From the Shadows

by Rebecca York

  “I’ve already done an evaluation of the place, so I think it’s safe to go in.”

  An evaluation of the place. That was news to Alex. But then, he was finding out a lot of interesting things this week about Chief Hempstead and about life in the peaceful little community of St. Stephens.

  “I’ve studied photographs of the layout,” Hempstead continued. “I’ve done an electronics sweep, so I know they don’t have an early-warning system. They rely on a guarded gatehouse at the entrance road. I’ve done a topographical assessment, and I know there’s only one road in and out of the place. And not much natural cover, unless you want to get down into the marshland along the river.”

  “Glad you did your homework,” Alex answered. “When did you finish?”

  “Less than two weeks ago, so I assume the situation hasn’t changed. As soon as I can get a couple of extra deputies, we’ll pay them a visit. I’ve let this thing go on unchecked too long. They haven’t made any real trouble until now, but I’m not going to stand for this kind of violence,” he said, sweeping his hand toward the bullet holes in the walls.

  “If I take Sara down to her friend’s condo, will you wait for me?” He knew the request was outrageous. The police didn’t have to wait for a private citizen before making a visit to town troublemakers. But he figured the chief owed him one.

  Apparently Hempstead had the same opinion, because he nodded.

  Alex went upstairs and grabbed the overnight bag he kept packed for emergencies. Then, as they all stepped onto the porch, another problem presented itself. They had forgotten about the dog, and he was still lying there on his side, snoring loudly. Alex looked at the massive jaw now relaxed in sleep. When the brute woke up, he was going to be a menace, particularly since his handlers had disappeared. He needed to be in a secure cage.

  Hempstead turned to Sullivan. “You call animal control, then meet me—”

  “At The Refuge,” Alex suggested, neglecting to mention that he’d been there earlier. “It’s the next estate over from the militia enclave.”

  “That’s a plan.” Hempstead looked at his watch. “We can meet at 1800 hours. That way we’ll still have plenty of daylight left.”

  “Do you want extra help?” Alex asked. “Randolph Security will send down four or five men by helicopter if I ask for backup.”

  The chief thought about it. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not really thinking of this as a tactical situation. They may have come gunning for you because this is an isolated location. But I don’t think even the People’s Militia are dumb enough to attack the police and think they can get away with it.”

  Alex hoped Hempstead was right, but he wasn’t going to argue. While the deputy made the call about the dog, he escorted Sara to his SUV.

  He was still thinking about her getting shot at when she’d gone up to retrieve the rifle. And he had to clamp his hands around the steering wheel to keep from reaching for her in front of the chief and the deputy.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For taking you to my house.” He gave a sharp, ironic laugh. “I guess Billy warned me.”

  “Neither one of us was expecting something like this.”

  “I should have been.” He sighed. “I keep making bad judgment calls.”

  “I think your judgment is fine. I’d say you’ve just hit a streak of rotten luck. We both have, actually. Maybe Mercury is retrograde or something.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I was hoping you might know. I have a friend who’s into astrology who blames everything from a broken fingernail to the stock market plunge on it.”

  He laughed. After that, they rode in silence for several minutes until she asked, “What are you thinking about?”

  “Tactics. Logistics.” He studied the rearview mirror again. As far as he could tell, they weren’t being followed.

  More silent miles passed, and his thoughts turned to the baby clothes in the attic trunk. He’d started off thinking that Lee and Sara might have been having an affair. Now he wondered if the man was her natural father. A big stretch, he silently admitted. But the idea did have some resonance. It would certainly explain why Lee had been a hell of a lot nicer to Sara Delaney than he was to most people. Of course, that didn’t explain the dress with the blood. But he might get some answers when he had a chance to examine the letters he’d pulled out of the trunk while Sara had gone to the window.

  The letters were in his overnight bag now, and he felt slightly guilty about concealing them, but he wanted to have his ducks in a row before saying anything to her.

  After reaching the downtown district, he drove back to the condo. Quickly he ushered Sara inside, then crossed to the drapes and drew them closed.

  He turned to find her watching him with an expression of concern.

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said.

  She took a step toward him. “Alex, you don’t have to go with Chief Hempstead. The police can take care of it.”

  “What am I supposed to do, hole up until the excitement’s over?”

  “Like me, you mean.”

  He snorted. “Those bastards were going to do God knows what to you! Then they tried to kill us. I’m going to be in on whatever happens.”

  “Are you trying to prove something?”

  “I don’t have to prove anything. I just have to maintain my self-respect.” Before she could make some other dumb comment, he turned and stalked toward the door.

  “Lock up. And don’t let anybody but me or the police in.”

  “What are you going to do when you get to the militia compound, start shooting?”

  “Not unless they do.” Of course, they’d done it before, so it wasn’t out of the question, but he didn’t point that out. In fact, he left before she could come up with some other argument. Obviously she didn’t get it. Every step of the way in this case, somebody was either using him or screwing with him, and he wanted a chance to turn the tables.

