by Lisa Gardner
I was in the hallway, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The night had been an endless one, and the first tendrils of morning were starting to seep into the sky. In another thirty minutes, the house would be bright with the daylight. Assuming any of us were alive to see it.
Evan was in the room next to the girl’s; I could hear him mumbling a stream of agitated gibberish. There appeared to be four bedrooms on this floor. Probably a girl’s room, a boy’s room, a guest room, and the master suite. The traditional Colonial setup.
I didn’t know where Andrew was, so I flattened my back against the hall wall for protection, and slid my way toward the room I hoped would be the master suite. I needed to find Evan’s parents. If they were conscious, maybe between the three of us …
How did Sheriff Wayne get to my house? I never asked him the night I had him in my apartment. He was the sheriff. Of course he showed up at a crime scene. It never occurred to me to question his presence.
But our house was isolated, miles away from the nearest neighbor, and I hadn’t called 911.
My mother? My sister or brother?
There was a logical explanation. There was always a logical explanation.
I heard weeping. I turned into the next doorway, discovering a large, shadowed space dominated by huge pieces of furniture. I made out a king-size sleigh bed, then realized there was a woman on the bed and she was crying.
“Hello?” I whispered softly.
She shut up. “Who’s there?” Her voice was as hushed as mine, cautious.
“Are you Evan’s mom?” I edged closer, my eyes darting around the space, noting the standing mirror, perfect for Andrew to hide behind. Or maybe he was tucked behind that decorative tree, or inside the master bath, the walk-in closet.
“Andrew’s not here,” the woman whispered, as if reading my mind. “I’m Victoria.”
“Danielle.”
I hurried closer to the bed and she rolled toward the edge. Quick inventory revealed her hands and feet were bound with zip ties. The plastic bindings were too thick for either of us to pull off the other. We needed something. Knife, scissors, key.
“What does he want with you?” I asked, trying to figure out what to do next.
“I’m not sure. I hired him to help Evan, then we became lovers. But it wasn’t an intense affair. I don’t think he’d kidnap me over that.”
“He kidnapped you?”
“From the hospital.”
“Me, too.”
“You were his lover?” she asked.
“I didn’t even get through dinner with him. Apparently, I’m the person who damned his father’s soul to Hell. We need scissors,” I muttered.
“In the master bath. Top drawer, right of the sink.” I was impressed. Victoria was good under pressure. Then again, given Evan’s history, she’d had lots of practice.
“I’ll be back,” I promised.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and her gratitude grounded me. I wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alone. Together we’d get Evan, escape from the house, and call the police.
I located the bathroom drawer, pulled it out, and awkwardly searched for scissors with two hands bound behind my back.
As a voice suddenly boomed through the house: “Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl!”
I dropped the scissors, recoiling against the wall. The voice boomed again, loud enough to pound against my skull, echoing so that I couldn’t pinpoint the source. Megaphone, I thought. Somewhere in the house, Andrew was using a megaphone and this was his sick idea of the ten-minute countdown cheer.
“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl!” he sang again. “How do I know that song, Danielle? How do I know those are the last words your father spoke to you?”
Because I’d told the police that, I thought resentfully, pushing myself away from the bathroom wall. I’d told Sheriff Wayne.
My mother had called him. The realization stopped me in my tracks. My mother had called Sheriff Wayne. I could hear her voice, a distant memory, talking on the phone:
“I need you, Wayne. I can’t do this anymore. He’s drunk, out of control. And Danielle came to my room tonight. You won’t believe what my little girl told me. It has to be tonight. Please, Wayne. I love you. Please.”
How much time was left? Seven, eight minutes?
I returned to the drawer, finally locating the metal scissors when they pricked my finger. The pain felt good. It cleared the cobwebs from my mind, focused me on matters at hand.
I crept back to the bed.
“What’s he talking about?” Victoria whispered.
“The night my parents died. My father shot everyone to death. Then Andrew’s father, the sheriff, found me.”
