by Davis Bunn
Matt froze. He breathed through his mouth, waiting until his eyes fully adjusted. Then he holstered his weapon and flipped over the stair railing. He slipped down so that one hand held him by the stairs’ edge and the other by the railing post. He hung out over nothing and began inching himself up. He came to the top stair and worked his way around the corner, moving down the outer ledge of the upstairs landing. He heard nothing. Five feet farther on, he strained and drew himself up just high enough so his eyes came above floor level.
For an instant he saw nothing except a hall in disarray. As though his father had come out of his bedroom, seen the attacker, and started tossing everything within reach between himself and the assailant. Matt felt a tight pleasure in the fact that at least his father had put up a fight.
Then a shadow detached itself from the wall.
Matt watched him move. Tall, incredibly strong, lithe, silent. Illumination from the streetlights and the moon turned him to liquid ink. He wore a ski mask and dark clothes and gloves. He carried Paul Kelly over one shoulder. Even so burdened, he was light on his feet. He moved to the top of the stairwell, so quiet all Matt could hear was his own heart’s violent thumping.
The attacker took aim with something and fired down the stairwell. There was a sharp zing, then a tight little flash. Matt realized that the attacker held a stun gun, one that fired energy-darts connected to the handheld power-base by spring wires. The attacker jerked the darts free from the stairwell wall. There was a zipping sound as the darts rewound, then the soft, upward-rising hum of the gun recharging.
The attacker stood there a moment longer, then started down the stairs.
Even if he could have reached his gun, Matt could not have fired without risk of hitting his father. Matt waited until he was midway down the stairs before scaling the railing. As he flipped over the rail, the landing creaked beneath his weight.
The attacker spun about. Something thumped the side wall, perhaps Paul Kelly’s head, because he let out a moan. Matt leaped down the length of the hall, tumbled and rolled at the top of the stairs, gathered himself by gripping the carpet with his hands, and leaped out.
But the assailant was not there.
Matt flew over the attacker’s crouch, reaching down, gripping at nothing but the dark stairwell. Like the assailant had the ability to transfer into smoke at will. Matt was saved only by landing hard on the cop. He rolled and scrunched across the glass, searching for cover. Only to come up with the assailant’s leg directly beside him.
Matt grabbed and jerked. Or started to. The assailant fired the stun gun from point-blank range.
The darts pinched into Matt’s chest. The zinging noise joined with a humming as violent as a billion stinging bees. A voice growled, “This time you’ll lay down and stay down.”
Matt was knocked far, far away.
The next morning, Matt drove two ladies to the pastor’s house. Connie was in the passenger seat of his BMW, Judy Leigh in the back. Neither woman spoke. Connie watched him with the same caring concern she had shown up with half an hour earlier. Matt drove with single-minded intent, struggling hard to keep a firm grip on the day.
As they turned onto Charles Street, Connie said, “You don’t need to do this.”
The buzzing in his ears had passed. His muscles no longer jumped with tight electric aftershocks. He was left with a dull metallic taste and a vague throbbing deep inside his skull. “Do you have any aspirin?”
Connie fished inside her shoulder bag and took two from a plastic container. “I’ll tell you everything I find out.”
He chewed the aspirins and swallowed them dry. He turned onto Mount Vernon and looked for a parking place. “I have to be there, Connie.”
Her only response was to reach over and take his hand. And look at him. Clearly not caring that Judy Leigh could see her emotions unsheathed. “You’re not alone in this. Tell me you understand what I’m saying.”
Matt did not know how to respond. Given what lay ahead, she should have been in full cop mode. Instead, Connie was showing him a side he had never known before. One so deep he felt that he could dive into her gaze, lose himself in the warm, dark concern.
His phone granted him a reason to pull back. “This is Kelly.”
“Van Sant. Any word?”
“Hang on a second, let me finish parking.” He handed Connie the phone, then repressed a groan as he strained and turned and wound the wheel. He cut the motor, retrieved the phone, and reported, “Nothing so far.”
