by Sandra Brown
“I wasn’t held captive.”
“He never restrained you?”
Let go of my hands.
No, Doc.
Please.
No.
But I want to touch you, too. Let go.
Un-huh. This is the only way I can control—
What?
Myself. If you touch me, I’ll come inside you.
Huskily, she said, “I wasn’t restrained.”
Knight looked over at Grange, and Grange shrugged. Knight came back to her looking thoroughly exasperated. “Okay. We learned from the Floyds where he lives.” He scraped his chair back and stood up. “We thought we’d take you up there.”
“What?” she exclaimed in alarm.
“Yep. I’m betting that when you get there, things you can’t remember will start coming back.”
* * *
He couldn’t believe it.
He fucking couldn’t believe it.
No wonder Emory’s body hadn’t been found. She wasn’t fucking dead!
Cell phone to his ear, Jeff paced the lobby of the SO. That smelly, grimy, unsightly hallway in which he’d spent countless hours already had become a metaphor for his life. Everything about it sucked.
Emory lived.
“Mr. Surrey, are you still holding?”
“Yes,” he shouted into his cell phone. “Did you tell him who was calling?”
“I did.” The law firm’s receptionist apologized again for the delay. “He’s with another client. If you’d rather hang up and let him call you back when—”
“I’ll hold. Put a note under his nose. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“Is it regarding Dr. Charbonneau?”
“Yes.”
“We heard she was returned safely yesterday.”
Yes, about twenty-four hours ago. When Jeff heard her voice coming through his phone, what whizzed through his mind was the irrational thought that she was speaking to him from the other side.
But no, she wasn’t channeling from the land of the undead. At the moment Knight and Grange had barged into his motel room, prepared to arrest him for her murder, she proved herself to be very much alive.
And what a life she had been living!
When he’d placed his hands on her shoulders in a seeming gesture of concern, he’d wanted instead to wrap them around her neck. Who would have blamed him? How much could a man be expected to take before he snapped?
His fury barely under control, he said into his phone, “Get him on the line.”
He was put on hold again. As if the indignity of having to arrange for a defense lawyer for Emory wasn’t bad enough, he was having to wait for the privilege.
When her body wasn’t discovered after the first twelve hours of the search, he’d started rehearsing how to play the aggrieved widower. He’d ranted. He’d stamped and stewed and made a nuisance of himself, pressuring them to find her, when, actually, the longer she remained lost, the better.
Just as he was growing accustomed to her being dead, she had turned up alive.
The receptionist came back on. “He’ll speak with you now, Mr. Surrey.”
The attorney addressed him brusquely. “What’s so urgent, Jeff?”
He couldn’t bring himself to explain Emory’s escapade in any detail. “Emory didn’t come away from her harrowing experience unscathed. She needs a good defense lawyer, she needs one immediately, and money is no object.”
After agreeing to a retainer’s fee, he got their business lawyer’s promise to hop right on it. He was just concluding the call when Grange surprised him by entering the lobby through the front door, not from the squad room. Beyond him, Jeff could see the SUV parked out front.
Grange said, “We’re going up there.”
“Up where?”
“Are you coming or not?”
Chapter 30
With head-spinning expedience, Emory was hustled outside and into the SUV. The seating arrangement was as it had been yesterday on the way from the gas station to the hospital. Knight was behind the wheel, Grange also in front, Jeff seated in the back with her.
Today, however, the mood inside the vehicle was considerably different.
When Jeff got in, he reached across the backseat and took her hand. Speaking in an undertone, he told her about his brief conversation with their business lawyer. “He’s retaining someone who handles criminal law cases.” He winced on the word criminal.
“Thank you for doing that.”
He said nothing more, but, feeling his censure, she turned her head away and stared out the window. Gorgeous scenery up here. She tried to empty her mind of everything except the landscape as they wound their way into the mountains.
On a clear day, the vistas would have been breathtaking. Today fog blanketed the valleys. The highest peaks were obscured by low-lying clouds. She recognized the turnoff she’d taken into the national forest last Saturday morning, but they drove past it without anyone remarking on it.
In fact no one spoke for the entirety of the trip. Then they rounded a bend. “Look familiar?” Knight asked over his shoulder as he applied the brakes and the SUV slowed down to go through the open gate. “That’s the Floyds’ pickup across the road. All the tires have gashes in them.”
She wasn’t asked what she knew about their wrecked truck; she didn’t volunteer anything.
In any case, she was feeling such a surge of emotion, it would have been difficult for her to speak. The split-rail fence had been strung with crime scene tape. The yard was crowded with official vehicles bearing the insignias of various agencies. Personnel, bundled up in winter gear, were poking about, drinking from thermoses, talking among themselves. Two emerged from the shed, one carrying a paint can, the other a spool of wire. The door to the cabin was standing open.
Knight got out and handed her down from the backseat. “This the place?”
What would have been the point of lying? But she didn’t vocally confirm it either. She asked the question she’d been dreading most. “Is he in custody?”
“No.”
Her knees went weak with relief. Jeff stepped to her side and cupped her elbow for support. “This is a bad idea. She’s not up to it.”
