House of Secrets - v4

by Richard Hawke

  She turned around and started back over to the garden. Megan followed. Some fifty feet or so past the garden, past a decaying trestle long ago captured by vines and weeds, stood a small barn sharing the property’s general sense of neglect.

  They stopped at the near corner of the garden. The woman had been pounding a long wooden stake into the ground with a rubber mallet. A metal hook was screwed into the stake, near the top. She picked the mallet up off the ground and handed it to Megan.

  “Here. See if you can sink it a little farther.”

  Compliance seemed to be the currency, so Megan humored her. Her angle was a lot less effective than the considerably taller woman’s, and she had the feeling that Doris Smallwood was having her wield the mallet primarily to emphasize the fact. Megan pitched upward on her toes and landed the mallet solidly several times on top of the stake. The ground was moist from the recent rain, and the stake sank obediently. Doris Smallwood tested the spike and made a satisfied sound.

  Megan lowered the mallet. “Mrs. Smallwood, this is official police business I’m on here. I’d really like us to go inside now, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course,” the older woman said. “The name was Land?”

  “Lamb.”

  “Right. Baby sheep. Well, come on.”

  Whether the inside of the house looked like it was in the state of fading away or of resurrection from an era of neglect would depend on the mind of the observer. Megan leaned toward the former, if only because her assessment of the owner fell in that direction as well. With some silver and brass and wood polish and an astute eye, an antiques dealer could have seen a mother lode in the stuff that was crammed in the front room alone. A fifteen-foot-long, rough-hewn wooden dinner table sat in the middle of the floor. Doris Smallwood asserted that the table had originally come from an Italian monastery, circa the late 1700s.

  “You could fit eighteen bald men around that piece,” she said, cutting loose a husky laugh. She pointed to the table’s claw feet.

  “I used to be your basic domestic slave. When the children were in their teens I went on strike. One day I got down on the floor and gave those claws a layer of red toe polish and I gave it a full two weeks to see if anyone noticed. Not a soul said anything. That’s when I started my strike. If that’s how much attention people were paying to my work around this place, I was wasting my valuable time.”

  “How long did the strike last?” Megan suspected she knew the answer already.

  “It’s still on.” There was a touch of pride in the answer. “My husband’s dead. My son’s dead. My other children don’t come visit. I’ve only got to please myself now, and it turns out I just don’t care. As far as I’m concerned, I’d be happy to just lie down next to the squash and beans one day and sink on down into the ground.”

  The Louis XIV chair that Megan lowered herself onto tried to throw her to the ground. An unmoored spring pushed at the faded upholstery just under Megan’s thigh. Doris Smallwood settled into the colonial rocking chair. It creaked. Or the floor creaked. Something creaked. She threw Megan her hardest look yet.

  “What exactly are you accusing my grandson of?”

  “I told you. We’re trying to find Senator Foster’s daughter.”

  “What does Robbie have to do with that?”

  “Mrs. Smallwood, are you aware that a Suffolk County detective and an agent with the FBI were shot to death on the doorstep of your family’s house on Shelter Island?”

  The woman did not answer immediately. Her eyes remained on Megan as she rocked forward to pick up a wooden ruler from the floor and used it to reach an area in the middle of her back.

  “I don’t watch the news,” she said curtly.

  “The evidence is very strong that your grandson is responsible for those murders.” Megan decided to leave out the presumption of Robert Smallwood’s culpability in the killing of his cousin.

  “That’s a ridiculous accusation.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not. The point is, your grandson is very sick. A woman was also killed in connection with the abduction of Michelle Foster.”

  “I see. So now Robbie is shooting anything that moves?”

  “In fact, that victim had her throat slit. Have you spoken with Robbie recently?”

  “Why would he do any of this?” she demanded. “You don’t know Robbie. He’s a kind, moral man. He’s got higher standards than most of the people you know.”

  “He needs help.”

  “Oh. He needs help? Is that what you’re here for? You’re trying to locate Robbie so you can get him some help? You’ll have to excuse me, but I don’t buy that. I don’t know where Robbie is, but if I did, I’d give him that car out there and tell him to drive it to Mexico.”

