"Hi. Come inside for a drink."
"I only have a few minutes, Anne. I have to go to New York on business."
"Come up and sit for a minute then."
When they reached the chairs and sat, Anne said, "I'm sorry I was so nasty in the hospital."
"Nasty? You weren't nasty but you were right; I had no business tackling Davidson. I was so worried about you."
He reached over and took Anne's hand. "I'd like us to see more of each other. I hope that is still okay with you?"
"Very okay."
Thomas glanced at his watch and stood up.
"I have to go. I'll call you from New York."
"I'll be out for a while this evening."
Remembering not to ask where, Thomas kissed her, strode down to his car, folded himself into the front seat and drove away.
Chapter Fifteen
Adam found a file marked Bassett on his desk in the morning. Brad had been busy. The car in the lake was wiped clean of prints, but he found one thumbprint on the underside of the trunk lid. Not enough to be definitive but a good match for Bassett. With Jamie's evidence, enough to bring Bassett in.
Responding solo was not Adam's style, not anymore. Years ago a bullet in his leg put him out for six months. With backup was how he played it now.
"No lights, no sirens. Pull up out on the road first. If Bassett sees us, he may run. I don't want the wife and kids in the way."
Bassett's big semi cab was missing.
"Okay, turn into the lane, Pete. Brad," he called to the car behind, "follow us in but stay back with the vehicle."
"In or out?"
"Out."
No dog. Strange, Adam thought. Last time, the dog, a German Shepherd cross chained out by the Quonset hut, never shut up.
"Think he's taken off, boss?"
"Looks like it, but be careful. I'll do the door. You watch the back."
Adam waited until Pete reached the corner of the house, and then he pounded on the front door, standing well to the side.
"Mrs. Bassett. Adam Davidson, Culver Police. I'd like to talk to you."
Silence again. Dog's not inside, he thought. No boys either. They weren't at school. He'd checked before coming out.
"Mrs. Bassett, are you all right?"
The inside door stood open. A small foyer, crowded with sports equipment, opened into a hall that led straight through to the back door. A figure appeared against the light. Mrs. Bassett, but moving slowly. She was injured, he thought. What was her first name? Nora.
"I'm coming to help you, Nora. Is he here?"
"No," the faint voice came. "No."
Her bruised left eye was swollen shut. Blood trailed down her face from a split in the skin overlying her cheekbone. More blood oozed from her upper lip over a deformed lower jaw. She collapsed into him as he came up to her.
"Brad, call an ambulance," he said into his shoulder radio.
When she spoke, Adam could see missing and broken teeth.
"My boys," she whispered. "He took my boys."
"Where did he go, Nora? We'll go after him."
"I don't know," her voice trailed off as she drifted into unconsciousness.
"Nora, Nora, wake up. Talk to me."
Her eyes flickered. "So tired. Maybe the cabin, beyond Tyrone, on Bass Lake. He has a gun."
She left him again.
"Brad, APB on the semi. A man and two boys. Maybe towards Tyrone. Armed and very dangerous."
A faint pulse still flickered at her wrist, but her breathing was irregular as the paramedics reached her. Adam had watched this procedure many times but rarely felt the cold anger that flooded him now. Anger towards Bassett, yes, but not a little toward the pale figure on the stretcher. They were bagging her now. Why hadn't she come with him when he was out here before? It had been a matter of time with a guy like Bassett.
"She's bad," said the paramedic as they left. "Is there any family other than the guy who did this?"
"A daughter. She's sixteen. Two young boys."
"Tough."
He had attacked her in her kitchen. The overturned chairs, broken dishes, the table pushed back against the sink, a hank of bloody hair lying on the floor—Nora fought back this time. The phone dangled off the wall. He punched redial and got the 911 operator. Someone tried, maybe one of the sons.
"Davidson, Culver police. Did you take a call from this number?"
"Yes, but the father said it was a kid, pranking."
"Now it's a woman, dying. I'll be in touch."
