Bloodstream (41 page)

Noah averted his gaze and stared once again at the ceiling. “I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Her father will
kill
her. That’s why not.”

“She could clear this up with one statement.”

“She’s scared of him. I can’t get her in trouble.”

“You’re the one who’s in trouble, Noah.”

“I have to talk to her first. I have to give her the chance to—”

“To what? Get her story to line up with yours?”

They regarded each other in silence, Lincoln waiting for an answer, the boy refusing to yield the information.

Through the closed door, Lincoln barely heard the page announced over the hospital address system:

“Dr. Elliot, extension seven-one-three-three. Dr. Elliot.
.

Lincoln left Noah’s room and went to the nurse’s station to pick up the phone. He dialed 7133.

It was answered by Anthony, in the laboratory. “Dr. Elliot?”

“This is Chief Kelly. How long have you been paging Dr. Elliot?”

“All afternoon. I tried her beeper, but she must have it turned off. No one answers at her house, so I thought I’d try paging her on the overhead. Just in case she’s in the building.”

“If she does call you, could you tell her I’m trying to reach her too?”

“Sure thing. I’m kind of surprised she hasn’t called me back.” Lincoln paused. “What do you mean, called you back? Did you talk to her earlier?”

“Yes, sir. She asked me to track down some information.”

“When was this?”

“She called about noon today. She seemed pretty anxious to get the answer. I thought she’d get back to me by now.”

“What information did she want?”

“About a company called Anson Biologicals.”

“What’s that?”

“It turns out it’s just the R and D branch of Sloan-Routhier. You know, the big pharmaceutical firm. But I have no idea why she wanted to know about it.”

“Do you know where she was when she called you?”

“Chief Kelly, I haven’t got a clue.”

Lincoln hung up. No one had spoken to Claire since noon—nine hours ago.

He walked out to the hospital parking lot. It had been a clear day, with no snowfall, and all the cars were lightly glazed with frost. Driving slowly in his cruiser, he searched the parking lot row by row for Claire’s Subaru. Her car was not there.

She left the hospital, then what? Where would she go?

He started back toward Tranquility, his apprehension mounting. Though the road was clear, the pavement free of ice, he took the drive slowly, scanning the snowy shoulders for any sign that a car might have slid
off.
He stopped at Claire’s house only long enough to confirm that she was not there.

By now his apprehension was turning to dread.

From his house, he made another flurry of phone calls, to the hospital, to Max Tutwiler’s cottage, to the police dispatcher. Claire was nowhere to be found.

He sat in his living room, staring at the telephone, the sense of dread growing, gnawing at him. To whom would she go? She no longer trusted
him,
and that was what hurt him most of all. He dropped his head in his hands, struggling to make sense of her disappearance.

She’d been distraught about Noah. She would do anything for her son.

Noah. This had something to do with Noah.

He reached for the phone again and called Fern Cornwallis.

She had barely picked up when he asked, “Who was the girl Noah Effiot was fighting over?”

“Lincoln? What time is it?”

“Just the name, Fern. I need to know the girl’s name.” Fern gave a weary sigh. “It was Amelia Reid.”

“Is that Jack Reid’s girl?”

“Yes. He’s her stepfather.”

There was blood on the snow.

As Lincoln turned into the front yard of the Reid farmhouse, the beams of his headlights swept across an ominously dark blot in the otherwise pristine expanse of white. He braked to a stop, his gaze fixed on the stained snow, fear suddenly coiling like a serpent in his stomach. Jack Reid’s truck was parked in the driveway, but the house was dark. Was the family asleep?

Slowly he stepped out of the cruiser and aimed the beam of his flashlight at the ground. At first he saw only the one bright splash of red, a bleeding Rorschach butterfly. Then he saw the other splashes, a series of them, leading around the side of the house, accompanied by footprints, both human and canine. He stared at the footprints and suddenly thought: Where were the dogs? Jack Reid owned two of them, a pair of troublesome pit bulls who had the nasty habit of ripping apart any neighborhood cats they came across. Were these bloodstains left by some unfortunate creature who’d wandered into the wrong yard?

