“Away,” he said. “Those men nearly killed me. They were going to take out my teeth. God knows what they were going to do next.” He looked hopefully at Cynthia. “If I gave you some names, would you call some people, tell them they have to get someone else to walk their dogs?”
Cynthia said to Grace, “Who are the people who own the house you were in last night?”
“Cummings.”
Cynthia turned to Nathaniel. “You walk the Cummingses’ dog.”
“Not this week. They’re away.”
“But you know how to get in. You have a key, know the security code. Right?”
Rather than empty the bottom drawer, he turned his attention back to the closet, dropped to his knees, and grabbed shoes. “How the hell else am I going to take their dog out?”
“Was it you?” Grace asked.
“Was what me?” he said. He was on his feet now, dumping the shoes into his luggage. He zipped up another one of the bags.
“Was it you who was there last night?”
“Jesus, you sound like Vince’s flunkies. You going to start taking my teeth out?”
“Did you shoot Stuart?” Grace persisted. “Did you, you asshole?”
“This is crazy,” he said.
Grace glanced down at the case she’d been running her hand on without quite realizing it. “What’s in here?” she asked.
“Get your fucking hands off that!” he shouted. “I’m outta here.”
“What are you running from?” Cynthia asked.
“Seriously? Fucking nutjobs, that’s what.”
“Answer Grace’s question. What’s in that case?”
“Papers,” he said. “All the papers from my failed business. Legal shit. Documents. Patent stuff. Zip drives.”
“Open it.”
Nathaniel laughed. “You’re something else—you really are. No wonder your family needed a break from you.”
He knelt down again in front of the dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer. As he grabbed a bulky sweater, there was a clunking sound. The sweater had been wrapped around something large and heavy.
“What the . . . ?” Nathaniel said.
As Cynthia and Grace watched, he reached in and delicately lifted out a powder blue vase, nearly a foot high, the cover held in place with duct tape.
SIXTY-ONE
SHORTLY after Reggie had saved Jane from Joseph, Wyatt made the call to Vince about the ransom delivery. Jane could barely hear him one floor above talking to Vince, but she heard enough to know that the handoff was supposed to be in half an hour. In a cemetery.
She wondered, would Wyatt go alone? If he wanted any kind of backup, he’d have to take Reggie with him. But then they’d be leaving her in the house by herself. Logan was with Joseph at the hospital, getting the perv’s nose fixed.
So if Reggie and Wyatt both went to pick up the ransom money, she was going to have the house all to herself.
Which was exactly how things turned out.
Reggie came back downstairs to visit her.
“We’re going to meet with your stepfather. In the meantime, we’re going to have to leave you here all by your lonesome. And even though we’ve got you tied up pretty good, you’re not tied to anything, and I’m going to have to do something about that. Don’t want you wandering around the house or trying to get outside while we’re gone, do we?”
At which point Jane felt more ropes being wrapped around her torso and ankles, securing her to the chair.
“There we go,” Reggie said. “You sit tight till we get back.”
Not long after that, she heard them leave the house.
It became very quiet.
She tested the bonds that held her to the chair, and they seemed to be doing the job, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to give it her best shot to get away.
It seemed like a no-brainer that she had to try. What were the odds, really, that once they had what they wanted, they’d let Vince and her live? If you crossed Vince and wanted to live another day, what choice would you have but to kill him?
So when Reggie and Wyatt and Joseph and Logan rendezvoused back here, they’d have to kill her.
Jane needed to get the hell out.
Now.
She twisted and turned, trying to build some slack, even the tiniest bit of play, into the ropes. If she could get just one hand free, the rest would be easy. As long as she got the job done in time.
She thought about Vince, how he’d handle something like this. He was no fool. Okay, sometimes. Like maybe this whole business model of hiding money in people’s houses hadn’t turned out to be the most brilliant plan ever.
But one thing Vince did know was how people like him thought, what they were capable of. So he’d know Reggie and Co. would try to kill him, and her, once they had what they wanted.
So he’d plan for that.
He’d have Gordie and Bert in position. Hiding in the bushes, or behind a tombstone. Eldon, she figured, would be out of the picture. He’d be mourning somewhere, grieving. But Vince wouldn’t go into a meet like this without having someone watching his back.
Maybe, just maybe, he’d pull something off.
Because he loves me.
She had no doubt of that. Vince thought the world of her. It wasn’t as if he was going to tell her kidnappers to get stuffed. She couldn’t imagine a scenario in which he’d refuse to pay, even if he might not be able to give the kidnappers everything they wanted.
Jane began to cry.
Suck it up. Suck it up and get yourself out of here.
She struggled for so long that she started losing track of time. But at one point, while she was stopping to catch her breath, it occurred to her that her hosts had been gone for quite some time.
Jane was pretty sure it had been well over an hour.
She figured, ten minutes for them to get to the cemetery, ten minutes tops for the handover of the ransom, another ten to get back. That was half an hour.
Build in another fifteen minutes for traffic. Even ten minutes for Vince to be late, which didn’t seem likely.
They should have been back by now. Reggie and Wyatt. Or Vince.