“Your father shot everyone but you?”
“Story of my life,” I said, but Andrew did good work because I was already wondering, Or is it?
Victoria rolled onto her stomach, lifting her bound wrists. I wedged my numb fingers into the loops of the scissor handles.
“Andrew’s hidden a gun,” I told Victoria as I tried to locate her wrists with my back to her and my own mobility limited. “If I find the gun first, I win. If he finds it first, he’s going to kill us. I’m supposed to visit my father’s soul on the spiritual superhighway and ask him for the weapon. While I’m there, I need to save Sheriff Wayne’s soul. Sadly, I don’t believe in spiritual interplanes, though I’m pretty certain Andrew’s mad as a hatter.”
I finally located Victoria’s hands. I stabbed her twice, myself three or four times. My fingers grew slippery with blood. I heard Victoria whimper once in pain. Just when I thought I was going to scream in frustration, I felt the jaws of the scissors slide around the plastic tie. I squeezed the handles, sawing the blades back and forth, back and forth…. The tie snapped. One of us was freed.
How much time left? Six minutes?
“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl!” Andrew sang again, megavoice warbling down the hall.
His voice was all wrong. Too gleeful. My father hadn’t sung like that.
As he stood in the glow of the hallway light, his hand raising the gun. Pointing it at me, pointing it at me …
“Oh Danny girl. My pretty, pretty Danny girl!”
“Put the gun down. Joe. Wayne. Stop it. Not like this. This isn’t what I wanted.”
My head hurt. I had that feeling again—like my family was standing right beside me. If I concentrated hard enough, I could see them, maybe even reach out and touch them.
I dropped the scissors on the bed. Victoria sat up, shaking out her hands. Then she cut my bindings, as well as the ones around her ankles.
We stood side by side, two women armed with one pair of scissors in a darkened master bedroom.
“Evan,” she said.
I heard him, still muttering gibberish down the hall. Then I glanced at the bedside clock. Three minutes left, give or take.
“Evan can’t help us,” I told her.
“He can’t help me,” Victoria agreed. Then, after a heartbeat of silence: “But I think he can help you.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
VICTORIA
I remember a story Michael and I once saw on the news: Two men in ski masks had broken into an upscale Boston townhouse and killed the entire family before fleeing with a jewelry box. Evan was nine months old at the time. As a new mom, I was appalled by the violence, shaken by the ruthless unfairness of it.
Michael had turned to me during the commercial break. “Anything happens in our house,” he said, “you get Evan and get out. Don’t worry about me. Save Evan.”
So here I am, under siege in my own home, and the stranger I just met is going to find my son, while I search for Michael.
Time is ticking, and I don’t see where we have many options. Andrew wasn’t lying to Danielle—my house is a fortress, every detail designed to contain a troubled child.
The phones are dead, the electricity out. I have no idea what happened to my cell ph
one, and my laptop is downstairs in the family room. We’re isolated, and according to Danielle, Andrew has a gun.
He’ll start shooting soon, I know that, and I can’t leave Michael to be his first target. I need him. He may be a pretty suit these days, but Michael grew up hard. He can take a punch and deliver in kind. He might be a match for Andrew, at least more of a match than two women and an eight-year-old boy.
Danielle heads for Evan’s room. I scoot toward the staircase, scissors clenched like a weapon in my fist.
I can’t hear Andrew anymore. No voice booming down the hall. The silence is unnerving. What’s Andrew doing? Where is he hiding? What’s he plotting next?
My hands are trembling. I want to stop, huddle like a small animal caught in the open by a bird of prey.
I won’t do it. My house, my child, my ex-husband. I started this mess. I’ll finish it.
Here’s the home court advantage—I have spent years learning how to navigate these stairs so that I won’t wake Evan in the middle of the night. I know each squeaky step, each groaning floorboard. Unfortunately, my stab wound isn’t doing so well. I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding, and beneath the ache I feel an itchy burn. Infection, most likely. I grit my teeth, picture my family, and push forward.
