by Lisa Jackson
“But the car’s still running,” Bellisario said, eyeing him as if he were stark, raving mad at the very least, some kind of criminal at the worst. “She could have just driven.”
“Let’s call Sarah.” He pulled out his phone when a terrified scream rippled over the surrounding fields.
Whipping around instinctively, he faced the direction of the sound, west toward the Stewart family’s holdings; the old house was nearly a quarter mile downriver from this point.
The shriek came again. A female scream filled with terror.
“I don’t know,” Bellisario said. She stared in the direction of the house, one hand on her pistol, her gaze searching the gloomy landscape. “I don’t like it.”
He was already sprinting for his truck and wasn’t about to wait for a response. Someone, a woman, needed help. Dread propelled him, and if the cop wasn’t ready to investigate, too damned bad.
He jumped into the cab, and Tex, sensing his anxiety, moved quickly to the passenger seat. “Hey! Hold up!” the cop called after him, but he ignored her, slammed his door shut and took off with a chirp of tires. He’d already explained everything he could about Jade and her car, and the fact that he’d just learned he was her father. Now Bellisario could deal with it. In his rearview, he caught sight of the detective talking rapidly into her phone as she dashed to her car.
Rolling his window down, squinting into the coming dark, he listened for another scream but heard only the distant wail of sirens. Hand tight over the steering wheel, he prayed they were cops heading this way, responding to Bellisario’s request for backup.
He took the corner into the lane for Blue Peacock Manor a little too fast, and the empty back end of his truck slid a bit. “Get down!” he ordered the dog as he eased off the throttle. Tex hopped to the floor in front of the passenger seat just as the wheels found purchase again and Clint hit the gas.
What the hell was happening?
His heart was racing, his mind spinning.
It looked like Jade was already in serious danger.
Was she the one who was screaming? Or had the shriek come from Sarah or Gracie?
“Son of a bitch,” he ground out as his truck bounced and shimmied down the lane, mist swirling in the headlight’s beams, a startled deer bounding into the woods.
The sirens drew closer.
“Just get here!” he shouted, as if the damned police could hear. He was clutching the wheel in a death grip, his knuckles showing white, every muscle in his body clenched. He tried like hell to be rational, to think, but the sound of that horrified scream tumbled through his mind, while the image of Jade’s abandoned car, door open, burned through his soul.
The stands of pine and fir parted as he rounded a final curve, then drove across the clearing where the old house stood. On this gloomy afternoon, with twilight fast approaching, the once-grand manor looked evil and stark, its cupola and roof shrouded in the mist.
He slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop near the front yard. No more screaming. Just silence, and that somehow was worse. Sarah’s Explorer was parked in its usual spot, no other vehicle was around. Good or bad? A few dim lights glowed from the windows of the first floor. “Be home,” he whispered, throwing himself out of the cab. “Be home.”
He raced up the walk and porch steps to the front door. It hung open a bit, not quite latched, as if someone had been in a hurry to get out. “Sarah!” he yelled at the top of his lungs as he barreled into the foyer. “Jade!” He stalked through the rooms, his boots ringing on the floorboards, his fear mounting as he searched.
A fire burned in the hearth, a coffee cup was left on the dining room table with Sarah’s keys. He touched the cup—still warm—then spied her purse on a nearby chair. He found a kid’s backpack left on the pile of sleeping bags in the living room. “Sarah!” he yelled again, his voice thundering.
No answer.
But he didn’t stop looking. Up the first flight he ran, opening doors, calling their names. “Sarah! Jade! Gracie!” Empty rooms greeted him, silent chambers devoid of furniture, of life.
For the love of God, where were they?
And where the hell was the damned dog?
Leaving closet doors open, he dialed Sarah on his cell and ran upward again, phone to his ear, boots thudding on the steps.
The phone started to ring, then stopped, suddenly going dead.
Call fail flashed on the screen.
“Shit!”