He dialed Ada Warren.
"Ada, Adam Davidson. Do you have Chrissy home today?"
"No, she's at school. What's happened?"
"Her mom's badly hurt. Can you take Chrissy to the hospital? I'm going after the dad. He won't be there."
"Yes, I will. Did he do it?"
"Yes."
Chapter Sixteen
The small village of Tyrone lay fifty miles east and north towards Canada. A lake bordered the road that ran through the village. Two trailer parks, one more upscale and permanent than the other, a museum set back in lovely gardens, a restaurant and a gas station along with a church and a street of well-kept homes comprised the whole place. Adam stopped at the four corners and talked to the man at the pumps.
"Yeah, Bassett, that s.o.b. He came through here about three hours ago, driving the cab from his big rig. He took out the corner when he left," he said, pointing to a battered retaining wall.
"Which way?"
"Turned left. His place is on the lake. Go up three miles and turn right. After that, I don't know exactly."
"Thanks."
On the way, Adam called the sheriff of the county, Prescott Jones, a classmate of Adam at the Academy ten years before. He would send some men.
After they left the main highway, they had to slow to a crawl. Calling it a road was a stretch, Adam thought. Broken and fallen branches marked the passage of the semi. A white, shattered trunk marked the turn into what Adam assumed was the lane into the cabin.
"We taking the cruiser in?" Pete asked.
"Not too far."
The boys were the problem. Would Bassett use his sons as hostages or kill them and himself, or give up? He was a belligerent drunk and wife-beater.
"What about this guy, Pete? Will he give up?"
"Depends. We've had to tie him down to throw him in the drunk tank. He goes ballistic. If he's sober, I don't know."
"The daughter said he gave everything to "his boys". Maybe he'll give up to save them."
"I'd bet he'd use them to try and save himself. He's a real son of a bitch."
Inside the cabin, the level in the bottle was getting lower. The two boys, familiar with their dad when he was drinking, sat as far away as possible and kept as quiet as possible. The dog huddled close to them. He knew too.
Mike whispered to Kyle, "Mom was hurt bad."
"Shush, he'll hear you."
"I'm scared. I want to go home."
"Don't cry. He might start on us. There's no one left but us."
"What if Mom is dead?"
Mike muffled his sobs with his jacket sleeve.
"Shut up, you brats. I'm trying to think," he shouted at the boys, and muttered on to himself, "That fucking bitch. How did he get into this? Easy money, she said. No problem. In and out. Now it's murder."
He reached to fill his glass up again. Empty. The bottle bounced off the door and onto the floor.
The boys huddled closer. Now he was out of liquor. If he went to buy more, they could run away, thought Kyle. He could find his way to town; he knew he could.
Bassett shook his bovine head. His small eyes reddened. At that moment Adam called him through his bullhorn.
"Bassett. Davidson from Culver's Mills police. I know you're in there. Let the boys out. No one else has to get hurt today."
"Fuck off, cop."
Bassett's shotgun smashed the window and pointed at the sound. Adam had strung a microphone wire from the horn to where he and Pe
te sheltered behind an outcropping of rock.
"Your wife's hurt bad. I need to take the boys to her."
A blast from the shotgun echoed through the trees as it shattered the windshield of the cruiser.
"Let the boys out, Bassett."
"No, they're mine. They're staying with me."
Another blast.
"He's lost it, Adam," said Pete.
"This is how he gets."
"How long does he take to sober up?"
"A day. If we wait him out, he loses the rage and starts crying, real remorseful."
"How long does this stage last?"
"Couple, three hours."
"Too long. We need to get the boys out. Check if there's a back way in. Circle wide."
Adam used his cell to call the sheriff and tell him it was now a hostage situation.
Pete doubled back past the cruiser and went to the right through the trees. Long minutes passed before he came up behind Adam and slumped down beside him, panting, resting the shotgun he had taken from the cruiser across his legs.
