“Charlie Foxtrot?”
“Yeah. And if that story about the cell tower going down wasn’t just a piece of gossip passed along on the radio, communications are going to be screwed.”
“I thought Homeland Security paid to harden the emergency comm networks.”
“Oh, they did. And every police and sheriff’s department, every firehouse, every hospital, and every ambulance will be trying to use the same network at the same time.”
“Oh, God.” Clare thought of some of the communications snafus she’d experienced in Iraq. Once you couldn’t move troops on the ground or talk to your people—“We’re screwed.”
As if to underline her conclusion, there was another ear-splitting boom from their left. She had just enough time to register the high-pitched whistle of a thousand pine needles whipping through the air when it was cut off by crunching and clattering and shattering glass.
She waded across the road toward the sound, Oscar gamely plowing through the crusted snow beside her.
“Clare, be careful,” Russ called.
She only had to go to the lip of the road to see what had happened. Another huge white pine had toppled over, this time square onto the roof of a modern redwood-and-glass house. Thirty seconds ago, it had been someone’s expensive vacation home. Now it was a disaster site. If anyone had been in there …
She turned and waded her way back to the tire track. She envisioned their little cabin. Their safety. Their refuge. Surrounded on three sides by woods. They were in a conservation area. The trees were old, well protected. Very large.
“We don’t have a cellar, do we?” She bit her lip.
“No.”
“The cabin’s not going to be any safer than driving through the woods, is it?”
“No.”
“We’re not just going to be able to sit tight and wait to be rescued, are we?”
“No.”
She nodded. Pressed a mittened hand against the side of her belly. I’m sorry I brought you here, baby. I’ve been a pretty crappy mother all the way around, and you haven’t even been born yet. “Okay then.” Up ahead, she saw the now-familiar shape of their mailbox. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.
6.
Hadley used her phone to contact the deputy chief on the drive home. There was no way she and Flynn were going to use the radio after what the FBI agents had told them about the conveniently dying witness in the last Lamar case.
“Johnson agreed to testify,” Tom O’Day had said. “We figured since he was living quietly upstate in East Jesus—”
“Fort Henry,” Flynn said.
The agent tilted his head, conceding the point. “As you say. It was far enough away that we thought if we kept his identity locked down, it would be more effective than spotty police protection.”
“Why wasn’t the MKPD notified of this?” Hadley asked. “It’s our jurisdiction.”
“Only the attorneys working the case in the attorney general’s office knew. No one was notified.” Marie O’Day tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind one ear. “You understand the need for security.”
“Everything seemed to be fine,” her husband said. “Then, a week after Mr. Johnson had contacted us, Annie Johnson drove her car into a light pole.”
Hadley tapped one finger on the desk. “Don’t forget her daughter. Who was inside the car as well.”
Flynn frowned. “Are you saying that wasn’t an accident?”
Tom O’Day shrugged. “Maybe it was. Maybe LaMar got word that there was a witness and targeted the wrong Johnson.”
Hadley didn’t ask how a man locked up in Fishkill could be finding out witnesses’ identities and ordering hits. She had worked in the California DOC for a couple of years, and she knew the only currency more valuable than drugs inside was information.
“When the little girl got out of the hospital, we pulled a few strings at CFS and got her fostered with a retired federal agent and his wife.”
“The MacAllens?”
The tall agent nodded. “Yes. CFS agreed to supervise visits with the family. Her school was notified there was a danger of a noncustodial relative snatching her. Since the mother was up on child endangerment charges, it was an easy sell. The number of people who knew where she was living was extremely small. The idea was to make her secure without being obvious about it.”
“Like you did with Lewis Johnson,” Flynn said.
“Right.”
Hadley turned to Flynn. “Why didn’t Mr. Johnson mention any of this to us?”
Flynn frowned. When he spoke, his voice was grim. “Maybe because whoever took Mikayla got to him first.”