He reached the third floor and, breathing hard, stalked through each room, still yelling their names, dread mounting. In a blur, he checked the suite where her parents had slept, the huge closet and two baths, then ended up at the corner room with the fireplace, the missing older sister’s room. Its door hung open, and as he looked inside he saw evidence of some kind of a struggle. A new fear shot through his blood as he surveyed the scene. Hundreds of pieces of glass glittered on the floor, the mirror that had been mounted over the fireplace now showing only the backing, a few clinging shards looking like reflective teeth dangling over a yawning hole. Near the hearth, half of a little statue of the Virgin Mary lay, face turned upward, its serene expression at odds with the mayhem in this room.
What in God’s name had happened here?
Broken glass, he told himself. No blood. And, of course, no one. Where the hell were they?
Jaw clenched, he dialed Sarah again. Waited.
Call failed.
“Damn it all to hell!”
Where were the cops?
He backed out of the empty room and twisted open the last door on this level, the one that led to the attic. He didn’t think twice, just pulled it open and ran up the narrow, dark staircase. “Jade!” he called, his voice echoing. “Sarah!”
Bats, disturbed as they roosted, flapped and squeaked. Heart in his throat, he shined the light from his cell phone over the interior of the garret. Beneath the sharp gables and rafters he saw only decades of discarded furniture and boxes, crates and baskets, dust-covered, long-forgotten treasures of another generation.
No one was here, nor, he supposed, were they on the roof overhead, but he climbed those spiraling stairs anyway and forced open the door of the glass cupola to step onto the widow’s walk. He’d been here before, of course, with Sarah. She’d showed him all the nooks and crannies of the old house, excluding the basement, and they’d even made love on this rooftop, though that night, he remembered now, she’d shivered in his arms, her naked body responsive but colder than usual, her eyes never closing when he’d kissed her, as if something were troubling her, something, when he’d asked, she’d been unable or unwilling to name.
Now he hurried across the tiles and peered past the chimneys, hearing the river, far below, rush through the gorge.
He tried to call from here, but, as it had before, the cell went dead in his hands.
Yelling again, his voice smothered by the rush of the river, the sirens finally sounding closer, he felt a dark, mind-numbing fear. They were gone. The house was empty. Just as he feared it would be. A kaleidoscope of images spun through his mind in horrifying detail. Don’t go there, Do not go there! Find them, Walsh, Just find them,
Hands gripping the short rail, he leaned forward, searching the coming night. From this point he had a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view, acres upon acres of the surrounding property, if the fog would rise faster, if the night weren’t approaching.
Where are you? He thought, just as he caught a glimpse of red and blue lights blinking through the thinning mist.
The cops.
Too little, too late, he thought, but started back down to the first floor, trying to piece together what had happened here, forcing himself not to panic.
He knew that Sarah had been here and very recently.
The fire in the living room grate was bright, some of the logs barely burned.
Her vehicle was parked near the garage. No other car or truck had been driven out of the lane in the past fifteen minutes or he would have seen its light
s, heard its engine.
No, she was here, he sensed.
The basement.
Quickly, he rounded the staircase to the doorway to the basement stairs and flung open the door. Down a rickety staircase he raced, landing in a vast underground storage space where artifacts from another lifetime had been stacked. He scanned the shelves, a milk-separating station, a clothesline from ages before, everything gathering dust.
Nothing that would help him locate his family.
No one hiding in the shadows.
A complete bust.
They weren’t here. Just as he’d feared. Boots pounding a quick, desperate tattoo, he ran back up to the first floor and beelined for the open front door.
How long had it been since he’d heard that soul-rending scream?
Five minutes?
Ten?
Too damned many.
Hitting redial again, he leaped down the porch steps, only to stop short when he heard the sharp but distant sound of staccato barking. The dog was going out of its mind, sending up an alarm.
Breathing hard, Clint sensed the frantic barking was coming from the direction of the pond, on that piece of property that butted up to the fence line. For the love of Christ, what were they doing out there?
