Expire

by Danielle Girard

  The table slowly took shape in the dark, along with the edges of the counters, the square of the kitchen sink. She opened the cupboard beside the refrigerator and pulled out the jar of peanut butter. Holding on to the cord, she moved across the room, wishing for a way to silence the clank and whir of the cleat along the track.

  Nearing the oven, she searched for the telltale red light of a camera. Surely there would have to be a power source, but she could see no sign of electricity at all. The tiny hole in the ceiling, no bigger than a dime, had to be the projector, but was it recording, too? Setting the peanut butter down, she took a moment to study the small indentation in the ceiling drywall.

  Feeling confident something was there, she dragged a chair from the table to the oven and, feet still on the ground, opened the jar of peanut butter. Taking the cord in her left hand, she wrapped it around her palm about a foot above her collar. Then she dipped her right hand in the peanut butter and stood on the chair. Squinting in the dark, she located the small hole in the ceiling and smeared peanut butter across it.

  She stepped down and waited for a reaction. If her being near the ceiling triggered the cord, it should have retracted and strangled her.

  Nothing happened.

  After several minutes, she crossed to the sink to retrieve the roll of paper towels. As she was turning, the tiny red light on the smoke detector caught her eye. She stared up at the white disk shape on the ceiling, noticing for the first time that it looked brand-new.

  She shifted the chair and stood on it, her left hand still wrapped in the cord. The middle and ring fingers of her right hand were covered in peanut butter. The first thing she noticed was an oblong hole on the side of the disk that faced the kitchen. Where she expected to see the inside of the smoke detector, she found dark glass, like the lens of a camera. Using the thumb and index finger of her right hand, she twisted the cover until it released. Attached to a regular smoke detector with its nine-volt battery was a device with a long, narrow glass piece.

  A camera.

  43

  Monday, 3:20 a.m. EST

  Hal shifted his knees, which were pinned under the hard plastic of the Subaru’s dashboard. Even with the seat all the way back, he could barely wedge himself inside. He was edgy—too much coffee, no sleep. He’d been strung out on jobs dozens of times before. When he was sure of a suspect’s guilt, Hal found himself driving by a suspect’s haunts, looking for him, waiting for a screwup, for that last piece to fall into place so that they could arrest the son of a bitch.

  There were times when the buzz was electric and exciting, despite the days or weeks of exhaustion.

  This was nothing like that.

  He’d never felt so empty, so maxed. It was as though he’d been beaten—inside and out—and left to die. When he showered, he’d taken to turning the water to scalding temperatures as he scrubbed soap into his skin. These were the rare moments when the pain in his chest felt manageable. The harder he scratched, the hotter the water, the easier it was to breathe.

  But only for those moments.

  Once the water was off and the steam had dissipated, his skin no longer held the pain. And it was his heart that ached again.

  He looked down at his cell phone, thought of Harper. Had she seen the note he’d left on the kitchen counter and realized he was gone? Surely she was sleeping.

  He started composing a text to her. But what would he say? That he’d gone out for a drive? That he’d decided to sit in front of Spencer MacDonald’s house all night?

  That he didn’t give a rat’s ass about whether the South Carolina police called it harassment, he was going to sit here until MacDonald led him to Anna.

  And he would.

  Maybe an hour later, Hal jolted upright in his seat as MacDonald’s garage door opened. He checked the clock, wondering if he’d fallen asleep. It was 4:10 a.m.

  Hal watched MacDonald get into the car. The gold Lexus pulled out of the garage and turned toward him. Hal lowered himself in the seat, hunching down as much as he could, given the size of the car, and waited as MacDonald drove past him and turned left at the light. When the Lexus was out of view, Hal started the Subaru, cringing at the god-awful sputtering sounds. The damn lights went on automatically, and he shut them off as quickly as he could, waiting an extra beat before following in MacDonald’s path.

