by Leslie Meier
When the white crime-scene van arrived, Lucy came to a decision. The van would go to the Malone house, which would be the focus of the investigation. But she had a different idea. There was another house she thought deserved a closer look: the O’Donnell place on Shore Road.
From the outside, the big, old Shingle-style mansion looked deserted. There were no cars in the white oyster-shell drive. There was no comfortable wicker furniture scattered on the big porches, no beach towels were drying on the railings, and no white muslin curtains flapped at the tightly closed and shuttered windows that looked blindly out toward the sea. All seemed closed up tight against the winter weather as Lucy walked around the house, looking for signs of habitation. There was nothing, nothing at all. Even the plastic garbage cans by the kitchen door were empty, Each one weighted by a single cement block.
It was when she was replacing the lid on the last one that she noticed a small, square door, probably originally designed for coal or ice deliveries when the house was built in the late eighteen hundreds. There was no reason why anyone would use it nowadays, but the winter brown grass in front of it had been worn away, down to bare earth. She stood, staring at it, trying to think of some explanation. An animal? No, the door was secured with a ring and hasp fastened by a padlock. As she stooped down to take a closer look, she remembered the words of the old prospector she’d encountered in the cemetery at Old Dan’s funeral. He’d recited an old Irish curse: “May the grass grow before your door.” She was thinking about this when a sudden caw made her jump. Looking up to the sky, she saw a flock of crows winging by, calling to each other. They flapped on, and she bent down again to examine the lock. It had the fuzzy, dull look that galvanized metal acquires when it is exposed to the elements, except for the area around the keyhole, which had bright and shiny scratch marks. Somebody had been using that door quite recently, somebody who didn’t want to make his presence known.
Lucy dropped the lock as if it were burning her hand and ran back to her car as quickly as she could. She didn’t think that Mikey Boy, and that’s exactly who she suspected it was, would appreciate her company, so she started the car and drove as quickly as she could down the drive. Once she was on Shore Road, deserted this time of year, she called the police station and asked to speak to Barney. Much to her surprise, she was put through.
“I thought you’d be out at the Malone house,” she said.
“Just got back.”
“Did you find anything?”
“Nope. Tire tracks, but they match Moira’s car.”
“I think I may have found something.” She took a deep breath. “Somebody’s been coming and going at the O’Donnell house.”
“I don’t think so, Lucy. We do regular patrols on Shore Road. I do ’em myself sometimes. There’s nobody out there this time of year except raccoons and crows.”
“Well, this raccoon can use a lock and key,” said Lucy, braking at the stop sign. “I think you ought to take a look inside the house.”
“Gosh, Lucy, you know I can’t do that without a warrant, and with all this AMBER Alert going on, how do you think I’m going to get the captain to call the judge? Huh?”
Lucy knew he was right. The department wasn’t equipped to handle much more than traffic stops and petty crimes. “Well, can you come and take a look at the lock? From the outside?”
“Yeah, I’m due for a break. Meet me at the Quik Stop.”
Lucy had an enormous cup of coffee with cream and eight sugars and a bag of donuts ready for Barney when he pulled alongside her in the cruiser. She hopped into the passenger seat, and he swung out of the parking lot in that confident way cops have, not seeming to check if anybody’s coming. He made short work of the donuts and coffee as he sped down the road, with his lights flashing. Minutes later they were both crouched down by the door, studying the lock and examining the ground.
“You’re right, Lucy,” he said, finally, as he straightened up. “Somebody’s been living here.” He nodded toward a small cellar window. “See that? The window’s been covered with cardboard so the light won’t show.”
Lucy hadn’t noticed it before, but Barney was right. She listened as he pulled out his radio and reported their findings to the station in an unemotional, businesslike tone. It wasn’t until he clicked off that he allowed his emotions to show.
“Whew,” he said, his eyes bright with excitement. “This is something. I mean, if Mikey Boy is really back and I, I mean we, discover him and they actually capture him, well, you know. Wow!”