"It fronts on the lake. Some cover for him, if he runs for it. There's a dock with a powerboat tied up.
"Any way out of this lake by boat?"
"No."
"He may ask for a plane.Call for a float plane on standby."
"Bassett, let the boys come out."
"No."
Again the shotgun blasted, hitting a tree and leaving bark hanging in shreds.
Inside the cabin, Bassett's blurred eyes moved slowly around the room. Going to have to block off the windows, he thought. Got to make a stand. What the hell, take a few with him. Where was his rifle? He was sure he brought the rifle. Kids. Christ, why'd he bring the kids?
"Go hide in the bunk room. Stay away from the window. Take the damn dog with you."
The boys scrambled to their feet, dragging the dog with them.
"Close the damn door."
Mike sobbed in the corner of the room
"He's going to keep shooting at the cops, Kyle. I want to get out of here."
"Shut up. I have to think."
Kyle could think better. Mike sat on the bunk while Kyle prowled the little room. Double bunks with stained and worn mattresses stood against two sides. They could stack the mattresses up to stop the bullets. Packing cases were piled up against the back wall. Inside, he found mostly clothes. Hunting jackets and caps. Boots. His dad and his buddies used the cabin when they went duck hunting.
Kyle continued his survey. Two small screws held the window in. They could take it out and get away.
Maybe they shouldn't leave Dad, but the cops were going to shoot. Kyle watched hours of television, and he knew the SWAT team would arrive soon, and they would have no chance. When his dad was like this, you couldn't talk to him. He wouldn't give up. Not till he was sober, and they would all be dead. He wanted his mother. He knew she was hurt bad.
"Stop crying and help me move these boxes so we can climb on them."
"What are we going to do?"
"Leave."
The boys shifted the boxes and stacked them under the window. Kyle climbed up and used his little pocketknife to twist out the screws that held the window in place. It stuck a little, but he was able to take it out of the frame without making too much noise. The next room was quiet. Had his dad passed out? He was afraid to look.
"Mike, I'll boost you. Wait for me right by the cabin."
"What if the cops shoot me?"
"It's Davidson, the one that came to the school. He won't shoot a kid. Don't you remember?
"Oh, yeah."
"Now, go."
When Mike cleared the window, Kyle pushed the dog through the window after him. He piled another box on to the stack. Was his Dad coming? Fear took him up and through the window. When he hit the ground, he dragged Mike from the shelter of the cabin's wall and ran left away from the window and the shooting. He could hear another burst from the shotgun as they reached the edge of the clearing. A few minutes later, the trees closed around them, and the sun disappeared. It wasn't dark yet, but there was no trail to follow. Kyle kept moving in what he thought was a straight line. Now and then he could see the lake.
Adam and Pete didn't see the boys leave. Adam decided not to talk to Bassett until backup arrived. Always the chance he would pass out.
Behind them, three cruisers turned into the narrow lane.
"Scotty," Adam shook his hand as the tall, thin sheriff folded himself down beside the rock, a smile briefly relieving his cadaveric face. "Good to see you."
"Rather it was somewhere else, Adam. What's the situation?"
"Guy in the cabin called Bassett. Ran up here with his sons, ten and eleven. Left his wife bruised and bleeding. Paramedics didn't think she'd make it."
"Will he talk to you?"
"Only with a shotgun."
"Give me the horn."
"Here's the microphone. We strung a wire. He fires at the voice."
"Bassett. Prescott Jones, County Sheriff. The time to come out is now. A SWAT team is on the way. Send those boys out now."
"No."
No shot. A step forward, Adam thought. Or he's saving ammo.
"Let me see they're all right."
"I'll look after my boys," Bassett roared.
"Like you looked after your wife? Let them go, Bassett."
Dead air. Jones turned to Adam. "Do you think we should tell him how bad she is?"
"I don't know him well enough."