He ran to his truck, threw open the door, grabbed a flashlight he kept in the glove box, and whistled to his dog. “Come, Tex!” he commanded just as Bellisario’s Jeep roared through the trees.
He didn’t wait.
Tex sprang from the truck, and Clint, already running in the direction of the other dog’s barks, commanded, “Sic ’em!”
Her phone died in her hand. Again. Clint was trying to reach her, and each time his number showed on her cell’s screen, it faded out completely. “Come on, come on,” Sarah sobbed, pounding on the door, her skin seeming to shrink over her muscles whenever she thought about being locked in this vault with two long-dead bodies. “Gracie!” she cried, her fists raw from beating on the old panels, her shoulder aching from trying to wedge the damned door open. “Gracie! Open this door!”
Fear jetted through her bloodstream. What had happened? Why had Gracie screamed? Oh, dear God, had the twisted pervert who’d kidnapped those other girls somehow find Gracie? Was that possible? “Gracie!” she screamed frantically, beating wildly on the old wood.
Muted sounds reached her ears. The dog barking, a siren screaming, but not a sound from her daughter.
Please, please, please, God, if you’re listening, keep her safe,
“Gracie!”
“Walsh! Stop!”
Bellisario’s voice chased after him.
“Stand down!”
To hell with her. He was running for all he was worth, his feet traveling the familiar path of his youth, fear propelling him. God, why hadn’t he brought his rifle?
Hopefully the police were at his heels, weapons drawn, but he couldn’t count on them now, as he was in the lead, sprinting through dry grass and brush, catching a glimpse of the dark water of the pond. Footsteps pounded behind him: the cops.
He’d lost sight of Tex, but heard the other dog barking like he’d treed a bear. The sound wasn’t coming from the pond, no . . . he veered to the left as he realized the dog was farther toward the river and . . . Oh, Jesus! The old cemetery? The place where he and the Stewart boys had shot BB guns? What the devil was the dog doing there? Breathing hard, at the top of the rise where the graveyard appeared, he saw what was left of the Stewart family plot: graying headstones listing badly, others completely tumbled over. He leaped over the fence and headed toward the center, to the single tomb in the enclosure, pointing the flashlight at the old vault with its weird carvings.
The dog had something or someone cornered. Snarling and snapping, Xena pinned a dark, writhing figure against the front of the vault.
He forced his beam onto the odd-shaped figure.
A tall man was holding a twisting, frantic Gracie McAdams hard against his chest, his face screened by her wildly moving head, as if he were using her smaller body as a human shield.
“Help!” Gracie cried, terrified. “Help!”
“Put her down!” Clint ordered. The bastard blinked rapidly against the harsh illumination of Clint’s flashlight, but didn’t release her.
In a heartbeat, Clint recognized the man and his insides turned to water.
“Police! Let her go!” Bellisario’s voice ordered from somewhere behind Clint, just as Clint sprang forward. “Walsh! Stand the hell down!”
From the corner of his eye, Clint caught sight of the detective, weapon drawn, advancing upon the abductor and his squirming, frightened captive.
“Police!” Bellisario snapped loudly. “Roger Anderson, release the girl and put your hands in the air.”
CHAPTER 37
The door opened suddenly, a rush of fresh air racing into the vault. “Sarah!” Clint’s voice called anxiously.
She stumbled upward, over the tomb’s threshold, to fall into his waiting arms, tumbling with him to the ground in front of the vault. “Thank God, you’re safe!” he said, and his voice cracked a little. He kissed her forehead, and she was surrounded by the smell and feel of him, warm and safe, but she pulled back.
“Gracie?”
“Safe. Here,” he told her.
Her insides melted, and tears raced down her cheeks as her youngest daughter came rushing to them, and Sarah, still in Clint’s embrace, held her daughter close. “Thank God, you’re safe,” she said, sniffing. “I was trapped. The door . . .” And then she noticed the crowd that had gathered, three men and Bellisario and—
“He did it!” Gracie said, pointing to a tall man standing near one of the officers. A beard covered the lower half of his face, his hands were cuffed behind his back, and his eyes, when he stared back at her, flared with recognition.
