced off with gang-bangers, sociopaths, psychopaths, even a serial killer—but none of them had eyes as dead as Grigory Korsakov's.
Eyes that penetrated to your very soul and then with a flicker condemned you to the depths of hell.
Caitlyn suppressed a shudder, forcing her smile to remain plastered on her face. She edged to one side, heading for her car. Korsakov moved with her, blocking her path.
"You must understand. It's extremely important that I find Mrs. Durandt."
He hadn't touched her, his hands were still slouched in his jacket pockets, but Caitlyn felt her muscles tighten in anticipation of an attack. "I'm sorry I can't help you," she said, keeping her voice level and her gaze even with his. "I was just dropping a few things off for her. The door's open, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you waited inside."
He nodded at that and almost turned away, then smiled even more charmingly and spun back to her. "I'm so sorry. I don't
mean to be a pest. But you see, I've never met Mrs. Durandt. I don't suppose you could show me some proof that you're not her?"
Caitlyn was half-tempted to pull her weapon as evidence of who she was. Instead, she kept her hand firmly wrapped around the Glock's handle as she slid her wallet from the inside pocket of her bag. She held up her drivers' license, glad there was no mention of her being a federal agent on it.
"Caitlyn Tierney, Manassas, Virginia," he leaned close to her and read. Without moving back, their faces mere inches away from each other, he looked into her eyes, his smile now rigid. "That's a long way from home. You're quite certain Mrs. Durandt isn't at home?"
"Quite," Caitlyn said, snapping her wallet shut and dropping it back into her purse. "I'm running late, so you'll please excuse me."
He blinked slowly, like a reptile, and she knew he was considering restraining her until he could verify her identity. She tensed, half-hoping he would make a move. As she looked into his dead, dark eyes a flutter of fear spun through her and she realized she wasn't certain that, gun or no gun, she could take him down.
Finally he stepped back, granting his permission for her to leave with a flourish of his hand. "Good day, Miss Tierney," he called as she slammed her car door shut and started the engine.
Caitlyn barely looked at the road as she sped away, her attention riveted by Korsakov's reflection in the rearview mirror. She gripped the wheel tight, her breathing rapid, heart pounding as if she'd just had a close escape from death.