  Hal trailed at a distance. He had memorized the shape of the Lexus’s taillights and knew their unique lines well enough to hang back without losing him. MacDonald made a few turns, winding out of his neighborhood in the direction of his country club. Hard to imagine the country club was open for business. Or maybe they held their local Klan meetings there.

  The South made Hal nervous. Or maybe it was just the part of the South that was Spencer MacDonald—white sociopaths who beat and then hunted their wives. Hal would bet there was more than one of them at MacDonald’s fancy country club.

  Hal had seen some heinous crimes perpetrated in the name of love and jealousy and stupid, careless ones executed without thought or regard for the value of human life. But the cruelest slayings he’d worked in his career were ones committed by men of MacDonald’s demographic—rich white ones without morals who believed their power made them exempt from the laws that governed other men.

  Wherever he was going, MacDonald seemed in no hurry, and Hal had to concentrate on maintaining sufficient space between them. He followed as MacDonald drove farther out of town, from one abandoned road to another. When MacDonald took another turn, Hal drove past, waiting a full minute before making a U-turn and following again. He kept his lights off and followed the distant taillights, excitement stirring. This had to be it. Why else leave his house at this hour? MacDonald was going to Anna.

  Hal gripped the steering wheel and drove. MacDonald remained on the long country road for several miles without turning. Roger had searched properties in MacDonald’s name and come up empty, but he had to have something out here. No one took this kind of drive in the middle of the night without a good reason. In the darkness, horses looked like ghostly shadows in the fields along the road.

  MacDonald’s brake lights glowed momentarily in the darkness and then went off again. As he passed that section of road a minute later, Hal scanned for wildlife that might have caused MacDonald to slow but saw none.

  They drove on for another two or three miles, passing an occasional small, squat house but otherwise seeing almost nothing.

  Hal was shocked when the blur of blue and red erupted from the blackness. He blinked several times before the apparition of lights felt real. A police car. MacDonald had been speeding. Hal had accelerated to follow, not wanting to lose him in the winding country roads.

  He watched the patrol car fill his rearview mirror, slowing his speed and hoping that the officer would speed around him. How fast had he been going? What was the last posted speed sign? He wiped his face with his hand, turned on his indicator, and pulled slowly to the shoulder.

  The police car pulled in behind him. He rolled down the window and fought the urge to get out of the car.

  He couldn’t stop here. He needed to follow MacDonald. This would lead him to Anna.

  Ahead, the taillights of MacDonald’s Lexus disappeared.

  His pulse thundered in his ears. She was here. He grabbed his cell phone and found Harper’s number. Pushed the “Call” button as a thin white man with a narrow mustache emerged from the patrol car. Dread pooled in Hal’s gut.

  As the officer’s shoes crunched in the gravel, Harper’s voicemail invited him to leave a message.

  Hal whispered into his phone. “I had a tail on MacDonald. Need backup ASAP. Pulled over here. Anna may be close.” He left the call live and set his phone on the passenger seat, screen down.

  “Raise your hands where I can see them,” came a voice.

  Hal lifted his hands.

  “Keep them where I can see them.”

  Hal held them still, sensing the officer approaching the window. As he turned his he
ad, he caught sight of the gun in his peripheral vision.

  The sound of chatter bled through the microphone. Suspicious character.

  “Officer, my name is Hal Harris.”

  “Did I ask for your name?” the officer snapped.

  Hal flinched. The barrel of the gun hovered just inches from the car window, almost pressed to his face. “I’m a detective.”

  The flashlight shone in Hal’s eyes. “I never seen you before.”

  “I’m a detective from—”

  “I didn’t ask.” The officer cut him off.

  Hal closed his mouth. His phone buzzed on the seat beside him. He couldn’t see the screen. Harper calling? He considered reaching for the phone but knew it would be a mistake.

  “I want you to get out of the car, real slow.”