“Roger,” she whispered. Mixed emotions clogged her throat as she stared into the sharp-featured face of her half brother, Roger Anderson. “What . . . ?” She clutched her daughter tight to her and felt something in her mind start to click, the tumblers of an old, broken lock falling suddenly into place.
She remembered being with him on the roof as a storm raged. He was holding her close, his body against her wet, shivering skin. “I’ll keep you safe,” he vowed, water dripping from his face onto her naked flesh as rain lashed the cupola and slickened the roof tiles. Gently, he carried her into the little glass room at the top of the winding stairs.
Her heart had been beating painfully, shame and disgust roiling inside her as she looked over his shoulder and through the rain-drizzled glass to the widow’s walk, where another man stood. Her queasy stomach released, and she threw up over Roger’s shoulder at the sight of her father, rain darkening the sagging shoulders of his jacket, his belt undone.
“Daddy?” she whispered, remembering him taking her to the rooftop, holding her close, sliding the buttons of her nightgown through the little slits of buttonholes. “I love you, Sarah girl,” he’d said, lifting the hem of her gown and pulling the wet fabric over her head. “I just want to touch you a little, honey, because I love you so, so much.” His breathing had been shallow and swift, and she’d tried to pull away. “This will be our secret. Our place.” And then a big, rough hand had slid down her shoulder to graze her flat, undeveloped breasts.
“Oh, God,” she whispered now, her stomach quivering, even though Clint’s arms were surrounding her and she was holding her own daughter. Wrenching free of them both, she leaned forward, hands on the ground, and vomited, her body heaving violently. Disgrace and shame swallowed her, and, as if her father were still looming over her, still threatening to violate her, she whispered, “Don’t. Don’t you ever touch me again!” Her body convulsed once more, and she spit, blinking, coming back to the moment, realizing where she was again: in the cemetery with Clint and Gracie and . . .
Roger. Staring up at him, the memory fresh and clear, she forced herself to her feet.
“Okay, Anderson,” Bellisario said, “Let�
��s go.”
“No—It’s not . . . he didn’t . . .” She pulled herself together with an effort, realizing that Roger was in custody, that the police thought he was behind the recent attacks . . . “No, wait. You’re arresting him?” she asked Bellisario, feeling Clint tense beside her and Gracie once again slip under her arms. “No . . . he didn’t . . .” She could barely draw a breath when she finally blurted out, “Theresa, my sister. She’s down there,” and weakly motioned to the vault. “I mean, her body.”
Gracie looked up at her. “Really?”
“Roger,” Sarah said to her brother, “you put her there? You knew?”
He frowned, but some of the tension left his shoulders, and he nodded. The cop beside him was staring at him as if he expected the ex-con to flee. “I failed her.” Roger’s voice was raw, filled with emotion, his face twisted in guilt. “I failed my sister.”
Sarah tried to understand. He seemed to have shrunk two inches with the admission. “How?” she asked.
“This man was trying to abduct your daughter,” Bellisario said.
“No,” Sarah and Roger said at the same time.
Then Roger said to Sarah, “It was your father. He . . . he and Theresa. He wouldn’t leave her alone. Oh, Jesus! I should have done something.”
The cops and Clint and Gracie all were silent, listening as his face hardened in hate for the man who had sired Sarah.
Shaken, Sarah had to be certain she understood. “My father killed Theresa?” The thought was a cold stake in her heart.
“It was his fault. Because of what he did to her, because . . . because after the baby was born Theresa was never the same. Because of him, she died.”
“Because of him?” she repeated, trepidation taking hold of her, a piece of his story not fitting. Clint’s arms tightened over her shoulders, and a cold wind blew from the east, racing through the gorge, chasing away the fog.