Somebody.
But more than an hour—she was willing to bet it was getting closer to an hour and a half—and not a soul?
She wondered what to make of that. One way or another, someone should be coming back to this house.
To set her free, or to kill her.
They couldn’t just leave her here. If someone didn’t come eventually, and she couldn’t get herself free, well, how long could a person survive this way? A couple of days? Half a week, maybe?
What could have happened? She thought up a number of scenarios. Maybe they’d taken shots at each other. Wyatt—now there was a perfect name for a guy who’d start an Old West–style shoot-out—pulled his gun, and Vince pulled his, and everyone started firing, and everyone got hit.
It could have happened that way.
Or maybe—
What was that?
She went still, stopped breathing. Listened.
Upstairs, the sound of a door opening, and then closing.
Someone was in the house.
Please be Vince.
Please be Vince.
Please be Vince.
SIXTY-TWO
DETECTIVE Rona Wedmore left Spock to work his magic, intending to go straight back to the station to follow up on other possible leads. She’d work the phones for a while. Talk to relatives, old coworkers, friends, of both Eli Goemann and Heywood Duggan. Anyone she could find. She’d check in with Joy, see what she’d learned.
But en route, Rona decided she needed a moment.
Alone.
She pulled into the parking lot of the Carvel on Bridgeport Avenue. Went inside and bought a chocolate milk shake. Wedmore could not remember the last time she’d treated herself to a milk shake.
Rather than drink it there, she drove back downtown, grabbed a parking spot on South Broad Street al
ongside the Milford Green, left the car, and found herself a park bench under the shade of a towering tree. She took a seat and sipped her milk shake.
What was it Heywood had said to her the night before? About his client?
Basically, he was trying to get back what you were to me. He was trying to get back the love of his life.
The son of a bitch. Why’d he have to say something like that? And if he’d felt that way, why’d he have to be such a bastard?
She’d loved him, too, back when they were seeing each other. God knows, she loved the sex. Between his shifts and hers, and the fact that he was living in Stamford and she in Milford, their times together were irregular and rushed. Sometimes they’d meet at motels in Fairfield or Norwalk, slip between the sheets, have a quick drink afterward, and off they’d go, their separate ways.
But then she found out she wasn’t the only one. Snooped through his cell phone once when he slipped out of the motel to buy them some cold beer. Found e-mails.
What could she say? She was a cop. It was in her nature. He should have known better than to leave his phone there.
And then, holy smokes, the phone rang. Right in her hand. Rona had debated whether to answer. What if it was work related? What if it was something really important?
“Hello?” Rona said.
A woman: “Oh, uh, I think I must have dialed wrong.”
“You looking for Heywood?” Rona asked.
“Um, no, I don’t think so.” She hung up.
The poor bastard didn’t know what hit him when he came back with that beer. Things went south after that, despite his protests that the other girl meant nothing to him. Rona refused to see him anymore. Before long, she’d met Lamont, and the love they had for each other was the real thing, no doubt about it, even if he was never quite the lover Heywood had been. They had the church wedding, the big reception, honeymoon in Vegas, the whole deal.
Then Lamont went to Iraq and came back a shell of a man.
It was months before he even spoke. But he was doing well now. She knew he’d never forget the things he saw, but she believed he was going to be okay.
Wedmore had a long sip of her milk shake. Still icy cold. She had to be careful not to drink it too quickly. She’d get a brain freeze.
She felt herself wanting to cry.
Rona Wedmore was not going to cry sitting on a park bench in the middle of the Milford Green.
But she wanted to. For Heywood. For Lamont.
For herself.
She watched three small children run past with balloons. A woman in her eighties walking her dog. A young couple on another bench having an argument. Too far away to hear the details.
Her cell phone buzzed.
Wedmore sighed inwardly. Took another sip of her milk shake, then rested the takeout cup on one of the park bench planks. She reached into her purse, found the phone, glanced at the screen, and saw that it was work calling. She put the phone to her ear.
“Wedmore.”
“It’s me.”
Spock.
“Yeah,” she said.
“I found the car—pretty sure it’s the same one—on one of the traffic cameras. Got a clear look at the plate.”
“Give it to me. I’ll run it down.”
“Way ahead of ya. Got a name and address here if you’ve got a pencil.”
Wedmore got out her notebook.
SIXTY-THREE
TERRY
VINCE called up to me from the study of my house, where an armed Reggie was babysitting him.
“You find it?” he asked. There was something in his voice. Was it . . . mischief?
“Yes,” I said, my body blocking Wyatt’s view of the guns that had been secreted under the attic insulation. There was a hint of light filtering its way around me from the opening in the ceiling and from my phone, set to the flashlight app, which Wyatt was holding up by the rafters.
“That’s good,” Vince asked.
Reggie called up, “Is there a vase?”
I was running my hands over the contents of the box, all the guns. I was guessing at least a couple dozen.
“I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I’m still feeling around.”
“How hard can it be to tell what you’re feeling?” she shouted.
Vince, of course, had to know what I was going to find up here. I remembered what he’d said to me.