Now she was on the line with Lyle MacAuley, trying to bring him up to date as the connection dropped in and out. “So we need phone records,” she said for the third time. “We need to know who’s been calling Lewis Johnson.”
“Noble’s out at Powell’s Corners with a four-car pileup. I’ll see if—” MacAuley’s voice blurred into static.
“Goddammit.” She held her phone away from her and squinted at the bars. “Why am I not getting a signal?”
“Cell towers might be overloading.” Flynn was leaning forward slightly in his seat, as if getting closer to the windshield would enable him to better see the icy road. “Or they’re out of juice. Power goes out, generator fails, good-bye cell signals.” The ice was accumulating on the wipers now, leaving streaks of granular white across their view.
“—anything out.” MacAuley’s voice was barely audible over the roar of the hot air from the vents.
Hadley put the phone back to her ear. “Come back on that?”
“I said, let’s not be too quick to rule anything out. I don’t want you ignoring other possibilities just because—” The phone fell silent again.
Hadley slapped it shut. “I can’t believe this.” She looked out her window. In the distance, she could see a stretch of power lines, the cables sagging close to the ground, the poles teetering toward one another. She knew Granddad had probably lived through hundreds of ice storms in his life, but she still didn’t like the idea of him and the children alone. “How long do you think it’ll take us to get back?”
“Another three hours, easy.”
“Oh my God.” She banged her head against the seat. “We’re going to waste an entire day because those jerks didn’t call us with their story as soon as they saw Mikayla’s name on the AMBER Alert. Feds. Making their case so they can rise to special agent in charge is more important than saving a life. Meanwhile, God knows what that poor girl’s going through.”
“Maybe they were right. When they said whoever took her might have brought the medicine.”
“Oh, sure. Because enforcers for drug gangs are always so health conscious. Maybe they packed her special blankie and some nutritious snacks, too.”
“Hey.” Flynn’s voice was gentle. “I’m not the enemy here.”
She grunted. They drove without speaking for several miles, the roar of the overworked blower and the dull chatter of call after call after call on the radio filling the space between them.
“There’s another one,” Flynn said. Ahead of them, she could see a whirl of red and blue lights at the side of the road, cop cars and emergency vehicles. They crept past the accident in a line of vehicles, the orange-jacketed state trooper giving them a wave as they went by.
“I’m worried about my kids,” she admitted.
“School’s canceled, right? Aren’t they at home with your grandfather? The worst that could happen is they lose power for a few hours and have to play board games instead of watch TV.”
“I guess.”
“Or are you worried your ex will try to take them to his hotel again?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” The threat hanging over her head and the terrible sense of time running out for Mikayla Johnson had coalesced into a lump of anxiety stuck at the bottom of her throat. “Maybe we should send a car to Mr. Johnson’s house. Bring him in for safekeeping.”
<
br /> Flynn shook his head without taking his attention from the road. “If he has been contacted, he’s undoubtedly been told to stay away from law enforcement. We’re better off keeping it on the down low as much as we can. At least for now.”
She thought about that for a few seconds. “Maybe we should change into our civvies before we go see him, then. Use your Aztek instead of one of the Crown Vics.”
He flashed her a look. “That’s not a bad idea.”
She snorted a laugh. “Don’t sound so surprised, Flynn.” She stretched her booted feet out and flexed. “Maybe we’ll get lucky. Maybe he knows where she is and didn’t tell us because he was afraid she’d get hurt. Then all we have to do is swoop in, rescue the girl, and go home and watch this storm blow over.”
“Yeah,” Flynn said doubtfully. “That would be nice.”
7.
Rest. Ice. Compression. Elevation. The holy quartet of first aid. Russ and Clare got Bob Mongue up on the bed as gently as they could. Clare stepped outside and came back with a dish towel full of ice chunks while Russ scissored away the sides of Bob’s uniform pants.
When he exposed the break, he was almost relieved. Bob’s leg was swollen and mottled with plum-colored bruises the size of Russ’s hands, but the bone hadn’t pierced the surface, so they didn’t have to deal with controlling bleeding or the risk of infection. On the other hand, there was no telling what sort of damage there was inside the leg.
