by Leslie Nagel
With her free right hand, she pulled her flashlight from her pocket. She hooked it around the end of the island, sending it skittering across the floor. The light jumped toward the sound, and Charley heard heavy footsteps as a hulking form came fully into the room, turning as he cleared the leading edge of the swinging door.
While his light remained pointed at the floor, Charley sprang to her feet. She gave the soda can three or four hard shakes, then stepped forward.
“Up here, asshole.” He jerked his head toward the sound of her voice. Charley pointed the soda can, cracked the pull tab, and shot a fountain of warm, foaming liquid into his face. He emitted a bellow of shock and rage, dropping his flashlight and clawing at his eyes.
Charley didn’t wait around for introductions. She grabbed the front of the man’s sodden jacket and rammed her knee into his crotch. As he doubled over in fresh agony, she swung him hard to her left and heard his head smack into the island.
In a move that would have made John Bright proud, she braced her hand on the back of her much larger attacker and, as he began to straighten, used his upward motion to vault herself over his hunching back, causing him to stumble to his knees. She landed, staggering slightly but managing not to fall, then shot through the first, then the second swinging door, racing down the dark hallway with her hands outstretched, praying she wouldn’t trip or run headlong into an obstacle. Behind her came the sound of cursing, but she didn’t slow down. Whoever this guy was, she wouldn’t slip past him a second time.
By the echoing of her footsteps and the feel of air on her face, she knew she’d emerged into the cavernous entry. She ran to her left, slowing slightly to avoid knocking herself unconscious against the wall. When her fingers encountered wood, she scrabbled for the door handle, almost sobbing with relief, and pulled the first pocket door open. As she dashed across the living room toward the second pair of doors, she realized she could see them. Faint, grayish light filtered in through the windows at either end of the room. Outside in the world of safety and other people, dawn was breaking at last.
“You BITCH!” roared a distant voice. Charley needed no further encouragement. She slipped through the second pocket door, ran to the terrace door with the missing pane of glass, and yanked it open. With a profound sense of sweet liberation, she stumbled outside into a fine, sheeting rain that soaked her to the skin in seconds. Charley filled her lungs with moist, fresh air, then darted across the terrace, vaulted the low stone railing, and landed on the lawn, legs already churning at top speed as indecipherable shouts echoed from the foyer.
Elation at her narrow escape propelled Charley forward toward the circular driveway. As she glanced back at the house to gauge pursuit, her feet slid on the wet gravel. She went down hard, twisting her ankle and landing on her sore right shoulder with her full weight. She lay there gasping, white stones jabbing into her face and body, unable to move, unable even to catch her breath, the pain was so intense.
Charley blinked away tears of agony. Her shoulder was on fire and her right ankle throbbed. As she struggled to control her jagged breathing, to manage the pain enough to stand, the terrace door was flung open with sufficient force to slam it against the interior dining room wall. The sound of shattering glass cut through her pain and propelled her upward. She lurched back onto her feet, rounded the koi pond, and left the exposed driveway, angling into the woods.
Once again, she found herself fleeing through almost total darkness. The uneven ground constantly threatened to trip her as she limped along on her injured ankle. Above the storm clouds the light of a new day was growing stronger, but down here among the trees, it was still night. Heavy rainfall seeped through the canopy in icy droplets that stung her face and slicked the fragrant carpet of pine needles and dead leaves underfoot. Charley moved as rapidly as she dared, her right arm cradled against her body, her left hand outstretched to fend off sharp branches that were invisible until they reared up, over and over like cresting surf, snagging at her clothes. Her knitted hat was torn away, freeing wet hair that plastered itself to her face in thick, tangled strands. She heard no sound of pursuit, but she didn’t dare slow down. She half limped, half ran, stumbling and gasping, praying to encounter Runnymede Road or a neighboring home, losing all sense of direction as she put as much distance as possible between herself and Mulbridge House.