He knelt down for a closer look and saw that, mingled with the broken snow, was a clump of dark fur, bloodied flesh still attached. Just a dead animal—a cat, or a raccoon, he thought, his tension easing, but not entirely fading. Those pit bulls could still be loose somewhere in the yard, could even now be watching him.

The sensation of being observed was suddenly so strong he quickly straightened and swung his flashlight in a wide arc, cutting a circle through the darkness. As the beam swept past the trunk of the maple tree, he spotted the second clump of fur, this one larger, the animal recognizable. He moved toward it, and his fear was suddenly back full force, tension screaming along every nerve. The steel collar studs reflected back at him, as did the gleam of white teeth protruding from the open and lifeless jaw.
One of the pit bulls. Half of it, anyway.
It had been wearing a collar which was still fastened to the chain. The animal had been unable to escape, unable to avoid slaughter.

He didn’t recall drawing his weapon; he knew only that it was suddenly in his hand, and that the fear was so thick it seemed to coat his throat. He swept the beam of his flashlight in a wider circle around the yard, and found the other half of the dog, and its intestines, lying in a bundle by the porch steps. He crossed to the bloody heap and forced himself to press a bare finger to the offal. The tissue was cold, but not yet frozen. Less than an hour old. Whatever had ripped apart this animal could still be lurking nearby.

The muffled explosion of breaking glass made him wheel around, his heart slamming against his chest. The sound had come from inside the house. He glanced up at the dark windows. There were five people living in there, one of them a fourteen-year-old girl. What had happened to them?

He climbed the porch steps to the front door. It was unlocked— another disturbing detail. He gave the knob a twist and nudged the door open. A quick sweep of his flashlight revealed a threadbare carpet and several pairs of shoes cluttering the front hail. Nothing alarming. He reached up and flicked the light switch. No lights. Had the power been shut off?

For a moment he hesitated near the front door, debating the wisdom of announcing his presence. He knew Jack Reid owned a shotgun, and the man would not hesitate to use it if he thought a prowler was in his house. Lincoln drew a breath, preparing to call out:

“Police!” when his gaze froze on something that instantly killed his voice.

There was a bloody handprint on the wall.

The gun suddenly felt slick in his hand. He moved toward the print. A closer look revealed it was indeed blood, and that there was more of it smeared along the wall, leading toward the kitchen.

Five people, live in this house. Where are they?

Stepping into the kitchen, he found the first member of the family. Jack Reid lay sprawled on the floor, his throat cut ear to ear. The arterial spray of his blood had splattered all four walls of the room. He was still clutching his shotgun.

Something clattered, rolled across the floor. At once, Lincoln’s weapon was up, his pulse roaring in his ears. The noise had come from below. From the cellar.

His lungs were like bellows, air rushing in and out in quick breaths. He eased toward the cellar door, paused for a one-two-three count, his heart accelerating, his sweating fingers clamped like a vise around his weapon. He took a breath, and with a burst of force, kicked the door.

It flew open, slamming into the opposite wall.

A set of steps dropped away into blackness. Someone was down there. The darkness seemed charged with an alien energy. He could almost smell the other presence, lurking at the bottom of those stairs. He aimed his flashlight downward, the beam quickly sweeping the cellar. He caught only the flash of movement, a shadow slipping toward cover under the stairs.

“Police!” yelled Lincoln. “Come out where I can see you!” He kept the beam steady, his weapon aimed at the bottom of the stairs. “Come on, come on. Do it
now!”

Slowly the darkness congealed into a solid shape. A single arm, materializing in the beam’s circle. Then a face inched into view, peering out with terrified eyes from beneath the stairs. A boy.

“My mom,” whimpered Eddie Reid. “Please, help me get my mom out of here.”

Now a woman’s voice whispered from beneath the stairs. “Help us. God in heaven, help us!”

Lincoln descended the stairs and shone his light directly at the woman. Grace Reid stared back at him, her face white as a corpse, her expression almost catatonic with terror.

“No light,” she pleaded. “Turn off the lights or he’ll find us!” She backed away. Behind her, the circuit breaker box hung open. She had flipped off the switches, cutting all power to the house.

Eddie tugged his mother toward the stairs. “Mom, it’s okay now. We gotta get out of here. Please, please
move?’

Grace shook her head in almost violent protest. “No, he’s waiting for us.” She pulled away, refusing to budge. “J.D.’s up there.”

