by D. A. Keeley
“So she’s a research specialist?”
“Well, she researches a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s written three books, but only one was published.”
“The other two?”
“I guess no one wanted to publish them. It leaves her in an academic version of no-man’s land. If you can’t publish, you can’t get a full-time position in this market. And usually if you can’t get a full-time position, you have to turn to something else—working for the government or something like that where you can put your Ph.D. to work. In Sherry’s case, she married a doctor.”
A dentist, Peyton thought. A broke one. Aloud she said, “You said you’re working with her. How is that going?”
“I said I have worked with her. She’s applied three times for a tenure-track position—every time one has opened up the last few years. We can’t tell her not to apply, but we don’t even offer her a courtesy interview.”
“She’s that bad?”
“We need the intro classes taught, and the freshman won’t intimidate her.”
Peyton thought of Sherry’s go-round with DA Stephanie DuBois. That intellectual sparring match hadn’t ended well for Sherry either.
“What do you think is going on with her?” Peyton asked.
“She needs approval but lacks the confidence to gain it,” Fontaine said. “I think it’s fairly straightforward in the grand scheme of things. It’s unfortunate. I wish I knew more about her past. There’s something to it that holds her back. I fear that it always will.”
“It’s sad,” Peyton said.
“I thought law-enforcement officers didn’t get attached to people in their investigations.”
“They don’t,” Peyton said. “I was merely making an objective observation. Thank you for your time.”
That night Peyton was in her kitchen preparing dinner for Lois and Tommy.
“Thank you for having me,” Lois said.
“It’s the least I could do. You’ve held down the fort around here for the past week.”
Lois went to the kitchen, rummaged through the vegetable drawer, and came out with salad fixings. Peyton washed a green pepper in the sink and looked out the window. The vast expanse of terrain between her and the Bigrock ski facility made her think of Matt Kingston. Where was he? He’d been gone three days now.
A mini van–sized bull moose wandered out from the tree line and into a field in the distance.
“Mother.” She pointed.
Lois looked up from where she was chopping tomatoes and moved closer. “Ah, beautiful. I still don’t think we should let people shoot them.”
“You haven’t hit one.” Peyton had hit a moose in a Ford Expedition service vehicle one night three years earlier. “If I’d hit it head-on, I wouldn’t be here. They need to be culled.”
“But they’re so dumb. It’s like shooting a cow.”
“Hey, Mom,” Tommy said, running into the room, dragging his L.L.Bean backpack across the kitchen tiles. He hugged his mother.
“Is that a smile on your face?”
“What do you mean? I always smile,” he said. “Look.” He tore through the backpack and nearly ripped a folder as he removed it. He pulled out a paper.
Peyton saw a red B+ on it.
“It’s my math test,” he beamed. “I got it back today. Ms. Lawrence said I did a good job.”
Peyton hugged him and kissed his cheek. “Yes, you did.”
“That’s enough, Mom. I’m too old for that stuff,” the ten-year-old said and ran out of the kitchen.
“You’ll never be too old for my hugs,” she called after him. She turned to Lois. “Progress, huh?”
“It is. How’s Stone Gibson?”
“Fine, Mother.”
“Just fine?”
“How’s that salad coming?”
The thing she loved more than anything was a long bath. She didn’t get them often. On Mother’s Day, she asked for forty-five minutes of uninterrupted time in the tub, and Tommy always obliged.
Other than that one day a year, there never seemed to be time. But this night, after Tommy was in bed, armed with a glass of red wine and a scented candle, which, according to its box, claimed to offer relaxing aroma, she climbed into the claw-footed tub on the first floor.
She hadn’t opened her Lisa Scottoline novel since Hewitt had called a week ago, and she tried to find her place.
Peyton read, but she did so the way she had in college when she knew there was a party elsewhere in her dorm—with her mind adrift.
Where was Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall? She was as insecure and fractured as anyone Peyton had ever met. Peyton wondered about her life in Portland. What did she do when she wasn’t teaching? She had no close friends; Sherry had told Peyton that directly. While trying to be formidable—whether it be attempting to face down Stephanie DuBois or flailing in her efforts to lecture at a university—Sherry was still a troubled and timid person, one who let her husband treat her like a show pony. She had never outgrown the silent and meek persona Peyton remembered from their teenage years.
It was this last thought that gave Peyton the idea.
She drained the tub and searched the Internet for Dr. Suzanne Fontaine’s home number.
Forty-Three
“Let me begin by apologizing for calling,” Peyton said. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you on a Friday night.”
“I’m an academic, agent. I was reading.”
“Actually, I was too.”
“Want to trade secrets again? What were you reading?”
Peyton told her.
“You win,” Fontaine said. “That’s much more enjoyable than my book. What can I do for you?”
“Can you tell me when Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall’s summer class meets?”
“You called on a Friday night at nine forty-five for that?”
“Again, I’m terribly sorry.”
“No, it just seems so inconsequential. Now I’m curious. Her class meets Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday, from six to nine p.m. It’s quite a grueling schedule, actually, but most of our students are nontraditional. They have jobs and families.”