  But that didn’t mean he was going to play cowboy, because if he made the wrong move, he could get himself—or somebody else—killed.

  THREE POLICE CARS were parked around the bend of Lee Tillman’s driveway. Alex pulled up in back of the cruisers and stepped out, aware that all eyes were on him.

  For two days he’d worn an orange prison jumpsuit. Now he was going with the cops to pay an official visit to the men who had been shooting at him and Sara.

  Probably all the officers confronting him were thinking about that.

  Chief Hempstead stepped forward. “This is Alex Shane,” he said. “He used to be a Howard County detective. He got himself in a little trouble with the law a few days ago, but that’s all straightened out. He’s the kind of guy you like to have around in a tight spot. This morning he drove off two armed militiamen who were set to attack an unarmed woman. This afternoon he did it again—only it was three or four armed men and an attack dog.”

  The men had probably heard the account before, but they looked suitably impressed with his prowess. He didn’t spoil the impression by pointing out that Sara had distracted the dog with his lunch long enough for them to get into the house.

  “Alex, you’ve already met Dick Sullivan and Tim Garnette. These are Paul Wallace and Hank Carpenter.”

  “Good to meet you,” Alex said, appreciating the chief’s show of confidence in him. Dick and Paul were the seasoned veterans. Tim and Hank looked as if they’d just graduated from high school. He wondered how much tactical experience they’d had, how reliable they’d be if trouble broke out.

  “So let’s get the ground rules straight,” Hempstead said. “We’re going to be super cautious. We don’t start anything. We’re nice and polite. We’re just looking into the possibility that the individuals who were shooting at Alex might be associated with the People’s Militia. And while we’re on their property, we’re keeping our eyes and ears open. We’re estimating how many of them are actually out there, what
kind of facilities they have, if there are weapons in evidence. Got it?”

  There were murmurs and nods of agreement around the circle.

  “You’re with me,” Paul Wallace said to Alex.

  He climbed into the front seat of the police car, remembering his recent ride in the back of a similar vehicle. The other men boarded the remaining cars. Hempstead drove the lead cruiser, with Alex and Wallace next.

  Neither Alex nor the driver bothered with small talk. In fact, now that they were heading for the militia camp, Alex felt his throat tighten. These guys had given Sara nothing but trouble. On the first day he’d seen her, one of them had tried to run her over. And it had only gotten worse.

  All his senses were alert as they turned off the highway and onto the access road decorated with Keep Out signs. The lane was narrow. On either side, the late-afternoon sun shone on fields overgrown with weeds. He could see the remnants of landscaping, but the bushes were choked with Virginia creeper and dead branches lay where they had fallen off trees.

  A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision, and he automatically reached toward his gun. Then he saw it was only a trio of crows pecking at something hidden in the tall grass.

  About a hundred yards up the road, the convoy came to a small building with a metal roof, shingled siding and a large sliding window facing the road.

  A sign said: Halt. That means you. Have identification ready. Trespassers will be shot.

  Friendly, Alex thought.

  Hempstead pulled to a stop and got out, but there was no uniformed militiaman waiting to check his identification. The small building was empty.

  The chief looked back at Alex where he sat in the second car. He shrugged, fighting a prickle of uneasiness at the base of his neck.

  Climbing back into his car, Hempstead led the way slowly up the road.

  The farther they proceeded, the more Alex’s sense of disquiet increased. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but he was sure now that it wasn’t going to be good.

  Several low, beige buildings came into view as they rounded a curve. They were new and rough-looking. Thrown up by the militia, he guessed.

  A Humvee was pulled up near the large double doorway of one building.

  Hempstead halted again. This time everyone climbed out.

  Alex knew he wasn’t the only one feeling tense as he looked at the faces of the officers around him.

  Hempstead stepped inside the structure and was gone for several seconds. “It’s a garage,” he announced. “There are a few trucks inside. That’s all.”

  They started up again, this time heading for the old mansion house. Alex’s first impression was that the white siding needed repair and painting. Some of the shingles were missing, as were several of the faded green shutters. But there were no men in view and an eerie quiet hung heavy in the air.

  Alex got the first inkling of real trouble when Paul Wallace braked abruptly, then pointed toward a clump of bushes about fifty feet from the house.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alex followed the man’s outstretched arm and saw a pair of black boots sticking out from the foliage. As they inched closer he saw legs clad in black pants.

  Opening the door, he drew his weapon and stepped out. Paul had radioed the rest of the cars, and the column of three vehicles halted.

  Officers exited the cruisers, covering Alex as he made his way toward the bushes. Drawing closer, he saw a short, compact man sprawled facedown in the dirt. Dressed in a black uniform, he held a pistol in his right hand. A trio of stains marred the back of his uniform shirt, and blood pooled in the dirt around his torso. The congealed liquid and the flies told Alex that the guy had been there for several hours.

  Hempstead and Dick Sullivan entered the mansion. Alex and the rest of the officers fanned out around the property, moving cautiously. He saw two more bodies. One was dressed in the black uniform, another in a redneck outfit like the ones Billy and his partner had sported that morning.