I hit the bottom step and pause to get my bearings. Daybreak lightens the glass panes beside the door. I can just make out each corner of the foyer, the empty space behind the ficus tree, the yawning archway leading toward the kitchen. No Andrew. I slip away from the stairs, hugging the wall for support, heartbeat quickening.
I hear a groan from the living room. Michael. I want to rush to his side. I force myself to take small, measured steps, listening carefully. The silence terrifies me.
Then I hear rustling from down the hall. Maybe from the downstairs lavette, maybe the front study. I dart into the family room, ducking beside the entertainment center. From here, I can see the sofa. Michael is sprawled on the floor in front of it. His wrists and ankles are bound. His head is moving fitfully, as if he’s struggling to wake from a nightmare.
For one second, I’m tempted to leave him. He’s better off unconscious, not knowing what’s happening to his wife and child, never seeing the bullet coming.
A glow appears in the hallway. Flashlight, coming toward the living room, on course to pass directly by me.
I bolt, racing to the other side of the entertainment unit, where I cover myself with the curtains. One of Evan’s favorite hiding spaces.
“Danny boy,” Andrew is crooning as he appears in the living room. “Oh Danny boy.”
He stops, studying Michael’s prone body on the floor. When Michael doesn’t move, Andrew continues on to the foyer. “Time’s up,” he calls out. “Know where the gun is yet, Danielle? Because I do.”
Andrew starts to climb the stairs, carrying something down by his right leg. A knife, I realize. A very large butcher knife.
And he’s heading straight for my child.
I rush into the living room, collapse on my knees beside my husband, and quickly cut the zip ties. He moans again. I kiss him once. A foolish notion from a foolish woman still learning to let go. Then I slap him, hard.
“Dammit, Michael, wake up. Our son needs you.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR
“Victoria’s not here,” Greg reported ten minutes later, gasping slightly from his run around the hospital. Alex was three beats behind the MC and breathing harder.
“Nurse says Victoria must have left her room shortly after midnight,” he filled in. “They haven’t seen her since.”
“A woman who was stabbed disappeared from her room and they did nothing about it?”
“The nurse found the hospital gown on a chair, and noticed that the fresh set of clothes brought by Victoria’s ex-husband was gone. She assumed Victoria checked herself out against doctor’s orders. They put in a call to her ex, who I guess was handling everything, but they haven’t heard back from him yet.”
“Her ex was here?”
Alex nodded. “Michael dropped off some stuff, spoke with the doctors, yeah.”
D.D. scowled, turned instinctively back to the nearest bush, which was now filled with five hyperactive boys. Another MC—Ed—had come over to assist. It was possible that D.D. wasn’t prepared to handle three crazy boys. It was possible no one was prepared to handle these three boys.
“So Evan, his mother, Danielle, and Andrew have all disappeared from this hospital in the past two hours,” D.D. summarized. “Did you speak to the attendants who took Andrew to the emergency room?”
“Victor and Noam,” Greg said. “They said Lightfoot’s condition appeared to stabilize in the elevator. They got him to the ER, left him for just a second to file paperwork. When the nurse appeared with the first dose of medication, Lightfoot was gone. Hospital security was notified, but hasn’t spotted him.”
“Hospital security,” D.D. mused, then perked up. “Security cameras. We’re going to need access to them.”
Alex nodded, but glanced pointedly at his watch. Viewing security footage could be arranged, but would take hours to execute. And in the meantime …
“It’s a reenactment,” Alex told them. “Andrew’s going family by family, following some agenda only he understands. Assuming he’s abducted Evan and Evan’s mother, he will look to staging next.”
“The boat?” D.D. wondered. “Very private.”
“Not the right feel. It needs to be domestic.”
“His house?” That didn’t sound right to her. Lightfoot’s house was an architectural marvel, not a suburban daydream.