If an opportunity presented itself, take it.
What was it he wanted me to do when I found these? Come out shooting? Kill Wyatt, then Reggie?
No, that made no sense. We had to find out where Jane was, and that wasn’t going to be easy if Reggie and Wyatt were dead. As if shooting a couple of people was even within my capabilities.
As I’d told Vince, I didn’t know a lot about firearms, but I was betting these weapons were Glocks, just like the gun in the glove box of Vince’s truck.
There is no safety.
So if these guns were loaded, all one had to do was point and pull the trigger. Maybe some were loaded, and others not. Kind of like playing the Connecticut lottery.
I glanced back over my shoulder at Wyatt. Phone in one hand, gun in the other.
I said, “I need to pass you some of this stuff—you can pass it through the hole down to them.”
He’d have to take a step closer and bend down to do that. Plus, he was going to have to put away either the phone or the gun, or both.
“Hang on a sec,” he said.
He chose the phone. He slid it into the front pocket of his pants and started to crouch down.
“Christ’s sake,” I said. “I can’t see a damn thing.”
He stood up again. “Okay, fine.” The phone came back out, the flashlight app reactivated. This time, Wyatt tucked his gun into the waistband of his pants. But as he started to kneel, he realized tucking it in front was pretty uncomfortable, so he shifted it around to the side.
He knelt down, fumbling with the phone, trying to shine the light where he thought I wanted it.
I swung around, squatting on my haunches, and touched the barrel of the gun to his temple.
I whispered, “Not. One. Word.”
Wyatt took a breath.
“If you move an inch I’ll pull the trigger,” I said.
And thought, Please don’t move.
“Vince,” I called out softly.
“Yeah, Terry?”
“Could you tell Reggie that our situation has changed up here?”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“I’m guessin’,” Vince said, “the balance of power has shifted.”
“What are you talking about?” Reggie said again.
“That be fair to say, Terry?” Vince said.
“Yeah, that’s fair. I’ve got one of these Glocks pressed up against Wyatt’s head here.”
Wyatt twitched, like maybe he was thinking of going for his gun, but it would have been an awkward move for him to make, and not something he could do quickly, kneeling as he was.
Reggie said, “What? Wyatt?”
“It’s true,” he said. He’d set my phone, faceup, on the narrow side of a stud, the upward cast of light highlighting the droplets of sweat beading up on his forehead.
“How the hell’d that happen?” she asked. “Jesus! How’d he get your gun?”
“He didn’t! It was already up here.”
Vince said, “Hand your piece over, Reggie, or Wyatt’s brains become part of the insulation.”
“No! No way!” she shouted upward. “You take that gun off Wyatt, or I swear to God I’ll shoot your boss!”
Sweat was trickling down my forehead, too. A drop went into my eye and stung like the dickens. I blinked several times.
I said, “How would you like to handle this, Vince?”
Vince, directing his voice my way, said calmly, “Shoot him.”
“Wait!” Wyatt shouted. I couldn’t have been more grateful.
“No!” Reggie screamed. “I swear, if you do, I’ll shoot
him one second later. You—you get your ass down here now, you fucker, and let my husband go, or I’ll kill Vince. You think I won’t? You want to try me?”
Vince said to her, “Go ahead. Shoot me. And then my friend will kill your husband. That’s what you stand to lose. Your husband. But all my friend’ll lose is an asshole boss he’s never liked much anyway. But if you hand over your piece, I can talk my friend into not putting a hole in Wyatt’s head.”
“Reggie,” Wyatt said, trying to keep calm, “I don’t want to fucking die up here.” And then he said an interesting thing. “Babe, come on, you can’t run the tax thing without me. You need me for that.”
Like, if Reggie was going to save him, it was going to be for more than love.
I know it’s a cliché, but things really did seem to be moving in slow motion. Every second I held that gun to Wyatt’s head felt like an hour. It wasn’t as if the Glock weighed twenty pounds, but holding it with my arm extended, I was feeling the strain. And my legs, hunched down the way I was, were screaming with pain.
I was a teacher of high school English and creative writing. Holding a gun to the head of a kidnapper did not fall into my general realm of experience. Sure, things got pretty hairy seven years ago, but even then, I hadn’t found myself in a position quite like this.
“So what’s the fucking deal, then?” Reggie asked.
“I want Jane,” Vince said.
“Okay, fine, you get the little bitch back. Wyatt comes down. You get Jane. We’re square. Just give me the vase and the cash that’s up there.”
“There is no vase,” I said. “And there is no cash.”
“Look harder!” Reggie shrieked. “The vase, it doesn’t mean anything to me or you. It’s got no value. It’s my uncle’s.”
“If you’re looking for something Eli Goemann left with me,” Vince said, “it’s not up there. Never was. We stashed his stuff elsewhere. Everything there? It’s from those bikers you asked about earlier. From New Haven.”
“Then we go to where you hid Eli’s stuff,” she said. “You take us there. Then you get Jane. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“No.” Vince’s voice was very calm. “That’s not how it’s going to work. I get Jane, right now, and you two live.”
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