“And you said she hasn’t taught the class in two weeks,” Peyton said. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. I covered a couple nights this week myself. But last week, she just failed to show up one night, which I didn’t anticipate, seeing as how badly she wants a full-time job here.”
“Which night was that?”
Suzanne told her.
Peyton hung up and finished her glass of wine, then went to bed, thinking of what she’d just learned.
She slept with her cell phone on the bed stand and her .40 in the drawer, but neither allowed her a restful night’s sleep.
She dreamt of a faceless boy wandering through a wooded path, trying to sidestep mines. When his foot touched one, she woke, breathing hard. The clock read 2:14 a.m.
She woke next at 3:33, but this time a dream had nothing to do with her stirring. Her cell phone was ringing. She fumbled with it.
“Peyton,” Mike Hewitt said, “I’m sorry to bother you late at night.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Listen, we found Matt Kingston.”
She sat up in bed. “What? Where? Is he okay?”
“He’s okay, if upset. There’s something else. Something you need to get out of bed for.”
“What’s that?”
“He told us where Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall is. I need you to come with me to apprehend her.”
“Apprehend her?” She was sitting on the edge of the bed now, trying to keep up with the conversation.
“Yes. Sherry kidnapped Matt Kingston at gunpoint, Peyton. She’s armed. You negotiated a hostage situation in Texas, right?”
>
“Once. A long time ago.”
“And you have a relationship with this suspect. If there’s a standoff, I want you on the bullhorn.”
“I can’t leave Tommy home alone, Mike.”
There was a long silence. Hewitt was thinking, and Peyton was wondering if she’d just shot her own chances at any promotion that might come her way.
“Miguel Jimenez is on the night shift. I’ll bring him with us. He can stay with Tommy. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting,” she said.
“You have an overnight bag?” she said when Jimenez entered the kitchen.
“No, I didn’t bring an overnight bag. I’m not a babysitter. I’m not happy about this. I should be going with you guys.”
“I appreciate this. There’s a case of beer in the garage. You can have it. Come by when you’re off duty. The garage is always unlocked.”
Jimenez went to her fridge and got a can of Diet Pepsi. He sat at the table, took the remote, and switched on the TV that hung beneath a cupboard.
“Miguel, you know this is my case, right? You know I have to be there.”
He nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I know. But this still sucks. You get a soccer channel?”
“I get basic cable,” she said. “Sorry. I owe you one.” She closed the door behind her.
Mike Hewitt was waiting for her in the driveway.
“Stone Gibson got Matt Kingston’s father and we all met Matt in the ER, where he was checked out. He’s fine physically, a little shaken up, though.”
“Understandable.”
“Yeah. The kid is impressive. While the ER docs were checking him over, I asked him some preliminary questions. He walked into the Extra Mart across town, asked to use the phone, dialed nine-one-one, and told them he’d been kidnapped but escaped.”
“How did he escape? Have you debriefed him?”
“Not thoroughly. Stone is with him and will get more. But he said she fell asleep and he somehow got loose and ran. This is time-sensitive. We need to go. She might be gone by now.”
“Where is she?” Peyton asked.
Hewitt drove the Expedition. FBI Agent Frank Hammond was in the passenger’s seat. Hewitt wasn’t using the siren, but the flashers were on, and they were pushing eighty miles per hour on a winding stretch of Route 1.
Peyton wore jeans, hiking boots, and a T-shirt. She opened her backpack and retrieved her Kevlar vest and service belt. As she checked the load in the .40, Suzanne Fontaine’s remark—I thought law-enforcement officers didn’t get attached to people in their investigations—came to her. She had fired her service revolver only three times in the line of duty. And Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall was about the last person she’d want to exchange gunfire with.
“She took him to her father’s,” Stan Jackman said. “They’re on Fred St. Pierre’s land.” He was next to her on the back seat.
Hewitt glanced in the rear-view mirror. “I have someone from the Maine Warden Service meeting us. He knows where the second cabin is.”
“There are two?” Hammond said.
Peyton vaguely recalled Fred telling her he’d built two cabins. She was surprised to see Jackman, especially since an agent had to stay with Tommy. Now she understood why Miguel Jimenez had been upset: Hewitt chose Jackman over Jimenez for this detail.
Peyton thought about that. What was Hewitt’s motive? There was usually a reason for what he did. Was he trying to boost Jackman’s confidence? She looked at Jackman. He was maybe thirty pounds overweight, his face bloated from beer and too much red meat. As he stared out the window with his .40 resting on his thigh, his right hand lay on the gun absently the way one sets his hand on a dog laying beside him while focusing on something else.
But this was the take-down of a kidnapper—no matter how unlikely a kidnapper Sherry appeared to be—and an armed one at that. Had Jackman been the better choice? Jimenez was young, fit, and had scored over 90 percent when qualifying with both his handgun and carbine. Jackman, as much as she loved the guy, had failed in his latest attempt to qualify, scoring 73 percent of the needed 80. But she stifled those thoughts. She respected Hewitt and would trust his decision.