Matt had awakened on the floor of the house’s front foyer when one of the cops he’d found unconscious had shaken him hard. He’d spent hours answering questions, first from the local officers and then a second time when Bryan Bannister had arrived and formally taken charge of the investigation. Finally Matt had escaped downstairs and slept badly to the tune of cops at work overhead. Three hours later he had given up and risen to call Lucas. Morning had spread a sullen gray light upon the sight of five campaign staffers standing in front of the carriage house, fretful and scared. A cop and a fibbie were both questioning them. A crowd of reporters and onlookers clustered behind the police barricades. Television news vans had dug furrows in the park grass across the street from the home’s main entrance. Antennae sprouted among the autumn foliage. Then Connie had arrived and delivered the news that had shattered his world even further.
Van Sant asked, “How are you?”
Sore. Tired. Both were understatements. Back at the house Bryan Bannister had explained they’d been struck by a stun gun rewired to heighten the charge. But Matt didn’t want to get into that. “What have you found?”
“There is no official record of any kind for either Richard Grimes or Porter Reeves. Bank, driver’s license, credit cards, nothing.”
“So he lives and works under a third name.”
“What we figured as well.”
“Thanks, Jack. I need to go.”
“Updates, Kelly. That’s what Washington runs on. Keep us in the loop here.”
Matt hung up and dialed the hospital. D’Amico answered on the first ring. “I need help with something at the local level and I don’t know who else to ask.”
“So talk.”
Matt relayed what they had learned at the prison the previous afternoon. “I asked Van Sant to check for a last known address. He came up with nothing.”
“I’m still having trouble making a connection between Pecard and Grimes.”
“It’s a long shot,” Matt agreed. “But I’ve got this hunch . . .”
“You want me to ask around.”
If only he could clear his head enough to think in a straight line. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should drop it.”
“No, no. Can’t hurt. Besides, it’ll be nice to play detective for a while, even on the phone. Hannah’s coming back over in a while; I’ll ask her to help.”
Matt hated the idea of involving the chief with something so nebulous. But he had no strength for arguing at that point. “Calvin knew a Richard Grimes. Which means Grimes is probably living around here. Somebody on the street might have an address, a hangout, something.”
“I’ll get on this.” D’Amico paused, then asked, “Is Connie with you?”
“Right here.”
“Can I have a word?”
He handed over the phone. Heard her answer. Matt used two knuckles to press at the throbbing in his temples. Maybe the physical pain wasn’t altogether a bad thing. Maybe it would distance him from what he was bound to discover inside.
Connie handed back the phone. Still watching him with a calm that suffused and unsettled in equal measure. “If we’re going, let’s go.”
Matt opened his door. “Judy . . .”
“I’ll stay.” She raised her pad. “I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”
Matt did his best not to limp as they headed down the street. He pressed Ian’s buzzer and then asked Connie, “Mind if I ask what Lucas told you?”
“He wanted to know if you were doin
g this thing. I said yes.” She spoke with a softness that matched the gaze. “He said to be strong for you.”
“Connie—”
Ian Reeves answered the door in his off-duty gear of rumpled slacks, corduroy house slippers, and yesterday’s dress shirt. “Matt. Always a pleasure.”
“Ian, this is Connie Morales.”
“The young police officer who called earlier.” His smile was so warm and genuine it momentarily fit his face into proper form. “And with you. How nice.”
“Ian, we have to ask you some questions about Mom.”
“Matt, I’ve repeatedly told you—”
“And Porter Reeves.”
The smile was gone. “Porter is dead.”
“We have to do this, Ian. Here or at police headquarters. And it has to be now.”
The pastor looked from one face to the next. Then stepped away from the door.
They followed him inside.
The house’s parlor was almost English in its seedy grandeur. Matt pulled over a hard-backed chair because he knew if he gave in to the sagging sofa, he would not rise again that day. Connie remained standing by the door.