Again Eddie grabbed his mother’s arm and dragged her toward the steps. “Now, Mom!”

“Wait,” cut in Lincoln. “What about Amelia? Mrs. Reid, where’s Amelia?”

Grace looked at him with wide eyes. “Amelia?” she murmured, as though she’d suddenly remembered her own daughter. “In her room.”

“Let’s get your mom out of the house,” Lincoln said to Eddie. “My cruiser’s parked right outside.”

“But what about—”

“I’ll find your sister. First, I’ll get you both into the car and I’ll radio for help. Now let’s go. Stay right behind me.” He turned and started slowly up the stairs. He could hear Grace and Eddie following behind him, Grace’s breath coming out in frantic whimpers, Eddie murmuring words of encouragement.

J.D. They were both terrified of J.D.

Lincoln reached the top of the stairs. There was no way around it; he’d have to lead them through the blood-splattered kitchen, right past Jack Reid’s body. If Grace was going to collapse in hysterics, it would be here.

Thank god for Eddie. The boy draped his arm around his stepmother, hugging her face against his chest. “Go, Chief Kelly,” he whispered urgently. “Please, just get us out of here.”

Lincoln led them through the kitchen, into the hallway. There he halted, every nerve suddenly giving off panic alarms. By the beam of his flashlight, he saw that the front door hung open.
Did I close it when I came in the house?

He whispered, “Wait here,” and he inched toward the front door. Glancing outside, he saw moonlit-silvered snow. The cruiser was parked about thirty feet away. Everything lay still, as silent as air trapped in a bell jar.

Something is wrong. We are being watched. We are being stalked.

He turned to Eddie and Grace and whispered: “Run to the car.
Now!”

But Grace didn’t run. Instead she backed away, and as she stumbled past a moonlit window, Lincoln saw her face was gazing upward. Toward the stairs.

He pivoted, just as the shadow came hurtling down at him. He was slammed backwards so hard the breath whooshed from his lungs. Pain

sliced across his cheek. He staggered sideways, just as the knife blade came down again, stabbing deep into the wall near his head. His weapon had fallen, knocked from his grasp by that first tackle. Now he scrabbled frantically on the floor, trying to locate the gun in the dark.

He heard the squeak of the knife being pried free from the wood, and spun around to see the shadow rushing at him. He brought his left arm up just as the knife came stabbing down. The blade struck bone, and he heard his own gasp of pain like a distant, foreign sound.

Somehow he grasped the boy’s wrist in his right hand and twisted the knife free. It thudded to the floor. The boy wrenched away, stumbling backwards.

Lincoln dropped down and grabbed the knife. His sense of triumph lasted only for an instant.

The boy had risen to his feet as well, his silhouette framed by the window. He was holding Lincoln’s gun. He swung it around, aiming the barrel straight at Lincoln.

The explosion was so loud it shattered the window. Glass blew out in a hail of shards, raining down onto the porch.

No pain. Why was he feeling no pain?

Frozen in bewilderment, Lincoln watched as J.D. Reid, backlit by moonlight through the broken window, slowly crumpled to the floor. A footstep creaked behind him, then he heard Eddie’s tremulous voice ask:

“Did I kill him?”

“We need light,” said Lincoln.

He heard Eddie stumble through the darkness into the kitchen and down the cellar steps. Seconds later, he flipped the circuit breakers, and all the lights came on.

One look at the body told Lincoln J.D. was dead.

Eddie came back out of the kitchen, still holding Jack Reid’s shotgun. He slowed, halted beside his stepmother. They were both unable to pry their gazes from the dead boy, unable to utter a sound, as the terrible vision of J.D. Reid, collapsed in a pool of blood, burned its way forever into their brains.

“Amelia,” said Lincoln, and he glanced up the stairs, toward the second floor. “Which bedroom is hers?”

Eddie looked at him with dazed eyes. “The second one. On the right
. .

Lincoln ran up the stairs. At his first glimpse of Amelia’s bedroom door, he knew the worst had already happened. The door had been hacked open, and splinters of wood littered the hallway. The girl must have tried to lock J.D. out, but a few swings of an ax had shattered the wood. Dreading the scene he knew lay within, he stepped into the girl’s room.