Don't Ever Forget (Adler and Dwyer)

by Matthew Farrell

  David pushed tears out of his eyes. “Did you kill my sister?” he asked. His voice was a growl. He was so angry. “Just tell me. Was it you or James?”

  Trevor ignored the question. “We never thought Rebecca’s car would be found, so we didn’t wipe anything down. They’re going to find something that traces back to me, but by the time they do, everyone will be dead, and my dad and I will be north, living out the rest of his days together, at peace.” He looked at James. “That’s all I want for you, Dad. Just peace.”

  “Did you kill my sister?” David screamed, shaking the quiet room.

  “I did,” Trevor replied. “It wasn’t James. It was me.”

  David suddenly ran toward him, arms flailing, knife in hand.

  James watched as Trevor focused and calmly pulled the trigger of his shotgun. David instinctively threw his hands up to protect himself, but there was nothing he could do. The shot discharged, and his chest exploded, sending him sprawling against the back of the couch and onto the floor. Blood began to spurt from the wound, driven by his beating heart, his eyes widening in both panic and horror. Trevor stood over him as David looked up, coughing and struggling to breathe. He tried to cover the wound with his hand, but the blood seeped through his fingers and ran down his chest.

  Cindy screamed.

  “You sealed your fate the moment your sister told you what my father was confessing,” Trevor said. “I told Rebecca the same thing. It’s not your fault. You learned something you shouldn’t have known, and this is how it has to end. I’m sorry.”

  David tried to speak, but only a gargling sound emerged from his blood-soaked mouth. The basement was silent as they waited for him to die. It didn’t take long. The young man grunted once more, closed his eyes, and was gone.

  “No, no, no,” Cindy whispered, her eyes pooling with tears. “This isn’t happening.”

  Trevor turned to look at James. “In case you haven’t caught on yet,” he said, “you’re my father. You can never seem to remember lately. My mom was Maddie Foster. No way you remember her. You guys were just a fling. Met in Austin during some—”

  “Teacher’s convention,” James replied without thinking. “Mideighties.”

  Trevor smiled. “That’s right.”

  “She never told me.”

  “She lived here in New York, and you were in Ohio. She didn’t want to mess your life up having to take care of us. It’s all good, though. She moved me here to this farm, and her parents helped raise me right. No harm, no foul, as far as I’m concerned. She finally told me about you when she knew she wouldn’t survive the cancer, but I never had any desire to meet you until the hospital called. Now I wish I had more time with you. Funny how life works like that.”

  He turned his attention away from James and walked toward Cindy.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “You wanna be part of this family? Come up to Canada with us? You can’t go back home. If the police don’t already know about you, they will soon enough. Come with us, and we’ll start fresh. You know the truth now. Your mother killed your sister. You can learn to let go of the hate you thought you had for this man and get to know him before he dies. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

  Cindy collapsed next to David’s body and wiped her eyes, nodding slowly. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll come. What other choice do I have?”

  Trevor smiled. “That’s my girl.”

  James watched as Trevor turned to go back up the stairs. As he did, Cindy pulled the knife out of David’s hand and lunged at her half brother, trying to stab him in the back. Trevor spun around at the last moment and grabbed Cindy’s wrist, kicking her legs out from underneath her and landing on top of her at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Get off of me!” Cindy screamed. “Get off!”

  Trevor squeezed her wrist until her grip on the knife waned. The weapon fell to the tiled floor, useless.

  “I’ll kill you!”

  Trevor shook his head. “Why?” he asked as he wrapped his hands around Cindy’s throat. “You were the only one who got what Hagen promised. What I promised. You got the truth, and now you have an opportunity to start a new life with your new family. Why isn’t that enough? Why can’t you love us?”

  71

  By the time Susan and Triston had gotten up to Gloversville, Crosby had made the necessary arrangements, and she had a small army of police personnel waiting. Six troopers and a SORT team from Troop T joined four officers and a sergeant from the Gloversville Police Department. They all met about two miles south of Trevor Foster’s farm, assembling in the parking lot of a used car dealership and reenacting the scene she’d had with the other SORT team at David Hill’s house in Tarrytown. The officers formed a semicircle around her as she went over final instructions.

  “We have reason to believe that Trevor Foster is holding James Darville at his farm,” she explained as Triston passed out ID sheets with each person’s name and photo on them. “Trevor matches the person we see on the dashcam video, so be careful. I’m also expecting to encounter his nurse, Rebecca Hill, but I’m not sure if she’s a suspect or a hostage at this time. Treat her like a suspect. Rebecca’s brother, David Hill, could be there too. Finally, we have Cynthia Garland, who we believe is the woman in the dashcam video.”

  The officers took the sheets and studied them.

  “We have to go in fast. According to the property map, there’s a long driveway that leads from the street to the house, and it’ll be easy for Foster to see us coming. We need to get up that road and into the house before he, or anyone else in there, has time to react. I want teams of two men on each side of the house, a team of four men in the rear, and the rest of us through the front. Front and rear breach at the same time. We sweep, take down everyone we see, cuff them, and clear. Any questions?”

