Finding Claire Fletcher (A Claire Fletcher and Detective Parks Mystery Book 1)

by Lisa Regan

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

  He looked genuinely stunned to see me. The cabin was sparsely but rustically furnished. Compared to the places Reynard had made Tiffany and me live in, it was luxurious. The air inside was still. I surprised him in the dimly lit living room. The Glock was rock steady in my hands, and my voice was strident.

  “Where is she, you son of a bitch?”

  He froze when he saw the gun, his body in a half turn. Slowly, he turned to face me, exposing his center mass. I almost smiled. Somewhere in a far-off recess of my consciousness, I was astonished by the impenetrable calm that possessed my body, my voice, the gun in my hand.

  He said, “Lynn.”

  “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare. My name is Claire.”

  He dropped his gaze to the floor momentarily. “I knew you would come.”

  “Where is Emily Hartman?”

  He waved a hand toward the doorway to what was obviously a small kitchen where Tiffany now stood, silent and immobile, watching us with disinterest. “I tried to replace you,” Johnson said. “I should have known that you—you were special. You always demanded more from me. You were my first.”

  His voice was soft, almost effeminate. His eyes shone with adoration that made me want to shoot him right then, before finding out what he had done with the girl.

  “I wasn’t your first. Not even close.”

  He extended his hands toward me, palms up, a strange little smile on his face. “But you were my first. You were the first to stay. Don’t you see? You were so special. That’s why I could never bring myself to kill you. I was right—here you are. You came back.”

  Rage burned in my stomach. “Shut up. Shut up. You’re sick. Delusional. What is the matter with you? You kidnapped me. You took me away from my family. You raped me and tortured me. You threatened my family. I hate you. I have always hated you. You make me sick.”

  He shook his head as if to indicate what I was saying was just plain silly. I wished I was close enough to spit on him. “Where is Emily? I know you took her. Where is she?”

  Tiffany left the kitchen doorway, but I was unconcerned with her. I knew from my final escape from the trailer that she was ineffectual. Against a bigger, more fearsome opponent, she would not put up a fight.

  Johnson sighed. “I wish we could talk about this, Lynn.”

  The rage boiled inside me, heating my skin until sweat broke out all over my body. “Fuck you. We’re done talking—you’re done talking. I only want to hear one thing from you, and after that, I’m putting a bullet in your head. Where is the girl?”

  He hesitated. Then he opened his mouth to speak.

  The sound of tires rolling over gravel outside stopped him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

  Connor drove the truck full speed up the narrow gravel drive, nearly taking out the entire cabin before he stopped. The front tires of the truck bounced against the front steps as he braked. His body slammed forward into the steering wheel. He snatched his gun from the passenger’s seat and leapt out of the truck.

  He had forgotten about his injured leg, and it buckled when his feet hit ground. He held on to the truck door to keep his balance. He racked a round into the Glock’s chamber and limped to the cabin door. He didn’t hear anything, and he didn’t know whether to be more or less afraid of what he would find inside. He raised the pistol in front of him and nudged the door open with his foot. It creaked loudly as it cleared the door frame. Connor stepped inside and aimed for center mass.

  “Claire, put the gun down.”

  She didn’t respond. Her eyes and her weapon were locked on Reynard Johnson, who looked from her to Connor with an amused smile. Connor wished he were in a position to smack the smile right off Johnson’s face.

  “Claire,” he said again.

  She didn’t look at Connor, but she said, “I’m sorry. I tried to keep you out of this.”

  Connor held his gun on her. “Don’t do this, Claire.”

  She clenched and unclenched her hand around the handle of the gun. “He deserves to die,” she said firmly.

  “Not like this.”

  She took a step forward but didn’t lower her weapon. “You’re right,” she said. “He deserves a slow, torturous death.”

  “Claire, please.”

  “This is between me and him,” she said.

  Connor cleared his throat, keeping Johnson in the periphery of his field of vision. “You’re not the only one. There are other victims.”

  “And they’ll thank me for killing him.”

  “I can’t let you do this, Claire.”

  “I thought you believed in justice.”

  Connor’s face burned. The image of the rapist bleeding out came to him unbidden. He tried to shake it out of his head. “This isn’t justice,” he croaked.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Because if you do this, I lose you. I’ll lose you for good. You’ll either die from the bullet wound or you’ll go to prison for murder. Either way this piece of shit comes out on top—again.”

  She said nothing. A single tear slid down her cheek.

  “Lynn,” Johnson said softly.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Connor said roughly. His throat felt thick. His hands itched. The muscles in his shoulders cramped. “Claire, please don’t make me shoot you. Please.”

  She shook her head, gaze still squarely on Johnson. “When does it end? What happens? You arrest him and then we wait months, years for a trial. He could escape or worse, get acquitted.”

  “There are a lot of charges against him. He’s not going anywhere. But he’s the one who should go to prison, not you. Put the gun down. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison for someone who isn’t worth spitting on. You have your family, Claire. They love you. They’re waiting for you to come home to them—for good.”

  The tone of Johnson’s voice was sulky. “I’m your family, Lynn,” he said as if Connor were not even in the room, as if Claire wasn’t aiming a pistol directly at his skull.