“It would be quite a scoop,” said Lucy, picturing herself receiving first place for investigative reporting at the New England Newspaper Association convention.
“Yeah,” agreed Barney, imagining himself on Inside Edition, chatting with Deborah Norville.
Their daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of the crime-scene van. “So whatcha got?” demanded the head technician.
“This house is supposed to be deserted, but somebody’s been using it,” said Barney, leading him to the door.
“Whose house is it?” asked the technician, quickly surveying the situation.
“The lieutenant governor’s,” said Barney.
The tech’s eyebrows shot up. “Cormac O’Donnell? Say, isn’t his brother wanted by the FBI?”
“He’s the one,” said Barney.
The tech gave a low whistle, then crouched by the door and lifted the lock with a pencil to examine it. He straightened up slowly, examining the ground in front of the door, and Lucy found herself holding her breath. What if they were wrong? What if all they’d done was start a big goose chase? “Cameras,” said the tech. “I need pictures. We’ve definitely got signs of entry by somebody who doesn’t want to use the front door.”
Lucy had never seen anything like it. The sun had set, briefly tinting the sky a blazing shade between pink and orange, but it was as light as day outside the O’Donnell place, thanks to bright lights set up by police investigators. The entire state police force seemed to be on the scene, along with local cops from Tinker’s Cove and nearby towns, and a handful of FBI and ATF investigators, identifiable by the white initials on their black Windbreakers. The news of a possible Mikey Boy capture had spread fast, and several network TV trucks were parked on Shore Road, with their satellite dishes thrust high into the sky on collapsible poles.
The investigators were concentrating on the cellar, where it was clear that Mikey Boy had taken up residence. He’d made himself quite comfortable with a cot and sleeping bag. He had a fancy radio that picked up international stations and had even rigged up cable TV.
“I don’t think he went to all this trouble to watch American Idol, said one agent, lugging out the TV.
“Nah,” agreed another, who was carrying the tagged radio. “A fugitive’s gotta keep up with the news.”
The agents were systematically stripping the cellar, carrying away everything as evidence, right down to the boxes of groceries. They were also looking for a hidey-hole or escape hatch, but Lucy gathered from their conversation that they weren’t having much success. “They sure don’t build ’em like this anymore,” said one cop, emerging from the cellar, with cobwebs and dust clinging to his white jumpsuit. “Those cellar walls are solid rock, three feet thick.”
“Well, it’s all yours,” said another, who was carrying a box of assorted items, which he added to the collection set on the lawn. “This is the last of the stuff.”
Another technician, who was logging the items as evidence before stowing them in a van, nodded.
Curious, Lucy approached and started checking out the stuff. It would make a good human interest angle. What sort of stuff did Mikey Boy have in his hidey-hole?
A lot of peanut butter, she discovered, and plenty of toilet paper. He apparently had a sweet tooth, judging from the large amount of candy, with a special fondness for Butterfinger bars. There were a couple of bottles of Jameson, too, but they hadn’t been opened. There were plenty of warm clothes and boots, a pai
r of high-powered binoculars, and in the same box, a metal detector.
Lucy stared at it so long that the technician noticed. “It’s a metal detector,” he told her. “Mebbe he was looking for some loot he’d buried years ago. They never did turn up that two million from the armored truck job.”
“I know what it is,” said Lucy, with a smile. And, suddenly, she also knew who Mikey Boy was. She’d even spoken to him and asked if she could take his picture. No wonder he’d refused. She hurried off, looking for someone to tell. Someone in authority who’d believe her, like Detective Horowitz. She spotted him walking toward his car, followed by a clutch of reporters with microphones.
“No comment,” he was saying as he opened the door.
The reporters peppered him with questions. “Are you sure it’s Mikey Boy? How do you know? Has he abducted the girl? How did he get in the country? Do you think he’s still around?”
Horowitz brushed them all off. “As soon as we have anything definite, we’ll make a statement,” he said, seating himself behind the steering wheel.
“Detective!” screamed Lucy, over the others. “I have something I have to tell you.”