“No, I’m fine, really.”
He seemed on the verge of arguing when his cell phone chirped. “It’s Alice,” he said after checking the caller. “How much do you want me to tell her about this?”
“Nothing yet.”
He gave a curt nod of agreement. “I’ll think of something.”
Raising the phone to his ear, he walked away from them. She was glad. She didn’t think she could have borne his being inside the cabin. Knight and Grange ushered her up to the door and motioned for her to precede them.
The charred logs in the fireplace had gone cold. On the hearth, the wood box had been emptied and upended. His books, once neatly arranged alphabetically, lay in one large heap on the floor as though ready for a bonfire.
In the center of the floor, the hidey-hole had been exposed and the foot locker removed. It stood open and empty. The lamp remained on the end table, but the burlap shade had been removed, exposing the bare bulb. Men in uniform were searching drawers and cabinets. The mattress on the bed had been stripped and pulled aside.
Knight was saying, “When our people got up here, there was no sight of him and the cabin was mostly empty. Cleaned out. He didn’t leave behind a single scrap of paper. Nothing. But we’ll find him.”
She didn’t think so. He always did as he said. As promised, he had returned her unharmed. He’d rescued Lisa from her brothers’ abuse. He’d left the Floyds alive but not before getting more than the pound of flesh he felt was due for whatever grievance he bore them.
He had also told her that they would never see each other again. He would hold to that, too.
A deputy came in from outside. “Found these in the shed. Somebody asked what the bar was for.” He dropped the heavy articles onto the floor and stamped out.
Emory looked from the pair of gravity boots to the worrisome suspension rod overhead and gave a half laugh, half sob.
Knight mistook the sound for one of distress. “Does this bring back painful memories, Emory?” He looked up at the bar in the ceiling. “Was he into kinky stuff? Did he hurt you?”
“How many times must I tell you? No.”
He studied her for a moment, then summoned over a deputy. “Keep the husband distracted,” he said. “In fact, why don’t all y’all take a ten-minute break outside?”
The room emptied except for her and the two detectives. Knight said, “Let’s sit.” He sat down with her on the leather sofa.
Grange pulled up one of the dining chairs, and as he sat he motioned toward the foot locker. “Reeks of gun oil.”
They looked at her. She kept her expression neutral. When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to reveal anything voluntarily, Knight asked, “How many firearms did he have?”
“I never counted them.”
“What kind were they?”
“I wouldn’t know one from the other.”
“Handguns? Rifles?”
“Some of both.”
The men consulted each other with a glance, then Knight said, “You say he didn’t hurt you.”
“He didn’t.”
“Okay, but based on what he did to the Floyd brothers, it’s clear that this man is capable of violence. He also motivated you, if not coerced you, to commit a felony. Now, Emory, looking at it strictly from a law enforcement standpoint, don’t you think it’s feasible that he attacked you on that trail?”
“For what purpose?”
Grange said, “Maybe just for the hell of it.”
She looked toward the kitchen area where the drawers had been opened and rifled. She thought of how tidy he’d kept it and how meticulously he’d performed every task, such as repairing a toaster. “Whimsy? No, Sergeant Grange. He would never do something just for the hell of it. Besides, I’ve told you that he treated me kindly.”
“I wouldn’t call turning you into a thief a kindness,” Knight said. “But just for the sake of argument, let’s say that break-in was for a good cause. Let’s say it was necessary in order for you to help a girl in need of medical treatment. Let’s also say that those Floyd boys deserved the whipping they got. Going by their rap sheets, that’s not a stretch.”
“Then why are we here and having this conversation?”
“Because I still believe you were a hostage of sorts, not a willing participant in that burglary. Buddy and me don’t want to see you punished for something you were forced to do under duress.”
He leaned toward her, getting to the crux of his argument. “Even if you can’t remember it, it’s reasonable, isn’t it, that this guy clouted you over the head and hauled you off that trail? Any way you look at it, that’s assault and battery and kidnapping.”
“I don’t believe he’s guilty of those crimes.”
“If he’s not guilty of something, why didn’t he bring you into town and make himself known?”
She opened her mouth but had no words with which to respond.
However, as though she had spoken, Knight said, “Exactly. Staying under the radar was worth twenty-five grand to him. Which leads us to believe that he’s a fugitive. You need to help us catch him.”
“Why do you need me? You’ve searched every inch of this cabin.”
“Which doesn’t belong to him. It’s a rental.”
“Oh.”
“You sound surprised.”
She glanced toward the denuded bookshelves. “He treated it as an owner would. But if he’s a renter, then surely his name is on the lease.”
“Rent’s paid by a lawyer in Seattle.”
“Seattle?”
“On behalf of an LLC, and the general partner of the LLC is a corporation. We’re trying to cut through all the red tape necessary to get to a human being behind the corporation, but in the meantime, our suspect is getting away.”
Grange joined in. “The Floyd brothers claimed not to remember what he looks like. Their mother, too. The description Lisa gave the deputy could’ve been of me or Beyoncé. We find it real hard to believe that their powers of recall are that imprecise. And we think you remember him in a lot more detail than you gave us.”