Ian glanced over. Nervous now. “Won’t you join us, Officer . . .”
Her voice had resumed its flat cop tone. “I’m good here, sir.”
Matt knew there was probably a way to ease into this. But not today. “Porter Reeves is alive, Ian.”
The blood did not drain from Ian’s uneven features all at once, making him pale in splotches. “That’s not possible.”
“He’s been living under the alias of Richard Grimes, and at least one other name.”
Connie asked, “Have you been in contact with Porter Reeves, sir?”
“What? Didn’t you just hear me?”
“Tell me about Porter and my mother.”
Ian dropped into the sofa. Becoming a lumpy human cushion. “You’re sure? Porter’s alive?”
Matt turned to Connie and nodded.
“Reverend Reeves, we know Porter Reeves was your older brother. You grew up together in Fells Point. Porter worked at the bar run by Megan Kelly’s mother. Please don’t bother denying this, sir. It’s all confirmed by a variety of witnesses.”
“I’m not denying anything.”
“Porter Reeves and Megan Kelly were engaged to be married. Reeves took part in a bank robbery that went wrong.” Connie was doing a good job playing the hard cop. “Because Porter Reeves was a first offender, the judge gave him the choice of army or jail. Reeves enlisted and was sent to Vietnam.”
“And look what it cost him.” Ian spoke to the distant past. “Poor Porter.”
“After Porter went to Vietnam, Megan Kelly began dating—”
“No,” Ian said.
“—a young seminarian named Ian—”
“No!” Ian Reeves bounded to his feet. “That’s absurd. I introduced your parents! Paul Kelly was my friend!”
“Reverend Reeves—”
Matt held up his hand. “Ian, when did you introduce them?”
“Is this really so vital, Matt?” The appeal was desperate. “Do you have to ask these things?”
“Yes and yes.”
His spine bowed to support the invisible weight. “About a year before. . .”
“Before the robbery.”
“Porter wasn’t right for Megan. I knew that from the first moment they started seeing one another. Megan was meant for greater things. She could go anywhere. Make something of her life. Just like your father. Paul Kelly grew up ten blocks away, but he occupied another world. He was always driven, your father. Always determined to break free. He was going places. It was only right he take Megan with him.”
When neither man spoke, Connie said, “Reverend Reeves, I have the testimony of numerous witnesses who say that after your brother left for Vietnam, you and Megan Kelly began—”
“It wasn’t like that.” Ian punched himself in the chest. “Look at me!”
Connie glanced at Matt, then continued, “The neighbors all described Megan Kelly as—”
“Wild.” Ian began pacing. Talking and moving in time to his words. “Wild and carefree and beautiful and so incredibly alive no one could look at her and not smile. Not want to be with her. Not . . .”
He stopped by the front window. “Out there is a world that chants a mantra in chaotic unison. That people can’t change. That life is as it is. Yes. I loved your mother. We all did. I loved her so much I gave her the only thing I could. A chance to hear a different voice. A chance to lead a different life. One where she could go beyond. Not just physically. Beyond. I knew she couldn’t do it alone. Nobody can.”
Matt let Connie ask the next question. “Sir, do you have a photograph of your brother?”
Ian looked at Matt a long moment. Matt sat and waited with him. Finally Ian moved to a wall cupboard, unlocked the bottom doors, selected an old frame. Looked at it. Brought it back and handed it to Matt. Facedown.
Ian returned to his position at the window. “It’s the only one I have. Porter sent it to me before they shipped him out. My parents. . .”
Connie supplied, “They disowned your brother after his arrest.”
“The bank thing was just the last straw.” He shook his head to the storm-laden day. Said once more, “Poor Porter.”
Matt’s phone rang. He glanced at the readout, saw it was the hospital. “This is Kelly.”
D’Amico said, “I got your information.”
“Hang on.” Matt patted his pockets, found he had forgotten his pen. He looked over. Connie was already digging in her purse. “Okay, go.”