He either didn’t hear or ignored her, and slammed the door shut, then slowly drove off.
“Damn!” she muttered, stamping her foot.
“You can say that again,” agreed a photographer, studying the display on his digital camera. “This light’s impossible.”
Lucy stared at him, speechless. Didn’t he realize there was more at stake here than getting a good picture? All the excitement about Michael O’Donnell’s return had distracted everyone’s attention from the missing girl. If Mikey Boy was carrying out an ancient vendetta against the Malones and had abducted little Deirdre, the child was in grave danger, and every second counted.
Chapter Nineteen
Lucy was furious as she watched Horowitz drive away. She was sure she could identify Mikey Boy; she even had the fake name he was using: Paul Sullivan. She could certainly describe him, too: late sixties, thinning hair, average height, average weight, clean-shaven. Come to think of it, maybe her description wouldn’t be all that helpful. It was no wonder Mikey Boy had eluded capture all these years—he was so average looking, he blended in. His description fit thousands, probably millions, of men. He could sit down at a town meeting, for example, and would be indistinguishable from dozens of worthy citizens in their plaid shirts and khaki pants.
There was one way he was different from them, however. If what she’d read and heard about him was true, he was completely without a conscience. He lied and stole and cheated—and killed—without remorse.
This was a man who hadn’t quailed at beheading one victim and using the victim’s compacted brain in an attempt to murder another. Her mind balked when she tried to imagine what he had in mind for little Deirdre, but the very thought that the little girl was in his snare horrified her. Nothing was more important than finding them and rescuing the child.
The thought energized her, and she hurried to her car, determined to find Deirdre. But where? The police didn’t seem to be having any luck searching the O’Donnell house. And even if there was some sort of hidey-hole there, it would take them all night to find it at the rate they were going. Not that she blamed them. She knew they had to be very careful to preserve evidence without contaminating it.
But she wasn’t going to stand around with the rest of the press corps, watching the cops dismantle the house, she decided, starting the car and speeding off down Shore Road. She had to get moving; she had to take action, even if she wasn’t sure what that action would be. She figured she’d stop at the police station and see if anything was going on there. Then she’d stop in at the Pennysaver, where she was sure Ted was glued to the TV and listening to the scanner and probably had a better sense of the big picture than she did. She knew she was going faster than was wise on the curvy road that wound along the shore, the vast Atlantic Ocean on one side and dense piney woods on the other, but she couldn’t let up on the gas pedal. It was getting darker, especially in the woods, but the sky over the water was lighter, almost lavender. It was a beautiful sight, the black water and the purple sky that was beginning to show pinpricks of starlight, but it wouldn’t last. Soon night would fall, covering the town with darkness.
For a moment, she was high above the town, looking down on neat streets with rows of houses, many with lights in the windows, and then she was swooping down the hill that lead to the harbor. She was rounding the corner to turn onto Main Street when something caught her eye. A big black crow was perched on the brand-new sign pointing to Dylan’s restaurant, the Irish Pub.
She braked and stared at the bird, who cocked his head, looking right back at her, first with one eye and then the other. Then he stretched his wings and flew away, cawing, right over the pub.
Lucy wasn’t really superstitious, but she found herself turning the car into the parking lot, following the crow. This whole thing had started at the harbor, with the gulls and crows announcing the discovery of Old Dan’s body, after all. And Toby had told her that Bill and Brian had been bothered by incidents of vandalism, which they had attributed to disgruntled Bilge patrons who didn’t want to lose their favorite watering hole. But maybe something else was going on, she thought. Maybe Mikey Boy had returned to the Bilge to look for something. Something valuable, perhaps, that he believed Brigid Heaney had taken from his family and passed along to Old Dan.
She parked the car in front and stared at the door, trying to decide if she should take a closer look. Her mind was made up for her when a crow appeared, maybe the same one as before, and perched on the edge of the roof, just above the door.