  The men shook their heads.

  “Anything we should know from the local guys that I missed?”

  The officers from Gloversville also shook their heads. Everyone was good to go.

  “Okay,” Susan said as she made her way to her car. Triston was right behind her. “Let’s do this. Fast and easy. No one gets hurt.”

  Each team hustled to their vehicles and climbed in. The two Gloversville cruisers led the way, followed by the SORT truck and then Susan. They left the parking lot in a rush, spilling onto the road, leaving clouds of dust and gravel in their wake.

  The snow had already begun to accumulate up here and was piled along the curbs, dirty and brown even though it couldn’t have been more than a few weeks old. The roads themselves had been plowed and salted and were in good condition.

  Trevor Foster’s farm was the third swath of land they came upon and a few miles away from downtown. As Susan crested a hill, she could see a few structures—a barn, a cowshed, a silo—and as they got closer to the main entrance, she spotted the farmhouse and iron gate welcoming them to Foster’s Farm.

  They flew up the long driveway and skidded to a stop in front of what looked to be a stereotypical farmhouse with an oversized wraparound porch, peaked roof, and old shutters made out of wood. Officers and troopers spilled from their vehicles, footsteps crunching gravel and snow as they took their preassigned positions at the sides and rear of the main structure. Susan and Triston ran up the front stairs with the SORT team and stopped. This time there was no courtesy knock or five-second count. As soon as everyone was in position, they crashed through the door with the ram and immediately found the body of a woman lying in the hallway.

  “We got a body!” Susan shouted. “Clear the house!”

  The team began their sweep.

  “State police! Come out now!”

  “Gloversville Police Department! Come out with your hands up!”

  Footsteps stampeded from room to room. Boots marched through the rear. Susan bent down and checked the pulse on the woman. Dead. She stood back up and watched as several officers made their way up to the second floor, weapons drawn and aimed ahead of them. She saw a pair o
f SORT members descend to the basement.

  “State police!”

  “This is the Gloversville PD. We are armed, and you’re surrounded. Show yourself with your hands in the air!”

  “I think we’re too late,” she said to Triston as he came up beside her. She could see beads of sweat forming on his head. “Whatever happened, it looks like they cleared out.”

  “You ID this one?” Triston asked.

  “Yeah. Dr. Sara Phines. She was Darville’s neurologist out of Phelps.”

  “How was she involved?”

  “No idea.”

  A member of the SORT team approached. “We’ve got Cynthia Garland’s car in the driveway. Same make and model. Trevor Foster’s truck is there, and David Hill’s SUV too.”

  “They have to be here somewhere,” Triston said as he bent down to peer out the living room windows.

  The calls began, one after the other.

  “Clear!”

  “All clear!”

  “Top floor clear!”

  “Basement’s clear!”

  “Dammit,” Susan muttered. She walked down the hall to the middle of the kitchen and stood up on a chair so the men could see her. “Listen up! This farm is hundreds of acres. I want teams of two each taking a north, south, east, and west direction. Most of the fields are cut down from the harvest, so you should be able to see what’s up ahead. Look for any structures where these people could be hiding. We already know there’s a barn and a silo. Could also be sheds and other structures. All of the suspects’ vehicles are here, so they have to be somewhere on the property. If anyone gets a hit, call it in. I also want units on the roads that surround the farm. No one gets out. If you need backup, call it in.”

  The team agreed and split up into pairs, tromping through the fields and onto paths that led in different directions. Susan stayed on the porch and watched them go. When they were gone, she pulled Triston by the arm.

  “Let’s move.”

  Triston tipped his cap. “After you, my lady.”

  They made their way up an uneven path toward the oversized barn near the main house. It looked to be in good shape, well built, sturdy. Inside, the barn was split into two areas. The left side was a staging area for the cows to be tended to. There were empty stalls and equipment Susan wasn’t familiar with, but it looked as if maybe that was where the local veterinarian worked with the herd or where they were milked. She had no idea. The right side held most of the farm equipment: tractor, backhoe, loader, corn harvester. Next to the equipment was a large workbench full of tools and supplies. She and Triston checked the entire barn. It was empty.

  “Let’s keep going.”

  They walked off toward the silo, which was a shadowy obelisk in the middle of a cornfield now that the sun had gone down. Triston shined his flashlight as they worked their way in a southeastern direction. Susan was at his side, her Beretta ready. The only sounds were the other men on the grounds, searching for their suspects.

  As she walked, Susan began to think about James Darville, confused and panicked about what was happening to him. She knew there was a good chance that he could already be dead, but her gut told her he was still alive. Her gut also told her she was running out of time.

  Triston stopped when they reached the silo. “Look at that,” he said, pointing his flashlight at a ten-yard swath of snow that had been disturbed. “You got footprints coming out of the cornfields where this snow is all messed up, but nothing past this point. Doesn’t look like anyone went in the silo.”

  Susan surveyed the tracks. “I agree. But let’s give the silo a quick once-over, and then we’ll follow the tracks.”