Hewitt turned off Route 1. “Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall was waiting for Matt Kingston outside Tip of the Hat when he got out of work Wednesday night.”
“We need to talk to her,” Hammond said. “We need to find out the motive here.”
“I think I know the answer to that,” Peyton said.
Hewitt looked at her in the rear-view mirror. “Really? A theory?”
“Yeah.”
Hewitt saw the warden’s forest-green pickup and hit the brakes; the Expedition skidded to a stop. “Let’s bring her in, and then tell me what you know. We’re on foot from here,” he said, killing the engine and flashers. “Stan, you’re the point person.”
Now Peyton knew why Hewitt had chosen him over Jimenez: he wanted a veteran quarterbacking this detail.
“We’ll all have radios, but we’ll split up. You’ll coordinate, okay?”
“Got it,” Jackman said.
“Obviously you know what to do if you see a car leave the property.”
“I’ll radio for backup and go in pursuit.”
“Yes. And there’s also a carbine in the back. If you hear gunshots, bring it.”
“Will do, Mike.”
“Sunrise is at four thirty-eight,” Hewitt said. “That gives us about half an hour. We’ll be in radio contact, Stan.”
Hammond handed Peyton an earpiece, which she put in.
Forty-Four
The young warden had a crew cut and introduced himself as Danny Bullier. Peyton didn’t recognize him. Bullier explained that he’d recently been assigned to Aroostook County.
“I heard there was some poachers in the area,” Bullier explained. “I walked back here around ten-thirty tonight and saw lights on in the cabin.”
Hewitt checked his watch. “It’s four-ten. Can you take us to the cabin?”
Bullier nodded and started walking. “Colonel Steuben herself called me and said that I was to give you my full cooperation. I’m all in. But may I ask a question?”
“Sure,” Hewitt said. He was carrying an M4 carbine.
“Is this related to the dead guy they found out here?”
“Hard to know,” Hewitt said. “We’re dealing with an armed woman who kidnapped a teenager. The boy got out of there somehow when she had fallen asleep. She may have woken up and taken off in a green Ford Escape. I’m hoping she’s in there and sleeping, and we can take her without incident.”
They were moving in pairs, and Peyton was beside Hammond. Her .40 was drawn, the safety off, but her finger rested outside the trigger guard as she walked.
“Mike,” she said, “Sherry might be more dangerous than we think.”
Before Hewitt could reply, Bullier said, “The cabin is up here. It’s in the middle of that field. How do you want to do this?”
Hewitt stopped walking. “Peyton, are you up for this?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
Hewitt, apparently catching himself, shook his head.
She waited, but he gave no answer. Had he asked because she was the only female present? Or because she had a relationship with the suspect? She wouldn’t like his answer, regardless.
“What do you need, Mike?”
“I’m going to ask you to lead. You know her.”
“Got it,” she said. The cabin was a hundred yards away.
Hewitt motion to Bullier. “You circle around and take the back. Frank, you take one of the sides. I’ll cover Peyton as she approaches the front door.”
They moved out. The ink-colored sky had turned gray. In a few weeks, even with Fred gone and Freddy in jail, this land might still produce potato blossoms—tiny white flower buds, as f
ar as the eye could see, that preceded the spuds themselves. The frosted fields would be a stark emotional contrast to all that had taken place here.
But the annual potato blossom was for later. Her eyes were on the cabin. The windows on each side of the front door were dark. There appeared to be no movement from within. She heard her own footfalls scuffing the dirt; her breath, coming and going, like sandpaper on wood. Her pulse seemed to pound against the skin near her temples.
Three steps led up a small stoop to the front door. There were railings on each side.
Thirty yards from the cabin, she burst into a sprint, stopping under the window to the right of the door, her back against the building, her left hand clasping her right wrist, the .40 at the ready. She listened and heard nothing.
She looked at Hewitt. He was on his stomach; the M4 lay before him on a bi-pod stand. He was sweeping the rifle back and forth across the cabin, using the scope to look for any movement.
Peyton looked at Hewitt and nodded.
He returned the gesture.
Then she took a deep breath, pushed out the air, and moved swiftly and silently up the three steps and crouched below the window in the center of the front door.
She looked at Hewitt again.
He shook his head: still no movement from within.
Peyton stood slowly, forcing herself to the right of the door, in the small space between the door frame and the window. She glanced at Hewitt. Still nothing.
She leaned to look in the window. The cabin was dark. No movement.
Then she heard something that immediately reminded her of Suzanne Fontaine’s story.
Peyton leaned away from the window and said into the mic pinned to her shirt collar, “She’s in there. I can hear her.”
“Copy that,” Jackman said. “Can you get a visual?”
“No. It’s dark inside.”
“But you know it’s her?” Hewitt said.
“I’m positive.”
“With no visual?”
“Yes. She’s crying. I can hear her. I’m going to try to talk her out.”