  “Shut up,” Claire commanded. Then to Connor, “My family. Look what he’s done to us—to so many families. He deserves to die.”

  Connor kept his voice quiet but firm. “Killing him is not going to take it away, Claire.”

  Briefly, he saw her shoulders quiver. He continued, “I know you wish you could forget everything he did. I wish I could take it away from you, but I can’t. I know you feel guilty for not escaping earlier, but killing this piece of shit is not going to take any of that away.”

  Another tear crept down her cheek. “Then what?” she asked, voice thick with unshed tears. “How do I make it go away?” She kept her gun raised and aimed at Johnson but squeezed her eyes shut. “I can’t live like this,” she sobbed. “I just want it all to go away.”

  Connor lowered his gun slightly and took another painful step toward Claire. “I don’t know that it will ever go away,” he said softly. “I do know that killing him is not going to help you with those things. You have to make new memories, happy memories—with your family. They’re waiting for you.” He paused. She lowered her pistol slightly, eyes still tightly closed. He wished he could see her eyes. “I’m waiting for you,” he said.

  “Lynn,” Johnson interjected, voice tinged with desperation. “Don’t go with him.”

  Claire’s eyes popped open. Connor looked at Johnson to tell him once more to shut up, but the flash of a knife just behind Johnson caught Connor’s eye. An earsplitting howl reverberated throughout the cabin. Johnson stumbled forward. Blood appeared on the front of his white shirt, spreading outward in a large blotch.

  A thin wisp of a girl with lank brown hair stood behind Johnson. Her eyes were huge and black with fury. She seemed to be animated by some otherworldly force as she withdrew the knife from Johnson’s back and stabbed again.

  “You bastard!” she screamed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  It happened so fast. Within seconds, Tiffany had stabbed Johnson in the back t
hree times. Blood splattered back onto her. Fat, beaded drops landed in her hair, on her face. Blood streaked her arms. Reynard fell and rolled onto his back. At least one of the wounds had gone clear through to his front. His shirt was already completely stained.

  Tiffany straddled him, her thin hips rocking back and forth over his in a macabre motion as she stabbed again and again with piston-like movements. Her howls had receded to grunts. I heard fragments of speech. “Lynn, Lynn, Lynn. That’s all you care about is her. You never cared about me. I hate you.”

  Connor and I both stood struck dumb by the scene. Time slowed, stretching the mere passing seconds into hours. It was an eternity before Connor lurched toward Tiffany to disarm her. I watched as if the entire thing were taking place on television. Connor grabbed both of Tiffany’s hands, which held the knife. Her unbridled fury gave her more strength than her thin body had. She pulled back, and Connor toppled over, falling onto the ground with her. Tiffany’s skin was slick with blood. Connor struggled to control her hands. They wriggled away from Reynard, locked in battle, their bodies making a steeple with both their arms extended over their heads toward the knife.

  I looked at Reynard. Even the pallor of his face was fading. One of his hands covered his chest. He stared straight up at the ceiling. There was nothing in his eyes. Still, his lips worked uselessly. He would die before help arrived.

  I watched him take his last breath. Connor finally took possession of the knife Tiffany had used to attack Reynard. He subdued her using an armlock, his knee pressed into the center of her back. He looked around for something to tie her up with, but without the knife, she ceased to struggle.

  Reynard’s bloody form settled into death. I gazed, riveted by the sight I had longed for, wished for, prayed to see for years. His features drooped, pale and unrecognizable in the way Miranda Simon’s were after he choked her. Nothing in his face changed; it was just masked in an odd, pallid stillness.

  I waited for the rush of feeling—euphoria, relief, righteous satisfaction—but nothing came. The minutes went by, but the part of me that was rational and driven remained muted. My limbs were paralyzed. I tried to focus on the details of his brutal death, but my gaze was undeterred from the enormity of it.

  Finally, Connor said, “The girl.”

  “In the back,” Tiffany said flatly.

  I raced, flying through the two rooms at the rear of the cabin, finding nothing. Out the back door and down two stone steps. I froze, scanning the trees beyond the cabin until the doors in my peripheral vision registered.

  They were flush against the cabin, in the ground. An outside entrance to the cellar, I thought. I tossed the gun aside and dropped to my knees. When I pried the doors open and descended the short flight of steps, I saw that it was closer to a crawl space than a cellar. There was no light. I had to crouch low to move through it. I called Emily’s name, searching blindly until my foot thudded against something soft.

  I felt for her, finding her shoulders and hooking my arms beneath hers. Her limbs hung loosely, swinging as I hauled her back to the double doors. Her feet, which I saw were bare once we got closer to the light, dangled and dragged along the dirt floor.

  “It’s going to be okay now,” I mumbled, pulling her carelessly up the steps and dropping her softly on the grass outside.

  Her pulse was thready, but it was there.

  The feeling I had waited for inside the cabin surged through me, but it had nothing to do with Reynard being dead. Tears of relief sprang to my eyes. Emily was dirty, bloodied, and bruised. Her clothes were torn. A particularly ghastly wound seeped greenish pus along the length of her right forearm.

