Rachel came to a dead end and slammed on the brakes, cursed, and threw it in reverse. She backed up until she saw a road leading into a different neighborhood. It curved out of view, hidden by lines of brick houses that looked like they had been built in the 1970s. She had no way of knowing if there was a way out on the other side but hated the idea of doubling back.
She put it in drive and made the turn.
“I don’t know,” she said, exasperation heavy in her voice. “It’s starting to feel like this is too much for me. I’m running around like a freakin’ chicken with its head cut off … What I do know is that Buckley told me Hubbard was involved in the incident in Afghanistan, along with Martin and two others.”
“You gonna try to talk to them?”
“Not yet. Now that my face is on TV, I can’t just keep going back and forth between these guys and comparing stories. I might only get one shot to question each of them. If that. I need to get some idea of what the hell this is all about first.”
“Yeah.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Well, I hate to be the one who’s always thinking everything is drug related, but have you considered it? I heard a story once about a group of soldiers that made a deal with some Afghani warlord for raw opium. They were shipping it back to the states and selling it to some other guys, who were turning it into heroin.”
The road opened up. The houses came to an end. There was a school and a convenience store, then a Burger King just ahead of a stoplight.
“That’s a thought,” she said, easing into a right turn.
“Maybe that’s what the Army’s investigating. And you got Parker turning up in a hospital after OD’ing. This guy, Hubbard, was in rehab.”
“All true.” Rachel felt better being on a four-lane road, surrounded by traffic. She relaxed a little and allowed herself to consider his point. The more she thought about it, the more it began to make sense. “Damn, Danny. I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So where are you headed now?”
“Back to Monroe,” she said. “I think I know who I need to talk to.”
As she touched the button to end the call, she saw a notification for a text message. It was from Grant: I’M SORRY, MISS CARVER, BUT I’M AFRAID THAT, GIVEN YOUR SITUATION, IT WOULD NOT BE APPROPRIATE FOR ME TO CALL YOU. PLEASE CONSIDER THIS OUR LAST CORRESPONDENCE. I HAVE ALSO RECOMMENDED TO MY CLIENT THAT HE NOT SEEK ANY ALTERNATE MEANS OF CONTACTING YOU.
“Mother…!” Rachel nearly threw the phone out the window. She tossed it in the passenger seat instead, gripped the steering wheel, and tried to calm herself.
She was tempted to drive to Raleigh and confront him face-to-face, but there was no time for that. There was also a high probability that, upon seeing the impeccably tied Windsor knot at the base of his throat, she might seize the length of cloth dangling beneath it and use it to strangle the life out of him. As satisfying as that image was, it didn’t help. So she fixed her eyes on the road and put Grant out of her mind.
* * *
Two hours later, Rachel was back in the heart of the Piedmont. Thunderheads roiled on the horizon, silhouetting the distant hills with flashes of pale blue. The road leading to Monroe was slick and exhaling steam, the storm having doused the entire town on its westward sweep.
Rachel left the highway and found the turn into Manish Gulani’s neighborhood a moment later. She had risked turning her iPhone on during the drive, just long enough to run a background check on him and get his address. As far as she could tell, he was single. She hoped the rain had convinced him to stay home for the evening.
She parked on the street in front of his house and went to knock on his door. It took a few tries before he finally answered.
“I should not be talking to you,” he said, standing with the door cracked just enough to show one of his eyes.
“Did Dr. LeMay tell you that?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t seen her face on TV.
“Yes, she did.”
His eye moved to the floor, reflexively. He looked back at her, perhaps a little embarrassed that the gesture had betrayed him, and Rachel knew she had caught a glimpse into his past. She had seen it before—a bullied child grown into a weak man, unable to stand up for himself. And it bothered him that he had never outgrown that weakness.
Self-loathing could be a useful tool. Rachel had to find a way to take advantage of it. She needed to empower him, to make him feel like he was doing something to conquer the part of himself he hated most.
“I wouldn’t blame you for listening to her,” she said, “but, before you slam this door in my face, you should know that things have changed since we talked yesterday. Two more people have died. You may have information that could help. Information that could help me stop this killer before he hurts anyone else. I’m sorry to put it on you like this, Manish, but you have a choice to make. You can be a good little boy and do whatever LeMay tells you, or you can man up and help me.”
His eyes went back to the floor as he considered. Then he smiled, shook his head as if admonishing himself, and drew the door open to let her in. She followed him to his tiny kitchen and leaned against the counter while he went to the fridge and took out a pitcher of water. He got a glass from a cabinet and filled it.
“Would you like some? I’m afraid it’s all I have to offer.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
He drank half the glass, put it down, and stared at it for a moment. “A good little boy.” He chuckled. “They say people become therapists out of a desire to fix themselves. But listening to patients complain all day has obviously not made me any stronger.” He took another sip and turned to face her. “You are smarter than I thought you were, Miss Carver. What is it that you want from me?”
There was no point in being coy. Rachel said, “I need to know why Adam Hubbard was killed.”
“You are convinced it was not over drugs?”