When she’d run for several minutes, she slowed to catch her breath and assess her surroundings. In every direction lay trees and more trees. The sound of water cascading over rocks came faintly from somewhere far to her right. Or was it her left? With a growing sense of dismay, she realized she was completely disoriented. Where the hell was the road? She must be somewhere in the heart of Gallagher’s Island, but she couldn’t remember where the creek lay. Did any part of it flow near the Mulbridge estate? Her stomach dropped at a terrible thought. What if she had been running in circles? What if, in her panicked dash for freedom, she’d run right back into the arms of her pursuer?
Immobilized by fear and indecision, fighting back waves of pain from her shoulder and ankle, she nearly gave up, nearly succumbed to the temptation to sink to the ground, to hope that the receding darkness would hide her until the growing daylight revealed a house or the street, or until help arrived. Where she imagined help might come from, she had no idea.
Just then her eyes detected a light moving through the trees several hundred yards ahead. She shrank against a tree, afraid she had been discovered. Then she noticed there were two lights, not one. As she watched, the twin lights angled rapidly away to the left and disappeared. Headlights! She had found the road. As she took a step toward sanctuary, she heard something—or someone—crashing heavily through the underbrush.
Charley took off at a dead run, not bothering with stealth, ignoring the pain in her ankle, aiming directly for the point where she had last seen those blessed headlights. The light grew stronger as the trees thinned, and then Houk Stream lay before her, wide and shallow. She splashed clumsily through ankle-deep water and, with a final effort, broke free of the woods and stumbled onto the road.
And straight into the path of an oncoming car.
Chapter 15
Mitch Cooper pressed his fingertips against eyes grainy with fatigue. He’d been rotating this stakeout duty with Kyle Cutter, a fellow safety officer, every two hours or so since midnight, so he’d only been sitting here watching Corey Reynolds’s house since just after six o’clock. Still, there was something about the silent hour before sunrise that seemed to sap the energy from every cell in his body. The mist that began falling around two a.m. had resolved into a cold, soaking rain about twenty minutes ago, rivulets of water forming and re-forming in hypnotic patterns as it rolled down the windshield and the driver’s window that faced north toward Corey’s house.
A reluctantly cooperative Mrs. Reynolds had confirmed that Corey hadn’t been in touch since Tuesday morning, when he’d left for school and never arrived there. Once Detective Trenault explained Corey’s suspected involvement in a drug trafficking ring, his now terrified mother had given consent to a search of the house and garage. No clue to Corey’s present whereabouts had been found. They had a flag on his cellphone, but apparently the kid was smart enough to keep it turned off.
From his position across Magnolia Street, Mitch had a clear view of both the front and side entrances to the house. There was no back door. Even if Reynolds entered the property through the gate in the stockade fence surrounding the backyard, he could not get inside his house without being seen.
Mitch scrubbed his hands over his face, shaking his head like a dog and shifting in his seat in an attempt to get comfortable and stimulate wakefulness. The frigid temperatures weren’t helping matters, but if he cranked up the heater in his squad car to compensate for the cold, he knew he’d be sound asleep in minutes. Part of his discomfort was his own fault, the result of an ill-considered second helping of a popular energy drink. He’d drained two full cans since the last shift change, and his blad
der was beginning to make itself heard, or rather, felt.
To distract himself from his growing need to pee, and with one eye on the front of the Reynolds family residence, Mitch reviewed his personal case notes on the Calvin Prescott murder. He’d been thrilled to the soles of his highly polished regulation boots when Detective Trenault had tapped him for this investigation, and he intended to do everything in his power to make his hero proud.
Not that everyone thought he had what it took. Mitch scowled as his mind filled with an image of the lovely Vanessa St. James. She had laughed at him, right in front of Charley and several others. Cripes, he hated the way his ears lit up like Christmas. It was so…uncoplike. He shifted again, this time with embarrassment. With her exotic beauty and mad karate skills, the strange girl had caught him off guard. He’d never met anyone quite like her.