“Why not the Olivers’ house?” Greg suggested. “Evan and his mom live in Cambridge, no more than ten, fifteen minutes from here. Andrew would know where it is; he worked for them.”
“Shit. You and me,” D.D. said to Alex, “to Evan’s house. I’ll call for backup along the way.”
She and Alex took a step forward. Greg caught her shoulder.
“I want to go,” he started, then waved to the screaming kids behind him. “Obviously, I can’t. But you’ll find Danielle, right? You’ll keep her safe. Return her to us. She’s … she’s special to me.”
“Give me an hour or two,” D.D. said with forced optimism, “and hopefully you can tell her that yourself.”
CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE
DANIELLE
“It’s dark.”
“The electricity’s out. Evan, my name’s Danielle, I met you earlier this evening. I’m a friend of Greg’s.”
I eased into Evan’s bedroom, mindful of shadowed corners and Andrew’s unknown location. Victoria thought he was downstairs, but neither of us was certain. She was going to try to free Michael, one more foot soldier to join the war. I was supposed to ask Evan to surf the mumbo-jumbo superhighway on our behalf. Find an angel, locate a gun. What the hell.
“It’s dark,” Evan said again, sounding more petulant than frightened. I made it to his bed, where I saw he was lying on his side, hands and ankles captured in zip ties.
“I can cut you loose,” I offered. “Do you have scissors anywhere?”
“Not allowed sharp objects,” Evan said.
On second thought, that made sense. Not sure how to proceed, I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, trying to find Evan’s face in the early-morning gloom.
“It’s dark,” he said for the third time.
“The sun will be up soon.”
Somberly, he shook his head. “That won’t help you.”
I wondered if Andrew had told him something. Warned him, or tried to win him over to his side. Maybe it was just as well that Evan was tied up. Clearly, he was a kid capable of doing damage.
“Your mom says you’ve been working with Andrew,” I started. “She says he’s been teaching you how to control the energies around you.”
“The dark,” the kid insisted again. “You must learn to control the dark.”
“The dark? Is that how you refer to the negative energies?”
“They’re all around you.”
“Yes, the power is out.”
“No,” he said, “they’re all around you.”
It took me a second, then I finally got it. Evan wasn’t talking about the lack of overhead lighting. He was talking about me. Apparently, I was the source of negative energy, a walking, talking black hole.
Given how tired and scared I currently was, that made perfect sense.
“Evan, can you tell me how you fight the dark?”
“Call upon the angels,” he reported. “Close your eyes. Picture a white light. Call it to you. Seven hugs from seven angels. They will help you.”
“Can you do that for me? Call the angels? Then, when you feel the light, can you ask the angels a question?”
In the gloom, Evan blinked at me, curiously.
“Andrew has hidden a gun,” I said quietly. “The angels know where it is. We need to find that gun, Evan. Can you ask the angels to help us?”
“Guns are bad,” said Evan.
“So is Andrew. Help us, Evan. Your mommy and daddy need you.”
Evan’s chin came up. He regarded at me solemnly. “I will help you.”
I hid Evan, still bound, inside his closet, beneath a pile of pillows and clothes. Ten minutes had to be up. Andrew was coming. With the gun. Without the gun. I scoured Evan’s room for possible weapons. Maybe a lamp, clock radio, or a framed picture. Victoria ran a tight ship. No feasible weapons in her violent child’s room.
Think, think, think.
My heart was beating too hard. I felt a dull roaring in my ears, becoming hyperaware of too many things at once: Evan’s low whisper, “Breathe in, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven…. Exhale, one, two, three, four, five….” Myself, standing unarmed in the middle of his darkened bedroom.
Then another sound, farther down the hall. The creak of a floorboard.
Andrew, coming up the stairs.
My father, singing as he approached my room. My father, blood spattered across his cheeks—my mother’s, my sister’s, my brother’s.