Bassett sat back at the table, cradling the gun. What had he meant, "Like you took care of your wife"? She couldn't be dead. He didn't hit her that hard. No harder than before. She deserved it anyway. Saying she was taking the boys away. They were his. He loved them, his sons. Tears filled his bloodshot eyes. He looked around, trying to find them. He remembered that he had sent them into the bunk-room. They were quiet—no crying. He lumbered across the room and listened. He couldn't hear them. The open window, the stacked boxes and an empty room confronted him when he opened the door.
"No," he bellowed in rage and fired into the stack of boxes that had helped the boys escape.
"He's firing at the back of the cabin. Do you have anyone back there, Adam," asked Jones.
"Pete, over there on the right where he can watch the dock. A powerboat's tied up."
The radio crackled.
"The back door's open but I can't see him yet. Do you want me to shoot him if he runs?" said Pete.
"Do you think you can take him down without killing him?"
"I'm not that good, Adam."
"No shooting if he has the kids."
Bassett had sobered up enough to try to make a plan. He had gassed up the boat last time he was up here. If he could make the landing at the far end of the lake, he might make it away. Later he would come back for the boys. Kyle would stay away from the cops for a while, but eventually, they would be back in Culver's. All it would take was a little time to get them back.
He needed stuff if he had to go into the woods. Working quickly, he put together a pack, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and held his shotgun in his hand. There was enough cover between him and the cops that they wouldn't be able to tell if the boys were with him until he had reached the boat.
Pete saw the figure running towards the boat, and shot. He missed and dove behind trees and rock as Bassett's rifle shots ricocheted around him. He must have cut the ropes, Pete thought, as the boat drifted away from the dock and the engine caught. The end of the dock covered Basset as he backed the boat out.
"Boss, he took off up the lake," Pete called.
"Okay," Jones said, "only one place to dock. We'll get him." He spoke to his men as he ran to his vehicle.
Adam entered the cabin from the front, calling to Pete as he went in the door. "You didn't see the kids, did you?"
"No. I thought they were still in there."
The smells of cordite and cheap whiskey mingled with that of years of men and smoke and stale food in the cabin. Adam walked int
o the bedroom. The stacked boxes and window neatly placed against the wall told him what the boys had done.
"Are they dead?" Pete said.
"No, the place is empty. We're going to have to search the woods. It'll be night soon. Call search and rescue and let's see if you and I can follow them."
Two little boys didn't leave much of a trail. Adam wondered if one of them was smart enough to keep the lake in sight as they walked. He saw fresh signs of the dog. Good he was with them.
"Kyle, Mike. It's Lieutenant Davidson. You know me. Come out and talk to me."
Nothing, except the startled flight of birds higher in the trees. The deeper into the woods they went, the darker it became.
"We're walking blind. We should go back and wait for the dogs," Pete said.
"Okay."
Chapter Seventeen
"Erin, it's Adam. I need a favor."
"What's the matter?"
"I'm up at Tyrone. We're searching for the two Bassett boys, so I can't meet Anne for dinner. Would you mind going with her?"
"Of course not. What time? And were you meeting her at the restaurant or picking her up?"
"Seven, and I was going to meet her. Thanks, Erin.
Love you."
And he was gone.
"Love you too."
She was beginning to realize what a policeman's wife coped with. It was 6:45 p.m.
It was past 7:00 p.m. when Erin walked up the three steps and across the porch to Evan's front door.
A mirror above a flower-painted console table, reflecting the glow of a ruby-glass shaded lamp, spilled hues of red-gold across the faded oriental carpet in the foyer. Erin paused to enjoy the picture. On the table, Mary had replaced a butter-bowl filled with her collection of carpet balls, with a small grouping of Meito china—two bowls and a plate decorated with hand-painted fantasy birds and deep pink flowers. Not particularly valuable, Erin thought. Mary has thought better of displaying her treasures.
Mary and Andre opened three rooms for visitors. They offered breakfast and dinner, making it a very French-style boutique hotel, not a bed and breakfast.
The Facepainter Murders Page 9