“Your man Grimes is supposedly living in an area of Oella known as the Hollows.” As D’Amico spelled out the address, Matt could hear a woman talking in the background. “Hannah is trying to get the assistant DA responsible for Calvin Hogue’s arrest to meet you as well. Your rendezvous point is the Ellicott City train station. It’ll be on signposts once you get into town. The cop who heard about Grimes will meet you there.”
Matt thanked D’Amico and rose to his feet very carefully. “We have to move.”
Ian followed them to the door, watched them leave, then called after them, “Matt, you have to listen to me. Megan came to me because she was alone and frightened and needed help. But not mine. Never mine.” Connie waited until Ian had shut the front door to say, “He didn’t tell us everything.”
Matt handed her the photograph he had still not seen. “Yes, he did.”
Back in the car, Judy Leigh asked, “How did it go?”
“Later,” Connie said and stowed the shoulder bag at her feet.
Matt followed her directions out of town, constantly aware of the framed photograph protruding from the open bag. The pain in his head was gradually easing. Either the aspirin was taking hold, or the day was simply too full to permit the pain much room. Connie kept glancing over, giving him that look. The one that unsettled and soothed at the same time.
The impact of what he had just learned kept building. All the unanswered dilemmas of his childhood, his father’s constant dissatisfaction, the condemnations, the friction. All there.
They pulled up to a stoplight. Connie reached across and touched his arm. He looked over, almost wishing she would speak and give him a reason to push her away. Connie’s quiet concern left him sensing dangerous currents working beneath his own surface. He wanted to open up and tell her what kept beating at him inside. Say all the things he had spent a lifetime learning never to reveal.
Judy Leigh shifted in the rear seat, as though reminding them both they were not alone.
Connie appeared not to care. She kept that gaze leveled on him. And said quietly, “It’s okay, Matt.”
It wasn’t and it never had been, he wanted to respond. She was amazingly like his mother just now, able to peel back all his protective layers and see the hidden, the unspoken, the secret cauldron. She crowded him.
What was more, she challenged. The silence weighed heavy, a softly prodding glimp
se into what might be. Which was why he wanted to tell her to back off.
If only he could.
The assistant DA was parked where Lucas had said she’d be when Matt, Connie, and Judy Leigh pulled in. She called over, “You Kelly?”
“Yes.” Matt waited for Connie to join him. “This is Officer Morales.”
“And her?”
“Judy Leigh, Baltimore Times.”
She smirked but said nothing about the combination. “Hannah Bernstein promised this trip wouldn’t be a waste of my time.”
“We can’t say anything for certain yet. But I hope the chief is right.”
“Bernstein also said the arrest warrant had been issued for the wrong man.”
“That I can definitely confirm.”
“So the information supplied to me by the new chief of Homicide is bogus.”
“Totally.”
Riva Pratt clearly favored red. As in red leather skirt, jacket, nail polish, lipstick, and heels. Her hair was a sordid mousy brown, in striking contrast to the rest of her. “You’re State, did Hannah get that right?
Must pay good, whatever you do at State, to afford those wheels.”
Matt let that one pass. “I haven’t been able to find the address Lucas gave us on my map.”
“Yeah, that sounds like Oella.” She held out her hand, took the paper, said, “Sure, I know this. It’s back in the Hollows.”
“That’s what Lucas told me.”
“The Hollows are why Oella will never be totally tamed, no matter how many fancy D.C. types build weekend houses along the ridgeline.” Riva Pratt had compressed a fifty-year veteran’s attitude into her thirty-year frame. “When I first started out, I coulda bought a house out here for nine thousand dollars. Coulda, shoulda. Last month I heard somebody sold the place next door for half a mil.”
She handed back the paper. “Hannah Bernstein tells me this might also have something to do with your father’s abduction.”
“It might.” Matt explained what they knew about Porter Reeves and Richard Grimes. While he was talking, two patrol cars rolled up. Connie walked over to talk with their occupants.