They piled bed and sofa pillows into a ramp shape and together lifted Bob’s legs into place. Clare carefully laid the improvised ice bag over the break and then fed him four Tylenol. “I don’t know if more is better,” she admitted after they had retreated to the kitchen area, “but let’s give it a try.”
Russ jammed his hand in his hair. There ought to be more they could do. “I wish we had some alcohol in the house.”
“I could definitely use a drink right now,” Clare said.
He almost laughed. “At least we can say our honeymoon was even more exciting than we had hoped it would be.”
She pulled the kettle off the shelf and unscrewed the cap from one of the water jugs. “I keep wishing I could rewind the past few days and make them not have happened.”
Russ snorted. “I keep wishing I could rewind the past few months and make them not have happened.”
“Oh.” Clare poured the water into the kettle without looking at him.
Oh, shit. “I mean—God, not the marrying-you part. Not—”
She glanced at him, and in her eyes he saw a world of hurt. She put down the water jug. “I need to get more wood for the stove.”
“Clare, I didn’t mean it like that. Clare—” But she was out the door, without even stopping to take her parka. “Goddammit.” He lunged for the door handle.
“Better leave her for now.” Bob’s voice was thin, but not pain-racked as it had been during their hike back to the cabin.
“Oh, for chrissakes. What are you, eavesdropping?”
“I broke my leg, not my ears.”
“Yeah, well…” Russ turned to check on the other cop. Bob’s face had regained its normal color, and he had stopped shaking. Maybe Clare’s ministrations had done the trick. Or maybe it was letting the poor bastard lie still instead of jouncing him all over the road.
“I hope your people skills are better with your officers than with your wife.”
Russ crossed the floor to look out the window. If he pressed his cheek against the cold glass, he could just see Clare out by the woodpile. “My people skills are fine.” She hurled a split log into the carrier with so much force it bounced out again.
“You’ve been married, what, half a year?”
“Three months.” And then, for no reason he could think of, he added, “Three months at the end of next week.”
There was a pause. Russ could feel Mongue comparing the time to Clare’s obvious pregnancy. “And you told her you’d like to make the last few months not have happened. Jesus, Van Alstyne, you’re a bigger idiot than I took you for.”
“Did I ask for your opinion?”
“What, you think you weren’t an idiot right now?”
Russ turned around again, ready to rip Mongue a new one, but he deflated at the sight of the man’s injury. Christ, that’s all he needed, to harangue a guy who was lying there with his leg in two pieces. “You don’t understand,” he said.
“I understand she’s a new bride, she’s got a baby on the way—and I’m thinking this is the first time for both of those for her, right?”
Russ grunted.
“Now she’s stuck out here in a complete shitstorm of bad, on what was supposed to be her honeymoon, probably scared out of her mind, and you tell her—”
Russ raised his hand. “You’re right. You’re right. I need to apologize.”
“You need to figure out why you’d say a dumb-ass thing like that and fix it, that’s what you need to do.”
“Do you do marriage counseling professionally? Or is it just a hobby?”
“Did she turn all moody and weepy once she got pregnant? You know that’s temporary, right? You can’t ask a woman to have your kid for you and then sulk because she’s not the fun-loving—”
“I didn’t ask her to have a kid, all right? I didn’t want this, and now I’m stuck with it, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” He turned away from the window and stalked toward where Mongue lay. Talking about it felt like he was ripping a bandage off an unhealed wound. “We had an agreement. No kids. Then she gets pregnant because she screwed up her pills and suddenly I’m supposed to be all happy that I’m going to become a father.” His voice was getting louder and louder. “I’m fifty-three years old! I finally, finally had my life exactly the way I wanted it and now it’s all upended again. I’m tired of having my feet knocked out from under me. Which is what’s been happening since the day I met her.”