Knight said, “That could be construed as obstruction of justice.”
“How could you prove what I do and do not remember about him?” she challenged. “I had a concussion and a CT scan that shows it.”
In frustration, Knight switched tactics. Sighing as though in resignation, he said, “We’re getting nowhere fast. I can hear your husband arguing with the deputies outside, and I sympathize with his impatience. He’s had it up to here with us.
“And, pardon me for saying so, Emory, but you’re looking peaked. Maybe you shouldn’t have checked out of the hospital so soon. We should’ve thought twice before hauling you up here.
“But since we made the trip, tell us one thing. Just one thing that’ll help us. Then we’ll go back to Drakeland, see that you’re put up someplace nice and made comfortable so you can rest.”
She waited out the inanities, then said, “Please stop talking to me as though I’m an imbecile.”
“Last thing I think is that you’re an imbecile.”
“I’m not infirm either. I am, however, tired of your hounding me to give you information that I don’t have.”
“I think you do.”
“Then you think wrong.”
Grange said, “We could charge you with aiding and abetting a criminal.”
“You don’t know that he’s a criminal.”
“We’ve got video of him committing a burglary.”
“No you don’t. You’ve got video of me.”
“Did he threaten you and the Floyds not to reveal his identity?”
“I don’t know his identity.”
“Every minute you sit here and refuse to cooperate—”
“I’m not refusing.”
“—he’s getting farther away.”
“Tell us his name.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Emory—”
“I don’t know his name!”
* * *
“Hayes Bannock.”
“What about him?” Jack asked.
“His fingerprint was lifted off a kitchen sink faucet in North Carolina.”
Just before six fifteen yesterday evening, Jack had left Rebecca Watson’s house wanting to throttle her.
Except for locating her, the trip to the West Coast had been a total bust. Reasoning that there was no sense in hanging around and placing his manhood in jeopardy, he’d gone straight from her house, all the way back across the water on the damn ferry, through Seattle proper, finally reaching Sea-Tac in time to claim one of the few remaining seats on the red-eye to New York. He killed time in the airport by reading a bad novel about a good cop, until the flight’s departure, which was delayed by an hour and a half. It had been bumpy to the degree that food and beverage service had been limited and passengers were required to stay buckled in their seats.
Then, because of weather, the flight was kept in a holding pattern for hours until finally getting clearance to land. He’d waited in the half-mile-long taxi line at JFK, stamping his feet and trying to keep his back to a polar wind. He had just now trudged into his apartment, trailing his roll-aboard, and feeling grimy, gritty, and generally like hammered shit.
He’d almost ignored Greer’s call. Now he let go of the handle of his rolling suitcase. It toppled. “Say again?”
Greer repeated the stupefying statement.
Jack stood perfectly still, waiting for the punch line, for the second shoe to drop, for the “Gotcha!”—although he couldn’t imagine his trusted associate pulling a dirty trick like that on him.
After fifteen seconds of stunned silence, Greer said, “Jack?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” His heart began to beat again. He found some oxygen. “Wh
en?”
“When did they lift it? Some time this morning. It was copied in an e-mail to you. Came in about three minutes ago. I thought you’d’ve seen it.”
“I was dealing with the taxi and getting into the building. Keep your phone in your hand.”
Jack clicked off and accessed his e-mail. The most recent in his inbox was from a Sergeant Detective Sam Knight. He tried to read it so quickly the message would just as well have been written in Zulu. He started with the salutation and began again, forcing himself to go slower.
Words leaped out at him. Breaking and entering. Assault and battery. Kidnapping. Statutory rape. “Jesus.” He called Wes Greer back.
Greer said, “Left me speechless. What about you?”
“When he resurfaced, he sure as shit didn’t soft-pedal. How soon can you get me down there?”
“You just got off a red-eye. Take today to—”
“No, now. I’m gonna shower. Let’s talk again in five minutes.”
He was clean and shaved and hurriedly switching the dirty clothes in his suitcase for clean ones when Greer called back. “I e-mailed your itinerary.”
“Any flight delays expected?”
“Not here. Your connecting flight may get held up in Charlotte if the fog in Asheville doesn’t lift.”
“Fog? Doesn’t Asheville have mountains?”
Flying into mountains in fog held even less appeal than fog-shrouded ferry rides. He really needed to catch this motherfucker.
On the cab ride to LaGuardia, he punched in the contact number at the bottom of the e-mail he’d received. The call was answered by a gravelly voice with a noticeable drawl. “Sam Knight.”
They exchanged perfunctory introductions, then Knight said, “We just got back from up at his place. I put in the e-mail everything we know at this juncture.”
“No sign of him?”
“Not since he dropped off Lisa Floyd at her aunt’s house this morning, and nobody can or will describe his pickup.”
“What do you mean by ‘will’?”
“All the Floyds are as stupid on the subject of him as Dr. Charbonneau. Beats all I’ve ever seen. Like he sprinkles people with amnesia powder instead of fairy dust. Is he a Charles Manson type? A Jim Jones?”