“It might have been drugs, but it sure as hell wasn’t because of a few Percocet.”
“And you are convinced it was not Kyle Strickland?”
“I am.”
“That’s what I thought, too.” He set the glass in the sink. “But I’m afraid I have no idea why he was killed or who did it.”
“Did you know that Adam was being investigated by the Army?”
His brow creased, a look of genuine surprise. “No, I did not.”
“His entire squad, actually. For something that happened in Afghanistan. Did he ever talk to you about his time over there?”
“Is that why you came here? To convince me to betray Mr. Hubbard’s confidence?”
“I know it’s asking a lot—”
“It is asking me to jeopardize my career.”
“To bring a killer to justice,” she said. “And maybe save lives. Doesn’t that matter to you?”
“It does. But I wonder why I’m talking to you about it and not a police officer.”
“I was an agent with the SBI when I started this case.”
“But you are not one anymore.” He looked past her into the living room and nodded at the TV. “You have been on the news tonight. They say you are suspected of killing two people. Would those be the people you mentioned?”
She didn’t answer. Tried to think of a way to explain.
He said, “It seems that you are here, most of all, to help yourself. Assuming you were not the one who killed the officer and the reporter?”
“I’m not,” she said.
“You must be desperate to prove that.” He moved closer and peered into her eyes. “I see it in you. You have the look of a wild animal. One that’s been trapped. Ready to lash out at whoever gets in the way of your escape.”
Rachel’s hand moved closer to her hip, stopping just beneath the gun.
Gulani turned and went back to the front door, pulled it open, and said, “I am not as motivated as you, I’m afraid. I will not betray the trust of my patients to help you.”
“You will find, Miss Carver, that I take my job very seriously. Every aspect of it. For instance, if I were to take you to my office, you would see that I keep detailed notes about my patients. I document every interaction that I have with them. It’s a pity, of course, because I could never show them to you. But the files are … quite extensive.”
“I see.” Rachel walked past him and through the doorway, paused on the stoop, and turned back to look at him. “I may have underestimated you, Manish. I’m sorry for that.”
He gave her a little smile and closed the door.
TWENTY-SIX
“Well, why in the hell am I just hearing about this now?” Lester Arnold, the Siler City Police chief, was red-faced and yelling into the handset. “Jesus H. Christmas, that was almost three hours ago.”
Hughes was in the doorway, waiting for an invitation. Arnold leaned back in his black leather office chair and waved him in. He stepped in quietly and eased into a seat facing Arnold’s desk.
“It doesn’t matter if you weren’t sure it was her.” Arnold looked over and shook his head with annoyance. “Let me tell you something. I have never, in all my years, seen this kind of incompetence. Your office needs a lesson in interagency cooperation. God forbid you ever want a little help from our end someday.” He slammed the handset down and dropped against the seat back. “Sorry sons o’ bitches.”
“What was that all about?” Hughes asked.
“That was the assistant chief of the damn Fayetteville PD. He says they responded to a call about your suspect today. Says a bar full of people saw her come in and pour a beer in some guy’s lap and leave.”
“She dumped a beer in a guy’s lap?”
“Yep.”
“And then just took off?”
“That’s what he said. He also said one of the regulars tried to stop her out in the street, and she popped him one good in the nose and pulled a gun on him.”
“No shit?”
“That’s what he said.”
Hughes slid to the edge of his chair. “That’s our girl. I know it is.”
“Well then, you’d best get on the phone with him and see what more he can tell you about it. I don’t think he’ll want to speak to me anymore.”
“Did he say what bar it was?”
“I think he said it was called Chappy’s.”
“In Fayetteville…” Hughes glanced at his watch. “I can probably be there by nine thirty.”
“Just check in with Assistant Chief Dipshit over there. Maybe he can loan you somebody.”
“You know I’d rather not.”
“Aw come on, Chad…”
“Seriously, boss. You gotta let me off this leash.”
Arnold leaned his head back and cast his eyes up to the ceiling.
Hughes asked, “You heard anything more from Raleigh?” Arnold didn’t bother to answer. They both knew things were moving too slow on that end. “That’s ’cause they’re stalling. I’m telling you, she worked there for years. She’s probably still friends with everyone in their homicide unit. You think they’re going to be in any hurry to help us?”
“What’s that got to do with these assholes in Fayetteville?” Arnold asked.
“Same deal,” Hughes said. “I bet she’s worked with them too. Back when she was an SBI agent. They probably think we’re crazy as hell for going after her.”
“Yeah…” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Hughes sensed that he was wearing Arnold down. He said, “Let me run over there and talk to those people myself. See if I can find out what she was doing at that bar. Maybe I can get a lead on where she’s going next.”
“You get more than a mile outside of this town, you’re a civilian. You know that.”
“I’ll call Dipshit as soon as I figure out what she was up to.”
Arnold took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “Ah, what the hell? All right, Chad. Do what you gotta do.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Rachel stopped at a little hardware store just off Main Street to buy a hammer and a flashlight. She had a story ready, in case the cashier wanted to make conversation, but the teenage girl’s only interest appeared to be counting the seconds until she could close up and enjoy what remained of her Saturday.