A loud thunk shut him up. The sound of the full log carrier being dropped on the floor. Russ spun around. Too late, he felt the wave of cold air as the kitchen door swung shut. Clare knelt in front of the woodstove, her face set and white. She opened the door and began loading the woodbox. “Clare—” he began.
She held up one hand, still not looking at him. “Lieutenant Mongue, do you think you could drink some chicken broth if I made it? Or tea?”
“Yes, ma’am, I could.”
Russ could almost hear the undercurrent in Mongue’s tone. You dickhead.
Oh, God. He hadn’t said word one about all this except to Clare. And that had only been at the beginning, when he still thought he might have a chance of getting her to change her mind. Since then, he’d kept his damn mouth shut. No one, no one knew how he felt. Hell, even he hadn’t known how he felt until it all came roaring out of him. And to Bob-freaking-Mongue of all people. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him? “Clare—” he began again.
“Don’t. Just don’t.” She got herself up off the floor and went to the cupboard. “We’ve got to figure out how we’re getting out of here.” She took down a box of instant soup. “We have to figure out if we’re bringing Lieutenant Mongue with us or if we’re leaving him in the cabin.” She tore open a packet and dumped it into a large mug. “And most importantly, we have to figure out what we’re going to do about the man who may have taken Mikayla Johnson.” She finally looked at him. “It’s not like you haven’t made your feelings plain before this.”
She turned away from him to wrap the edge of a dish towel around the kettle’s handle. He would have thought she was as cool and controlled as her voice, except he saw her hand shaking. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine.” She poured the heated water into the mug. “Lieutenant Mongue? If you’re feeling up to it, we need to discuss strategy.”
8.
Lyle MacAuley was pissed off. He was pissed at Russ for leaving him shorthanded during what the radio was calling “the ice storm of the century.” He was pissed that his call to the stat
e police had obviously been tossed in the circular bin. He was pissed that two of his officers were out of commission for half a day because a couple assholes down in Albany didn’t know how to share nice with the other kids. And he was really pissed with Jonathan Davies.
For a guy who casually left a credit card trail to a pedophile’s bolt-hole, he was hard to track down. No phone number, not on the tax rolls anywhere, a driver’s license with an address that turned out to be a Methodist church. No arrest record.
It was Eric who finally found Davies’s Albany apartment. He had gone on about lifestyle marketing lists and the crime database subscription and Google search, making Lyle wish it was still 1972, when you could just go out and lean on a guy until he told you what you wanted to know.
“Give me the short strokes. How did you find him?”
Eric grinned. “He gets his college alumni magazine delivered to his place.”
Lyle slapped him on the shoulder. “Good job.” He tried to phone his contact at the Albany cop shop, but he couldn’t get through, not on the landline, not on his cell, which flashed him a NOT PERMITTED screen instead of Vince Patten’s number. He passed a message through the dispatcher for Patten to meet him and headed for the Northway, cursing the weather every mile between Millers Kill and Albany.
Davies’s apartment was in one of the grand old buildings that had gotten gentrified up the wazoo in the nineties. Patten was waiting for him right in front, his swarthy complexion and fur-collared coat making him look like a retired mafioso who had gotten lost on the way to Miami. His unmarked was the only car on what should have been a crowded street.
“Parking emergency, Vince?” Lyle gestured at the long line of empty spaces.
“Yep. Everyone else is in one of the municipal garages. Nice not to have to circle the block looking for a space, hah?”
“Until a plow comes through and totals your vehicle.”
“Always looking on the dark side, Lyle.” Patten held the building’s carved door open. “That’s what I love about you.” The lobby was tiny but ornate, busy with plaster moldings and gilt and a tiled floor with an elaborate pattern that was almost invisible beneath a layer of winter grime. Patten stabbed the elevator button. The doors opened and they got in. “When you gonna leave that Podunk force up in Mayberry and come back to work at a real police department?”
Through the Evil Days: A Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne Mystery (Clare Fergusson and Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries) Page 19