  “Your grandson has a—”

  The woman wasn’t finished. “Are you even aware of the life that boy has led? I’m telling you, he’s a sweet young harmless man. His mother turned out to be nothing more or less than a whore, and his father had all the backbone of a jellyfish.”

  “Robert killed his parents,” Megan said.

  “Jesus Christ!” The ruler rattled to the floor as Doris Smallwood pushed herself up from the rocking chair. For a moment Megan feared she was about to be attacked by the old woman. “He did not kill anyone! Ray killed that slut, and then he killed himself, useless coward that he was. What are you trying to do, pin every last thing on that poor boy? I want you out of here! This instant!”

  Megan held her ground. “You need to hear this. Something sets your grandson off. His best friend from high school died the exact same way as his mother. In the bathtub with a bullet to the heart. And just like with your daughter-in-law, the man’s partner also wound up dead on the bathroom floor. It was made to look like a murder-suicide.”

  The elderly woman’s face was crimson. “You give me that gun on your hip, young lady, and I’ll show you murder-suicide right now! You are trespassing on my property. I want you back in that car and out of here by the count of ten!”

  Megan rose from the chair with deliberate slowness.

  “We’re going to ignore that threat to a law enforcement official,” Megan said evenly.

  “Pig!”

  “It wasn’t my intention to upset you. I just want to repeat, your grandson is extremely dangerous. He’s—”

  “Get out!”

  Megan produced one of her cards and set it down on the table.

  “If Robert contacts you, please be smart about it. If you can find out where he is, you’ll be doing him a huge favor by letting us know. Call me. I promise you, he will not be harmed. You have to remember, there is a child involved here.”

  Doris Smallwood was finished with conversation. She remained standing in front of the rocking chair, glaring. Megan passed through the door and into the mudroom.

  As Megan passed the garage and turned to see over her shoulder if the old woman had moved to one of the windows to watch, her attention was snagged by a pair of tire tracks in the puddled mud in front of the garage door. Doris Smallwood’s Plymouth was parked off to the side some ten to fifteen feet from the garage. The paneled wood of the garage door was set off the ground by no more than a few inches, and it was clear that the muddy tire tracks continued on under the door and into the garage. Megan noted that none of the Plymouth’s tires showed signs of mud on their treads.

  Checking again to see if she was being spied on — she wasn’t — Megan slipped quickly to the far side of the garage, where she couldn’t be seen from inside the house. She continued along to the back of the garage, where there was a door that sat slightly crooked on its hinges. She tried the handle. It was unlocked.

  Stale air met her as she slipped into the garage. It was dark inside. She nearly collided with a large rusted coil of garden fencing just inside the door.

  A car was parked in the garage. Megan snatched the pen from her pocket and crouched down in front of the car to scribble the license plate number down on her hand. They were New York plat
es, set to expire the following January.

  “Hey!” The harsh voice sounded from the direction of the house. “Where are you?”

  Megan backed swiftly out of the garage, still in her crouch. She heard the heavy sound of Doris Smallwood coming down off the steps onto the grass.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  Looking about, Megan spotted a flash of yellow off near the far rear corner of the vegetable garden. Remaining in her crouch, she crab-walked swiftly across the grass. The garage remained between her and the side of the house. As she neared the stake that she had earlier pounded into the ground, Megan swept her hand down and grabbed the rubber mallet. She continued on to the other corner of the garden, and picked up the stake that was lying in the grass and poised the sharp point of it on the ground. As Doris Smallwood appeared from around the garage, Megan was already pounding away at the stake.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Megan lowered the mallet. “Oh, I thought I’d help out a little more before I go. Just trying to salvage the reputation of the NYPD.”

  She picked up the beetle trap and hung it deftly on the hook. Doris Smallwood remained where she was, with her hands on her hips.

  “Are you done now?”

  Megan released the mallet and started for her car, conveniently keeping the garden between her and the old woman.