Still, what did she know about being a real police officer? Nothing, he thought irritably, for all her big talk about attending the training academy. So he had a baby face. It was actions that mattered, wasn’t it? He shifted yet again and forced his attention back to business.
Detective Trenault had decided that, in the absence of other leads, the Mulbridge connection was worth pursuing. Mitch had spent the bulk of yesterday afternoon trying to pin down the whereabouts of Jameson Mulbridge, younger brother to the elegant but frosty Holland. She was pretty enough, but a bit too old and definitely too bossy for Mitch’s taste. And blond. These days he found his preference leaning more toward brunettes.
He’d managed to plow through three layers of gatekeeping receptionists, finally winning his way to Jameson’s personal assistant just as the time read 5:00 p.m. and the Mulbridge Shipping offices were about to close. A man with a British accent identified himself as Cecil Frye. He informed Mitch rather breathlessly that Mr. Mulbridge was away on personal business and wasn’t expected back in the office before next week.
“I’ll be happy to take your name and number. Or you’re welcome to try again on Tuesday, or perhaps Wednesday. Good—”
“Wait!” Mitch said with an edge of desperation. He couldn’t report to Marc that he had failed. “Personal business, you said?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss Mr. Jameson’s private affairs,” Cecil Frye replied primly. “If there’s nothing—”
“Can you at least tell me where he went?” Mitch asked helplessly, not really expecting him to answer. “Please, Mr. Frye. It’s extremely important.”
There was a brief silence. “He’s in Dayton, Ohio.” The man pronounced the two words as if he were describing his dog’s latest bowel movement. As Mitch gaped at the receiver in surprise, Frye hung up without another word.
He’d tried to relay this interesting development to Marc and Paul, but both detectives had been up to their necks in Purple Tang members and their hostile parents until after ten o’clock. Mitch had settled for emailing the information. He’d then grabbed a quick nap before his first shift on stakeout.
Holland had told Charley her brother wasn’t in town and had no plans to come here, despite the imminent demolition of their family home. Was she lying, or had Jamie just changed his mind? If so, why hadn’t he called his sister to tell her he was in town?
Where, Mitch wondered, was Jamie Mulbridge right this minute?
Movement across the street claimed Mitch’s immediate and undivided attention. Someone had just emerged from the Reynolds’ backyard, walking purposefully along the high fence that ran between the manicured lawn and the cracked and crumbling driveway of the house next door. Mitch squinted through the rain-spattered windshield, trying to get a better look. Streetlamps cast more shadow than light, making it difficult to see in any detail. This wasn’t Corey, by the size of him. The guy was too big, huge even. Mitch watched as the figure loped across the scruffy neighboring lawn toward the crumbling front steps of a tiny, dilapidated house.
He started violently at a sudden tapping on his front passenger window. Mitch whipped his head around to find Vanessa St. James peeking in at him. She appeared to be out for an early run despite the weather, dressed in form-fitting black leggings and an oversized waterproof pullover. Her lustrous hair emerged in a shining tail from the back of a black ball cap with fbi in white lettering across the front. Rain dripped from the brim, although she didn’t appear to care. Her face was free of makeup and rosy with exertion. To his annoyance, she looked both innocently fresh and very…sexy. Attractive. Whatever. Since it seemed unlikely she would simply run off without bothering him further, he rolled the window down a few inches.
“Officer Cooper.” She smiled, teeth white and even in her perfect face. Mitch found himself blinking several times to clear his vision.
“Miss St. James.”
“Stakeout, huh?” She indicated the empty cans on his front seat. “That stuff’ll kill you. It’s loaded with chemicals.”
“Thank you for your concern,” he said stiffly. Geez, he sounded like a total dweeb. Something about this girl threw him off balance. No wonder she laughed at him.
“So,” she said easily, hands braced on the car roof as she stretched first one hamstring, then the other, “why are you staking out Millie Peache? Are you afraid her house might explode from all the junk she’s got packed in there?”
Mitch stared at her in confusion. “Excuse me? Why would you think I was watching Millie Peache?”