  “Of course,” Hal said, lowering his voice, trying to seem small, an impossible feat shoved behind the steering wheel of the tiny car. “I realized my lights were off,” Hal said. “It’s a friend’s car.”

  “You gonna get smart with me, boy?” The drawl on his words reminded Hal where he was.

  You’re not in San Francisco. You’re in South Carolina. The South. He felt the cold rush of sweat as the fingers of his left hand felt for the door handle. Statistics ran through his head—the number of routine traffic stops that ended in an officer discharging his weapon, the proportion of those that involved a white officer and a black suspect.

  The latch clicked, and the door opened with a screech.

  He felt the officer jump. His own pulse trumpeted.

  On the passenger seat, the phone went quiet and then began to buzz again.

  Hal made no move for it, planting both hands firmly in the air as he eased open the car door with his hip.

  He started to turn to face the officer but decided against it. Harder to shoot a man in the back. Or harder to justify the shooting with Internal Affairs. Sweat dripped down Hal’s shoulder blades. He moved his hands to the back of his head, one at a time, turned his head so the officer could hear him. “Sir, I’m a police—”

  “I warned you about talking,” the officer said, the pitch of his voice cresting to a new high.

  “My badge is in my left rear pocket,” Hal said, shifting his body sideways. He aimed his right side toward the officer. Harder to hit a sideways target. Better to be shot on the right side than the left, where the heart was.

  Just then the hum of a car came from the opposite direction, farther in the woods. Hal squeezed his eyes closed, praying for help. Another officer. Something.

  The car slowed, and Hal heard the whir of a window coming down.

  “Thank God you have this man in custody.”

  Hal swung toward the voice. Losing himself in fury, he took two steps toward the car where Spencer MacDonald sat, wearing a smug smile.

  “You,” Hal seethed.

  “Stop it right there,” the officer warned.

  “Officer Potter, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  Hal froze, sweat dripping off his face.

  “Evening, Mr. MacDonald,” the officer said.

  “Call me Spencer, please, Dan. I so appreciate your coming out. I know you were on your way home, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “It’s no problem, Mr.—uh, Spencer.”

  Hal edged back toward the Subaru.

  “Hold up there,” the officer said. “You stay right where you are. No funny business.”

  “Please be careful, Dan. I’ve seen this man be very violent.”

  Hal felt the officer’s gaze on him. The man was maybe five foot eight. Hal would seem like a giant to him. He had an inclination to get down on his knees, but he imagined the gun at the back of his head. No way to run. He stood in place.

  “I left my house and realized within a few minutes that I was being followed.”

  “Why were you following Mr. MacDonald?”

  “I am a detective,” Hal said carefully, keeping his voice soft and low. “From the San Francisco Police Department. I’m—”

  “He’s delusional,” MacDonald interrupted. “A crazy man.”

  There was a moment of quiet, and Hal wondered what the officer was thinking.

  Hal started talking again. “I have my badge, Officer. I have my badge in my pocket. You can call my department.”

  “How many years have I been taking care of your mother’s portfolio?” MacDonald asked. “He’s been stalking my wife twice that long, out in California. When she tried to get away from him, he came here to harass her.”

  Did that mean Anna was here? “His ex-wife was abducted from San Francisco,” Hal said, the words spewing from him as he struggled to keep them slow and controlled. “If this man knows where she is, he needs to tell you right now.”

  “Dan, he’s a total nutter.”

  “This man was arrested for the murder of two women,” Hal countered. “Call your department and ask them.”

  “Sure, cast the blame at the innocent man,” MacDonald said. “Watch it, Dan. He probably hit his head running from the police.”

  “I am the police,” Hal went on. “Call the San Francisco Police Department. I can give you their number. They’ll confirm what I’m saying.”

  “Shut up!” the cop shouted. Too close. The barrel of the gun was inches from Hal.

  Hal was breathing heavily, winded as though he’d been running. The air that had felt cool at the airport was now humid and thick. Sweat pooled along his waistband.