  “You should try to chill out, Mrs. Smallwood,” Megan said as she reached the car. “It’s just a little friendliness. It won’t kill you.”

  She got back into the car and backed out of the driveway. Doris Smallwood remained planted to the ground.

  Back on the road, Megan called in the license plate number, putting a top priority on it. As soon as she had rounded a curve and was out of sight of the old lady’s driveway, she pulled over and killed the engine.

  Her imagination ate up the minutes. Primarily, she envisioned the car in Doris Smallwood’s garage springing out of the driveway at full getaway speed.

  The radio finally crackled. Megan jerked in her seat.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “The vehicle is registered to a Holly McGregor. The address is 282 New York Avenue in Huntington, Long Island. A Kia Sephia. Black four-door. Flagged here as a 411.”

  “What’s the date on that?”

  The answer came back.

  “That’s yesterday,” Megan said.

  “Correct.”

  Megan closed her eyes. Her heart slammed hard against her rib cage. “Very good,” she said evenly into her transmitter. “Get Captain Bell on the line here.”

  “I believe Captain Bell is—”

  “I don’t care if he’s making love with the queen of Kashmir, get him on the line. Now!”

  It was the embrace that did Christine in.

  Chris Wyeth stood in the doorway, looking relaxed, wearing a black sweater over a white T-shirt, along with a pair of slightly faded jeans and white Converse sneakers, no socks. Upon seeing the two women he broke into a warm, welcoming grin.

  “Girls.”

  Christine remained frozen, flat-footed, as Lillian stepped up into the doorway. The two old friends came together like a set of tumblers within a lock. They held the embrace five… ten… however many seconds. Christine saw the cool act collapse and a shudder pass through Chris Wyeth’s body. Tears appeared in his eyes. It wasn’t until Lillian’s body jerked slightly and she sounded a deep sob that Christine’s heart kicked in.

  My God, she thought, this is my mother and my father.

  Putnam County Police and New York State Police coordinated beautifully. Within forty minutes of Megan’s conversation with Malcolm Bell, the intersections of all secondary roads and lanes within a six-mile radius of Doris Smallwood’s property, including the Bear Mountain Bridge south of Garrison, had been manned. All officers had a full description of the black Kia and its likely driver. On Megan’s heads-up, the same information concerning the cantankerous woman’s Plymouth was also transmitted. Train traffic, both northbound and southbound, had been suspended and Routes 9 and 9D leading into and out of Garrison had been sealed off to unauthorized traffic. The process was overkill, of course. There was only the single driveway available for a vehicle to exit the Smallwood property, and Megan’s eyes were locked on it. But the matter concerned a United States senator’s — and possibly imminent vice president’s — daughter, as well as a fallen federal agent. There could be no precaution sufficient to qualify as overkill.

  Outside the arts center in Garrison, three federal SWAT units were gathered, their members poring over topographic maps of the area. The Smallwood house was marked with a red O. The small barn behind the house was awarded the X. The red light on a black metal box in the command van began to blink, and several seconds later a dozen satellite photos called up from the previous winter’s area mapping began to emerge soundlessly from the brushed nickel slot on top of the equipment. The barn, the house, the patch of earth designating Doris Smallwood’s vegetable garden, even a semblance of the weed-choked trellis, all were clearly visible in the satellite shots. The photographs came out in duplicate. Each pair was numbered and one copy of each was circulated to the leaders of the various SWAT teams. The duplicate copies were pushpinned to a large corkboard, which had been secured to an aluminum tripod.

  Those who worked in Garrison’s small mercantile strip adjacent to the train station — not to mention anyone who happened to have found themselves in the area when the SWAT units moved in — were effectively being held against their will by U.S. government order. William Pierce, the FBI director, along with the top officials at the Justice Department, was present via secure radio transmission. An argument between FBI and Justice over the use of helicopters in the opening phase of the operation had inadvertently been broadcast over external speakers from the command van until the belated flipping of the mute switch.

  The coordination all sorted out, dispersal began. Camo-clad SWAT team members piled into the four vehicles taking them to their drop-off points. As the vehicles headed off, a blue step van arrived carrying twenty-five plain pizzas and two cases of bottled water — compensation for the civilians who were being detained on-site for the duration of the operation.