She told herself she wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary as she got out of the car and approached the pub. After all, her husband was working there, and she had a definite interest in the security of the site. Nonetheless, her hands were shaking as she tentatively tried the doorknob. Much to her surprise, it turned and the door opened.
She stood there for a minute, uncertain whether it meant anything. She thought Bill usually locked up his work site, but then again, this was Tinker’s Cove, where leaving the car keys in the ignition was commonplace and locking the house was such a rarity that most people had to hunt for the key when they left on vacation. On the other hand, she knew, Bill would have thought twice before leaving his expensive tools unlocked, especially down at the harbor, where someone might be tempted to “borrow” them.
She decided the sensible thing would be to give him a call and see if he was concerned about the unlocked door. So she extracted her cell phone from her bag and dialed his cell, only to be transferred to an automatic message system. She left a message but knew there was little chance he would get it; once he was home, the cell phone sat on his dresser, ignored until the next morning. She also called home, but no one picked up there, either. Where was everybody? They ought to be making supper.
There was no creak as she pulled the door open: it was brand-new and swung easily on sturdy brass hinges. Stepping inside, she reached for the light switch beside the door. Bill had installed new wiring and dimmer switches, which could be adjusted to provide bright illumination when needed for cleaning and dimmed to create a cozy atmosphere for dining. She adjusted the switch for maximum brightness and looked around.
Bill and Brian had wrought an amazing change. There was no trace of the dingy, old Bilge. The battered paneling had been replaced with clean, fresh Sheetrock, the scarred wood floor had been sanded and gleamed with a new coat of urethane, and a row of large bay windows overlooked the harbor. It was an impressive transformation.
And, more importantly, there was no sign of any intruders. She was relieved to see Bill’s portable workbench standing in a corner, along with a neat row of cases containing his tools. Buckets of paint and nails and finishing compound were stacked nearby, along with a pile of wood scraps. Unused Sheetrock and lumber were propped against a wall. Bill was a neat workman and always cle
aned up after a day’s work, leaving everything ready for the next day.
Satisfied that nothing was amiss, Lucy turned to go. But, to her amazement, the black crow was standing in the doorway. Such encounters weren’t unheard of. She’d had a similar meeting with a crow shortly after she and Bill had moved into their old farmhouse on Red Top Road. They had been using a woodstove to supplement their cranky furnace, and one summer morning she heard noises emanating from inside the cold stove. A peek revealed a crow that had somehow managed to come down the chimney and become trapped inside. Not wanting to hurt the creature, she opened a nearby window, then opened the stove door. She watched as the bird marched across the floor, as if he owned the place, then hopped up onto the windowsill and flew off. This crow, however, didn’t seem interested in flying away. In fact, it didn’t budge as she approached the door. She waved her hands, intending to shoo it away, but the bird had other ideas. It stretched its wings, making itself seem larger, then settled back in place, blocking the door.
“Oh, so you think you’re a tough guy,” she said, wagging a finger at the crow. “Well, I’ve got news for you.” She marched over to the corner where Bill had left a broom and grabbed it, then waved it as she advanced toward the crow. The bird didn’t flinch but cocked his head, fixing her with a beady black eye. It was then that she heard a whimper.
The sound electrified her. Deirdre must be here, somewhere in the building. She whirled around and began a frantic search for Deirdre. She yanked open every door; she checked the kitchen cupboards and pantry, the refrigerators, even the stove. She checked the restrooms and finally found the cellar door. Only then did she hesitate a moment before dashing down the steps, where she found herself in a dim and dank little hall with three mismatched doors. The first opened on a flight of rickety steps topped with a metal bulkhead; the second revealed the furnace. That left the third door. Taking a deep breath and steeling herself for what she might find, she opened it and discovered Deirdre, sitting alone in the cone of light produced by a single bulb, singing to herself, and playing with a pile of curly wood shavings in a cleared space, surrounded by cases of beer and liquor. She seemed unharmed but didn’t react to Lucy’s presence. That, and the fact that she wasn’t restrained in any way, made Lucy suspect she had been drugged.