  He had rounded the corner of the house when the chief exited the back door and spotted him. The look on the veteran police officer’s face warned him to prepare for something bad.

  “What?” he asked sharply.

  “I’m sorry. Your brother’s in there.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Alex felt his throat close. All he could do was give a tight nod. Since spotting the first dead militiaman in the bushes, he’d been prepared for something awful. Now the chief had confirmed the worst.

  “How many others are inside?” he managed to ask.

  “Fifteen. All dead.”

  “Where’s Billy?”

  “You don’t have to look at him now. You can identify the body later.”

  “I need to see what happened. Where is he?”

  “In the family room, I guess you’d call it.”

  Alex pushed past the chief and strode into the house. He saw black-clad figures in various locations, but he didn’t stop to examine them as he stalked down the hall, following the sounds of a ball game coming from the interior of the house.

  He found his brother and another guy sprawled on a sofa, their feet up on a low coffee table. Billy had been holding a glass of beer. The amber brew had spilled onto the sofa and his shirt, mixing with the blood. His brother hadn’t even gotten a chance to draw his weapon.

  Hempstead was right behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “I kept thinking he was going to come to a bad end. I didn’t quite imagine this,” Alex answered as he stood staring at his brother—at the look of surprise on his face.

  For long seconds he was rooted to the spot. Then he turned and expelled a heaving breath. “What do you think happened?”

  The chief looked as shocked as Alex felt. But his answer came out clear and thoughtful. “Could be an invading force mowed them down. A rival militia. Or one faction might have gone after the other. These groups aren’t always the most stable environment. A lot of crazies and violent types join. Put that together with their firepower, and you’ve got trouble.”

  “Yeah.” Suddenly Alex felt very tired.

  “It could be that one guy or a couple of them went berserk,” the chief added. “We need to find out if all the victims belong to the militia, how many are accounted for and how many are missing. I’m calling in a team from the state police crime lab. Until they’re done, I want the whole area cordoned off. I’ll send one of my cars down to guard the gate. Another team will secure the river area. We’re going to be here for a while, but there’s no need for you to stay. In fact, maybe you want to be out of the way before the state police arrive.” The chief made a throat-clearing noise. “Not that you’re a suspect or anything. I know where you’ve been pretty much all day.”

  Alex realized he was still holding his Glock and slipped the weapon back into its holster.

  “We haven’t found Tripp Kenney, the guy who commanded this place. Which doesn’t mean he’s not here,” the chief said.

  Alex nodded. “I’d appreciate a ride back to The Refuge.”

  “Give me a couple of minutes. I’d like a body count before it gets too dark to see what we’re doing. How many did you find?” he asked.

  “Three. The first guy Wallace spotted and two more. I can mark the spots for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  The chief called his men back to the area in front of the house. In all, they’d discovered twenty-six bodies, mostly on the first floor of the mansion. Kenney was not among the dead.

  After Alex had marked the location of the two additional victims he’d discovered, Wallace drove him back to his car.

  It was a silent ride in the gathering darkness—a mixed blessing as far as Alex was concerned. He didn’t want to keep up a conversation, yet that might have distracted him from a thousand memories that assaulted him.

  He and Billy as little kids riding their bikes to the 7-Eleven for Slushies. Swimming in the river. Catching crayfish in the creek. Snitching candy from
the drugstore. Stealing hubcaps. Breaking windows at the school.

  The few times he’d visited his brother in the state penitentiary years ago had been bad. They were nothing compared to that last awful image—his brother sprawled in a pool of blood and beer on a fake-leather sofa.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish that sight. Maybe the chief was right. Maybe he shouldn’t have looked. He’d seen plenty of victims of violent murders, and he’d thought he was prepared. He’d been wrong.

  When he felt the car come to a halt, his eyes snapped open, and he was surprised to find that twilight had descended over the landscape. Wallace had pulled up beside his SUV.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he told the officer.

  “No problem.”

  The man cleared his throat. “I’m sorry it worked out this way.”

  “Yes,” Alex answered. “Thanks.” Did you say thanks under circumstances like this? he wondered. He didn’t know.

  The officer waited while Alex started up the truck, then they both glided down the driveway, their headlights cutting through the thickening darkness.

  Wallace turned in the direction of the estate, a long night ahead of him. Alex turned toward town. The idea flashed into his mind that he’d like to just keep driving right through St. Stephens—all the way back to Baltimore.

  But then what? Leaving this place wouldn’t erase the image of his brother’s body from his mind.

  He wanted to be alone. But he couldn’t simply leave Sara in her friend’s condo with no transportation.

  So he pulled himself together long enough to check the rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t being followed, then headed for the waterfront.

  As he cut the engine and switched off his headlights, a thought struck him. Since the militia had been coming after Sara and now a lot of them were dead, did that eliminate the threat to her? He didn’t know, but he hoped so.

  He’d thought he wanted to be alone, but he found himself hurrying toward the concrete stairs. When he knocked on the door, Sara answered almost immediately.

  “Who is it?”