  They walked as quietly as they could toward the silo’s door. Triston pulled it open, and they both slipped inside. It was a grain silo, four stories tall. An iron spiral staircase was the first thing they came upon. They climbed the stairs quickly, Triston’s light bouncing as he went. The interior was quiet but for their footsteps on the metal treads.

  The stairs led to a small catwalk only wide enough for one person. Susan followed Triston about twenty feet out until they were standing over the grain that was packed below them.

  “Nobody,” Triston said. “Nowhere to hide.”

  “Come on. We’ll follow the prints in the snow.”

  They made their way back down the stairs and out into the cornfields. Triston picked up the tracks with his flashlight, and they kept moving. The air was cold with the sun gone. The wind scratched at Susan’s face and hands.

  The footprints looked as if more than one person had been walking along this route. Susan stood on her toes to try and see beyond the tops of the trimmed cornstalks. She caught sight of a small house in the middle of the field, about two hundred yards away. If there hadn’t been lights on in a few of the windows, she never would’ve seen it. But there it was. And she knew.

  “We have a small outbuilding up ahead about two hundred yards. Call it in. They have to be there.”

  Triston nodded, shut off his flashlight, and whispered into his radio, stating their location and requesting backup.

  Susan kept moving toward the house, stopping every few feet to look up past the stalks to make sure she was moving in the right direction. Her gun was drawn in front of her, and she could hear Crosby’s voice in her head.

  You need a partner on this one.

  We all know what happened, and I’ve been trying to give you space, but on things like this, you need backup.

  Damn him for being right.

  72

  “Let her go!” James cried, helplessly yanking on the zip ties that pinned his wrists to the wheelchair. “Please! I don’t want to see anyone else get hurt!”

  Trevor ignored him, instead squeezing his hands tighter around Cindy’s throat. He was killing her, and there was nothing James could do to stop him.

  Cindy’s face had turned purple. Her eyes bulged from their sockets as her grip on Trevor’s forearms began to loosen. She was about to lose consciousness.

  “I wanted you with us,” Trevor growled through clenched teeth. “I wanted you in my life. I wanted to love my sister and share things with her. But you don’t want that. You don’t want us.”

  James was about to scream again for Trevor to stop when the front door above them burst open. Even in the basement they could hear it crash against the wall. Trevor froze, loosening his grip. Cindy gasped for air, choking and coughing.

  Someone was in the house.

  Footsteps stomped above them. It was hard to determine how many people there were. More than one, for sure.

  “Help!” James began shouting as he tugged on his zip ties. “We’re in the basement! He has us both! Help us!”

  The footsteps galloped toward the basement door. The man—he’d forgotten his name—looked at James, his lips curling back, showing his crooked teeth like fangs. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because it has to end.”

  “I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to save us.”

  “I don’t want to be saved. Not anymore.”

  The man jumped to his feet and raised the shotgun. “There was no point in any of this,” he said. “I should just kill you right now.”

  James nodded. “I’m ready.”

  The man stood there for a moment longer, the shotgun aimed at James’s face. He closed his eyes and waited to die, but the man suddenly ran past him and disappeared into the darkness down the corridor. The hurricane doors opened just as the basement door above did the same.

  “New York State Police!” a woman shouted.

  “Down here!” Cindy coughed, sitting up and massaging her throat. “He went out through the storm door. It’s Trevor Foster. He’s getting away.”

  James watched as an older man in uniform descended the basement stairs and surveyed the scene. He pulled the radio from the clip on his belt.

  “We got multiple suspects at the grain house. I got a man down. Looks to be David Hill. James Darville is alive. I’m placing Cynthia Gar
land in custody. Trevor Foster is still on the grounds and fleeing. Do you copy?”

  James could hear the calls coming back from voices on the man’s radio. They all confirmed the transmission and copied.

  The uniformed man placed his radio back on his belt and made his way to James. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  James nodded. “Yes, but you need to check the fish,” he said. “They’ve been in the oven for too long. I think they’re burning.”

  73

  Susan scurried back out of the house and jumped off the porch, running around to the side where she knew the hurricane doors would be. When she got there, the doors were open, and she could see a fresh set of prints in the snow trailing away from the house and into the cornfields, toward the direction of the silo. For a second she thought about grabbing Triston to help her, but she heard the call over the radio. He had a scene to secure, and backup was coming. She couldn’t pull him from that, and she couldn’t wait for the others. Trevor was getting away, and he knew his own land better than anyone. She had to get moving.

  It was hard to follow the tracks in the snow without the aid of Triston’s flashlight. Susan moved as quickly and as quietly as she could. Muffled shouting came from all directions as the other officers and SORT team members closed in on the grain house. She moved on, alone.

  You need a partner on this one.

  She took a few steps and stopped, trying to listen past the voices that were approaching the house in order to hear movement in her immediate vicinity. She picked up the faint sound of snow crunching underfoot off to her right and up ahead just a bit. She burst into a sprint, then stopped to listen, then ran again. It didn’t take long to track the footprints back to the silo. The door was ajar. Was that something she and Triston had done? Was Trevor Foster inside?