  Agent Brian Armstrong cadged a slice before getting into his vehicle, folding it neatly lengthwise as he slipped behind the wheel. Before biting into the pizza he picked up his transmitter and flicked a pair of switches on the radio.

  “Do you want a slice of pizza, Detective?”

  The radio crackled, then the voice of Detective Lamb sounded. “Are you kidding?”

  “Just checking,” Armstrong said, chuckling. “I’ll be there in eight minutes.”

  “Roger that,” Megan radioed. “I’m timing you.”

  Christine’s head was in her hands. She was addressing her father, her real father, but at that precise moment she could only manage to direct her words to the floor.

  “So… Michelle is your granddaughter. This whole thing… I’m sorry, this has me in serious circles.”

  Christine found the room they were in intimidating. It felt vast. The ceiling was too high, the oak walls were too dark, the wine-colored floor-to-ceiling draperies were too much fabric; it felt like a room more comfortably inhabited by giants. The cavernous fireplace sealed the deal, being constructed of the same rough-hewn stone as the house itself and practically the size of a small car.

  Christine and Lillian were seated together on the couch, while Wyeth occupied a chair opposite them. His elbows were on his knees and his hands hung loosely, one of them dangling a bottle of beer by its neck.

  “Nobody is proud of what happened, Chrissie. And I hope you know that your mother’s not to blame. You’re not to lay any of this on her. I’m the culprit in this show. If you need someone to get angry with, get angry with me.

  “The important thing is, I want you to know that the FBI is doing everything in its power to locate Michelle and get her safely back to you. Trust me on this. You and Andy have the resource
s of the entire United States government at your disposal on this.”

  Christine raised her head from her hands and glanced up at the dark beams of the distant ceiling. It wouldn’t have completely surprised her to see a cloud of bats swooping down from the shadowy corners. “I have a question.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Lillian tells me that you were the one who told… who told Whitney about Peter.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But you must have known what that would do to him. Why did you tell him? Why then? Everyone knew he was leaving the governorship to make his run for the White House. Were you purposefully blindsiding his candidacy? Was that it? Did you threaten to go public about Peter?” She turned to her mother. “Please tell me that’s not what the two of you were doing.”

  Her voice had risen sharply, but her words dispersed swiftly. Lillian remained silent. Wyeth answered.

  “That’s exactly what happened,” he said simply. “But it wasn’t your mother. It was my call.”

  “But… why? Whitney had been your mentor. All those years he helped you so much and you pay him back like that?”

  “It was necessary.”

  “No! What was necessary? Stabbing him in the back?” She shot a look at her mother. “Again?”

  Wyeth snapped, “Leave her out of it!”

  “Oh, I don’t think so! She’s smack-dab in the middle of the whole fucking mess!”

  Wyeth’s beer bottle sounded like a gunshot as it hit the stone floor. Glass and foam everywhere. Wyeth was on his feet. His finger stabbed in the direction of Christine’s face.

  “You listen to me. Whitney Hoyt is a dangerous man. I’m telling you, his sense of entitlement and his disdain for civil liberties wherever and whenever they cross his own notion of what’s necessary to shape this country… Chrissie, it’s not enough just to say that ice runs in that man’s veins. For Christ’s sake, you grew up in his household. You should know. Look how he treated your brother. And your mother! Whitney doesn’t just identify enemies, he delights in undoing them. A Hoyt administration would have been an administration of witch hunts and hate mongering. The man is like a Caesar. He believes completely in centralized power, and all the better if he’s the one at the center. Whitney disdains people. He doesn’t think there are enough intelligent people around to run a church bazaar, let alone an entire country. You might think I’m joking, but I’m not. Whitney scared the hell out of me. So yes, dropping the truth on him about Peter was as hard a blow as I could have possibly landed. It was completely tactical. Of course, I had no guarantee that he could be stopped politically. But you better believe I made it clear just how savagely I would spin the information.”