Outside, the air was heavy and cool. The sky was solid black, and the streetlights seemed to glow too brightly. Rachel kept close to the trees lining the sidewalk, avoiding the eyes of a couple walking hand in hand, lazily browsing the storefronts and debating where to stop for a few after-dinner cocktails.
The Tacoma was parked on the street. Rachel hopped in and dropped the bag in the passenger seat. Then she sat still and took some time to think, to reconsider her decision.
She thought about buying another phone and trying to call Grant, to see if she could trick him into answering a number he wouldn’t recognize. Maybe if she was able to actually talk to him, to get a few words in before he tried to hang up on her, she might be able to convince him to help. To allow her to speak directly to his client.
In all likelihood, that would be a wasted effort, and thinking about it only made her angry. Made her revisit her fantasy of throwing him to the ground and choking him out. For now, she had to push that aside. It was time to focus. She took the prepaid out and started typing Braddock a message.
I’M GOING TO DO SOMETHING STUPID. I CAN’T TELL YOU WHAT IT IS, BUT, IN CASE ANYTHING HAPPENS … SETH MARTIN, RILEY GORDON, COLIN STOLLER. THEY WERE IN LARSON’S SQUAD WITH ADAM HUBBARD. THEY WERE THERE WHEN THE SHOOTING HAPPENED IN AFGHANISTAN. THANKS AGAIN.
She hit send and dropped the phone in the cup holder, started the truck, and wheeled onto the road. The phone rang a minute later. It was Braddock, but she didn’t want him talking her down. She switched the ringer to mute and did her best to ignore the light from the screen. It came on every few seconds as she made her way through town.
The Monroe Outpatient Treatment Center appeared on the right, and Rachel slowed to study it as she passed by. There were no cars in the parking lot and no lights on inside. She sped up and made the next turn, looking for a good spot to park. It was a curvy road, flanked by single-story offices tucked into wooded parcels. The types of buildings that were usually occupied by doctors or lawyers, architects or engineers.
She found a parking lot with a gap between the circles of light shining on the pavement, the void left by a broken lamp overhead. The Tacoma fit nicely in the space. She shut it down and collected her tools. The flashlight went into her pocket, along with the keys. She slid the prepaid into another pocket and decided to leave her iPhone behind. She carried the hammer in her hands as she stepped out, shut the door, and spun in a circle to scan her surroundings.
Satisfied that no one was around, she moved toward the nearest office, staying in the void as she slipped around to the back. Once behind the buildings, she started to jog toward the highway. She was less than a hundred feet from it when she spotted a break in the trees that lined the border of the treatment center’s property.
Rachel crouched behind a bush and surveyed the grounds. The space between the tree line and the building was wide open on this side. There would be nothing to hide her. The building itself seemed much larger than she remembered. Landscape lights shined faint yellow on the walls. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows told her she was looking at a large room, perhaps a meeting room for group sessions.
Whatever it was, it didn’t appear to be Gulani’s office. She rose and moved among the trees until she could see the back side, then crouched and looked it over. The nearest wall was much closer here, and there was a series of smaller windows, evenly spaced. It looked like a row of offices, though she had no way to tell from here which was the right one.
She took the flashlight out of her pocket and ran her eyes along the wall near the roof, searching for a camera. There didn’t appear to be
one. She moved into the clearing, her head panning side to side as she went from a timid walk to a jog. By the time she was halfway there, she was in a full sprint.
She reached the first window and looked inside. A red speck of light seemed to be floating in the blackness. She clicked on the flashlight and aimed it inside. The speck was coming from a laptop charging on a desk. There were pictures on a credenza. She cupped her hand around her eyes for a better view. The images were of children, one of whom looked old enough to be in high school.
It was the wrong office. Rachel moved to the next window and shined the light. A mirror image of the first office, with identical furniture facing the opposite direction. Rachel moved to the edge of the window and ran the light over the wall behind the desk. As soon as she did, the beam hit a framed diploma. A master’s degree from the University of South Carolina. She squinted to read the name, ornately scribed in the center. After a moment, she was certain it said MANISH GULANI.
She passed the beam around the room again, looking for a motion detector or a glass-break sensor. There didn’t appear to be one. Examining the window frame, she spotted a magnetic switch on the bottom. As long as she didn’t try to lift the sash, the little sensor would not trip the alarm.
She stepped back to give herself room for a big swing and raised the hammer.
“Whatever you’re looking for…”
Rachel spun and shined the light on a figure standing a few yards behind her.
He put a hand up to shield his eyes and said, “I don’t think you’re going to find it in there.”
He looked young—perhaps in his midtwenties. He was lean, stood just under six feet, and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
Rachel dropped the hammer, lifted her shirt, and put her hand on the gun, ready to draw and fire should the need arise.
“Who are you?” she asked with a shaky voice. Her heart was thundering, and the adrenaline spike was making it hard to stand still. She wanted to run for the trees.
“Take it easy,” he said, raising his hands to calm her. “My name’s Riley.”
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