  “Be careful, Dan,” MacDonald warned. “He’s very dangerous.”

  The officer tucked the barrel between Hal’s shoulder blades. Hal considered how quickly he could act. Would he be fast enough to disarm the officer? It wasn’t smart to touch a suspect with your gun. It put the weapon in jeopardy. One quick move, and the gun could be in the hands of the suspect. But if Hal didn’t take the gun quickly enough . . . If he didn’t get the gun, he’d have a bullet in his back.

  “My wife has disappeared, Dan,” MacDonald said. “She’s gone missing, and he was the last one to see her. This man.”

  “Down on the ground,” the officer said.

  “Officer Potter, Spencer MacDonald is lying to you. He’s trying to manipulate you.”

  “I said, get down!”

  Hal lowered himself to his knees, one at a time, gripping his hands on his head. He watched MacDonald, who leaned out of the car like he was at a drive-thru. Every time the officer looked away, MacDonald gave Hal a shit-eating grin.

  “All the way down,” the officer said.

  His hands on his head, Hal bent over and tried to figure out how to get down without using his hands. “Officer . . .”

  “Keep your hands where I can see them!” the officer barked, and Hal could hear the frenzy in his tone.

  “Okay. I’m moving, nice and slow.” Hal dropped to his elbows.

  “He’s making a move!” MacDonald yelled.

  The officer’s shoes shifted in the gravel. A grunt emerged from his lips.

  Hal rolled to his side, forearms over his face, trying to keep his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot. Do not shoot.”

  Even as he spoke, his entire body tensed like a coil, anticipating the explosion of gunfire.

  44

  Monday, 1:22 a.m. MST

  Schwartzman stared up at the red flashing light. It had to be a camera. She waited for the cord to snap her up again, but nothing happened. Did the cord’s retraction work via a button Tyler pushed? Did he watch and laugh while she almost choked to death? Could he work it remotely? She looked at the lens and at the peanut butter still on her fingers. Then she smeared the oily spread across the glass, creating a layer that would certainly distort any image and would likely also block most of the light. Finally, she screwed on the smoke detector’s cover.

  For the next few minutes, she kept the cord twisted around her left hand, waiting for someone to realize what had happened. As the minutes ticked by, she felt awake and clearheaded. When five or ten minutes had passed, she
washed the peanut butter from her hand and turned on the kitchen lights.

  Sure that her movements wouldn’t be recorded, she started another search of the kitchen. She had to be more aggressive, pull things apart. If she couldn’t find a tool, she would have to make one. With the door propped open, she worked her way through the refrigerator, pulling at the shelves. Plastic, most of it too thick. She pulled a shelf from the refrigerator and tried to break it over her knee. It didn’t break. She slammed it to the floor. No luck. She shoved it back into the refrigerator. Even if she managed to break the plastic, it would not give her the rough edge she needed to cut through the rubber.

  She considered the inside of the freezer the same way. The icicle, which had seemed like such a win at the time, now looked thin and wimpy in light of what she needed.

  She closed the refrigerator door and leaned across the counter, staring at the electrical socket. Would there be something inside the outlet? Fooling with electricity seemed like a risk.

  But so did waiting for Tyler Butler to come back.

  As she pushed herself up, she glanced behind the refrigerator and saw something shiny on the floor. Bracing herself on the counter, she wedged her leg between the cupboards and the refrigerator, pushing the old machine aside until she could fit sideways in the gap.

  She slid in and looked down at the floor, praying for a knife, a blade. Instead, she found a small scrap of foil, the inside of some discarded packaging only an inch or two in diameter.

  As she moved back out of the gap, she caught sight of a metal plate on the backside of the refrigerator, one corner bent. An empty screw hole gaped in the corner of the resulting triangle, maybe three inches at its base. She ran her finger along the plate’s edge, applying pressure until the metal cut her skin. Sharp.

  Sharp enough.