“That’s where she lives. Charley and her friend Frankie told my brother it’s a real nightmare in there. Hoarder extraordinaire.” She waved a hand toward the little house next door to Corey’s on whose front stoop the big man was now standing. A single exterior light mounted by the door was burning, but its position directly behind the man’s head cast his face into shadow. Mitch watched as he spoke rapidly into a cellphone. His body language expressed anger and impatience. As he began pacing the length of the porch and back again, the light illuminated the square-jawed face of a man of about thirty with heavy brows and slicked-back brown hair. He wore a gray fleece jacket with a large discoloration down the front, as if something had been spilled over it.
“That’s why I ran by here, to check it out,” Vanessa continued. “I need to find the good runs around here. Normally I like a route with more elevation changes…”
As she chattered on, Mitch continued to watch the man. Something about him—his size, the attitude of barely suppressed rage—held his attention. Using the front door for scale, Mitch gauged his height at well above six feet, perhaps as much as six foot six. A quiet bell rang in the engine room of his cop’s brain. The man ended his call, shoving the cellphone into his hip pocket and producing a set of keys. He selected one and prepared to unlock the front door of Millie Peache’s house.
With his left hand.
Mitch was out of the squad car in a flash, mind racing through the possibilities as cold rain pelted his face.
“So, anyway, I was wondering if you’d—Hey!” Vanessa exclaimed, straightening as he closed the door of his squad car and took a single step toward the man. “What’s up?”
“Excuse me, sir?” Mitch called. “Stay here,” he said to Vanessa. As he did so, the man glanced up and saw him, a uniformed safety officer, standing next to a squad car. Mitch locked gazes with the man, who froze, wide-eyed, left hand extended toward the door, the stance of a cornered animal. Mitch knew that stance, that look in the eyes. One heartbeat, then two, then the man let the keys drop from his hand.
“Police! Sir, please step down from the—”
“What’s going on?” Vanessa asked again, coming around the squad car as Mitch unsnapped the holster to his sidearm.
“Get behind the car,” Mitch ordered her tersely. “Sir, I need you to come down off the porch immediately. Hands where I can see—”
The man reached around and pulled a small handgun out of his waistband, aimed, and fired. The rear window of the squad car imploded. Vanessa stood staring, immobilized by shock. Mitch grabbed her arm and dragged her backward, around the end of the car away from the
shooter. Another gunshot rang out and bark flew off the trunk of a tree three feet to his left. Pulling Vanessa down to the pavement, Mitch keyed his shoulder radio.
“Shots fired! I say again, shots fired at 421 Magnolia. Officer needs assistance!”
Mitch’s gun was in his hand, the familiar balance and smooth metal like an extension of his arm. He peered over the trunk of the squad car, drawing a third shot that smacked into the left rear quarter panel.
“Who the hell is that guy?” Vanessa gasped. She started to rise as if to get a better look.
“Are you crazy?” Mitch grabbed her jacket and pulled her down as he rose swiftly, sighted his weapon, and fired three times in rapid succession before ducking again. One of the front windows of the Peache house shattered.
“Watch your tone,” Vanessa bristled. Mitch could hardly believe she was still throwing attitude, given the situation. “I can handle myself.”
Mitch peered around the end of the car in time to see the man leap from the porch and start running east across the lawn in the opposite direction from the Reynolds house.
“Police! Freeze!” He fired again, but the man was already out of range, sprinting toward an alley that ran perpendicular to Magnolia and formed one side of the Peaches’ eastern neighbor’s property. Mitch knew it was filled with garage doors, overgrown shrubs, and a dozen hiding places and points of escape into a dozen properties along two different parallel streets. He rose again, preparing to give chase.
“Hold on a minute!” Vanessa said urgently, clutching at his sleeve. “You should wait for backup. Or I could drive this car into the alley and give you cover!”
Mitch stared at her in disbelief. Was she actually enjoying this? While he wasted time arguing with her, seconds were ticking away as an armed suspect fled through a residential neighborhood. He jabbed a finger into her face.