  But she was alive. I had pulled her from the darkness with my own hands.

  I cupped her chin in my hand and said her name. When I got no response, I slapped her cheeks lightly, but her head pitched back and forth limply.

  I pulled her upper half onto my lap and held her until the police and medics arrived. Connor handed Tiffany over to the state police. He helped me into the back of the ambulance as they loaded Emily on a gurney.

  “I’m going to stay here and give a statement. I’ll meet you two at the hospital in a couple of hours,” Connor said.

  I looked into his eyes. There were things I wanted to say to him. Awkwardly, he leaned into the back of the ambulance and kissed me lightly. A thrill chilled my body, but it held no fear. I opened my mouth to say something to him—anything—but he shook his head.

  When he smiled, it brought more tears to my eyes. “Later,” he said. “We have time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  “Are you ready to go home?” Brianna asked as she breezed into our hotel room. “I’m sick of this place, and if I don’t get back soon, my boss is going to fire me.”

  I laughed as I packed our things into the suitcase Brianna had brought with her. “Yes,” I said. “I’m ready.”

  The FBI had taken me to San Diego so they could question me in their field office. Connor accompanied me, and my parents drove down with Brianna to stay with me while the various law enforcement agencies who had been looking for both Reynard and Emily Hartman sorted out my and Connor’s stories.

  “Where are Mom and Dad?” she asked. She plopped onto the bed and turned on the television. Coverage of Emily Hartman’s recovery and Johnson’s murder could still be found on just about every channel.

  “They went shopping,” I said. I sat in the chair next to the bed and watched as she flipped from channel to channel.

  “Shopping? They went shopping? I thought we were supposed to leave in a half hour.”

  “They should be back soon,” I said.

  “Any news on Emily?” Brianna asked, turning the television off.

  I smiled. “She’ll be fine.”

  Emily was a fighter. Johnson had had to beat her pretty badly in order to subdue her. The gash in her arm was infected, she had a major concussion, and she was severely dehydrated. But she was alive, and she had been reunited with her family.

  The phone on the other side of Brianna’s bed jangled noisily. She picked it up but immediately frowned. With a noisy sigh, she thrust the receiver in my direction. “It’s your boyfriend,” she said.

  “Bree,” I hissed. I pointed to the receiver, which she could have at least covered so Connor didn’t hear her. She rolled her eyes and handed me the phone.

  “Where are you?” I asked Connor.

  “I’m still at the FBI field office. I just called to say goodbye.”

  My stomach went into a free fall. It had not occurred to me that with Johnson dead and my case closed, there was no reason for me and Connor to see one another again. “What?” I croaked.

  “I called to say goodbye,” he repeated. “I have to stay here a few more days. I thought you said you guys were leaving today.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah, we’re packing now.”

  “Well, have a safe trip. Remember to wear a hat and sunglasses. The press is even worse than they were before you rescued Emily Hartman. Just be—”

  “Connor,” I said, cutting him off. “Will I see you again? When we get home?”

  He chuckled, and I pictured his easy smile. Warmth spread throughout my body. “Yes,” he said. “You will definitely see me again. You know, I meant what I said in that cabin.”

  My brow furrowed. The tense moments in the cabin were somewhat of a blur. “What you said?” I prompted.

  “I know you need time after all that’s happened, but I will wait for you, Claire.”

  “Oh.”

  I glanced at Brianna, who was frozen in place, leaning over her suitcase. She craned her neck toward me in an attempt to hear Connor’s side of the conversation as well as mine. Her intense stare sent a flush from my collar to my scalp. I looked away from her but couldn’t keep the corners of my mouth from twitching.

  “I told you,” Connor added. “You’re stuck with me.”

  The smile tickling my face burst forth. I felt dizzy and giddy with relief. I squeezed t
he receiver harder and sank onto the bed. From the corner of my eye, I saw that Brianna was trying unsuccessfully to suppress her own smile.

  “Claire? You there?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “So I’ll see you in Sacramento?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, you will.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  The girl I used to be looks back at me from the full-length mirror affixed to her bedroom door. She studies me from head to toe as I turn several times, trying with limited success to get a good look at my rear to make sure the dress I’m wearing fits well. Tonight is my first date with Connor. There are butterflies in my stomach, and even though my mother and Brianna helped me pick out the dress I’m wearing, I’ve checked myself in the mirror at least twenty times.

  After returning from San Diego, Connor became a fixture at my home, attending family dinners, helping my dad fix the place up, and letting Tom help with his own financial planning. We hadn’t spent much time alone together, and by the time Connor worked up the nerve to ask me on a real date, I felt ready to have him all to myself.

  I slide on a pair of sandals and go downstairs. My father smiles at me. “You look beautiful, honey,” he says. He kisses my cheek, and a sudden warmth joins the butterflies in my belly.

  “Thank you, Dad.”

  In the kitchen, my mother and Brianna are drinking coffee and having a heated discussion about something mundane, like our grandmother’s lasagna recipe. They fall silent as I enter. Brianna whistles in appreciation.

  “Twirl around for us, darling,” my mother says.