Lie in Wait (33 page)

 

Chapter 2

O
CTOBER
22, 2011

T
HE BLOOD O
N
Frank Rath's hands steamed in the cold October air as he slung one end of a rope over the barn's crossbeam, tied the other end to the center of the tomato stake skewered through the gutted carcass's legs, and yanked.

Pain erupted in his lower back as if he'd been struck with an axe. He dropped to his knees, the dead deer sagging back in a puddle of its own sad blood on the frozen dirt.

Rath remained still, breathing slowly through his nose, counting backward from ten.
Erector spinae.
He'd learned the Latin from studying the anatomy model while whiling away his autumn in Doc Rankin's office.

Rath's cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. Rachel, he hoped. For seven weeks now, she'd been away for her first semester at Johnson State, and in that time, loneliness had nested in Rath's heart. The house felt lifeless, no hum of Rachel's hair dryer in the morning, no insistent burble of incoming texts when she left her cell phone idle for even a second on the kitchen table.

Rath reached for his cell phone, but the skewering pain insisted he lower himself onto his back, where he performed an inept pelvic tilt. Doc Rankin had sent him to a whack-­job physical therapist, who'd prescribed a contortionist's regimen of humiliating stretches that made Rath feel as though he were about to shit himself: stretches better suited to rich housewives who performed them in steamy rooms while listening to didgeridoo music than to a man whose idea of stretching was reaching in the top cupboard for his Lagavulin 16 and chocolate Pop Tarts. Rath gained his feet with a groan.

What worried him wasn't the pain but that the pain seemed to have no source. He'd simply awoken one morning as if someone had punched a hole in his back and ripped the
erector spinae
from his spine.

He looked down at the deer. He had to get it hung. First the deer. Then a beer. Or three.

Rath's cell phone buzzed: Harland Grout.

The lone, lead detective on the anemic Canaan police force, Grout was as green as the back of a wet frog. He was also a dart player in Rath's dart league. Most importantly, he had a strong young back good for lifting a dead deer.

Rath answered. “Grout. I'm trying to hang a deer here. Maybe you'd like to earn a six-­pack and lend your—­”

“There's a car. Out on Route fifteen,” Grout said.

“That sort of specificity and twenty bucks Canadian will buy you a lap dance at The Dirty Girl over the border in Richelieu.”

“Yeah,” Grout said, and Rath noted a barb of severity in his voice that made him regret his initial glibness.

“What?” Rath said, and wandered out of the barn to lean against the fender of the '74 International Scout it seemed he'd been restoring since Lincoln was a Whig.

“The car appears abandoned.” Grout paused to wait for the static of the weak signal to pass. Up here, near the border, there wasn't one cell tower within five thousand miles. God bless Vermont. Or not. “The car belongs to my wife's cousin's daughter.”

“Shit,” Rath said, not even trying to untangle that snarl of family-­tree branches.

“She's sixteen.”

“Shit.” Rath slumped against the Scout. “You think something happened?”

Something happened.
What euphemistic bullshit for the images—­none pretty—­that leapt into Rath's mind the instant he heard of a girl gone missing.

“It's hard telling,” Grout said. “I just got the call on the car. When I called her mom, she was worried. Hasn't heard from her in days and asked me to look into it.”

“Why call me? She's a minor, you can investigate it straightaway as an MP.”

“She's emancipated.”

“Shit,” Rath said again. His repertoire of blue language needed work.

Unless foul play was clearly evident, seventy-­two hours had to pass before an official investigation could begin on a missing adult. And, by Vermont law, an emancipated girl, sixteen or not, was an adult. It made no sense. Sixteen was a
child
, and any adult who looked at a girl that young and saw anything
but
a child was deluded or a pervert.

“I'm on my way there now,” Grout said. “For all we know, the car's clean, and she's just off banging a boyfriend or crashed at a girlfriend's. Or something. I got Sonja Test headed there, on her own time, giving up her Saturday training to bumper-­to-­bumper it best she can
in situ.
That itself is against protocol without probable. But Chief Barrons is out three more days fishing the Bahamas, and—­”

“That bastard,” Rath said. Barrons had been Rath's senior the three years Rath was a state-­police detective in the 1990s. Barrons was an exceptional cop and an even better fisherman. Rath wasn't sure for which trait he resented and envied Barrons more.

“So,” Grout said, “I'm taking liberties as it is without leaving my entire nutsack hanging out for Barrons to lop off and brine when he gets back. This girl is, technically, family; if it looks like I'm playing favorites or expending resources without due cause, and the girl just strolls in, my ass is in a sling, right when it's looking like the budget might open up, and there's a shot at a promotion. At the same time—­”

“Fuck protocol,” Rath said. The hard consonants felt good to bite off and spit out.
But, what promotion?
If Grout wanted to excel in law enforcement, he should have taken Rath's advice several years back and gone to the staties. And he shouldn't have been calling Rath for help. Grout needed to take the helm himself, damn the repercussions: Protocol never outweighed doing what was right. Rath knew that if he wanted to help Grout and his career, he should force Grout to see this through on his own and be either tempered or turned to ash by the heat he'd feel from Barrons.

But there was a missing girl. That came before any career.

“I could use your help,” Grout said. “Even if it becomes official, it's still just an MP, a low priority unless it becomes something else.”

Something else.

The sun glared on the skin of snow that had fallen overnight, melting fast, water dripping from the barn roof to tick on a sheet of rusted tin that had been leaning against the barn since the Pleistocene ice age.

Rath lit a cigarette and drew in the smoke. All he got from it was trembling fingertips and a numb nose. He needed to go back to dipping.

His cell-­phone screen glowed with an incoming call: Stan Laroche. Rath let it go.

“Where's the car?” Rath asked Grout.

Grout told him, and Rath tossed his cigarette into a rag of snow, where it settled with a paling hiss. He ended the call and looked back at the dead deer on the barn floor.

“Not today, pal.”

He yanked shut the barn door, to keep out the coyotes that skulked around the place at night; he had a draining feeling that he'd be occupied until long after dark.

In his kitchen, an ember of pain glowing in the old
erector spinae,
Rath scrubbed his hands with Lava soap, the water foaming pink with deer blood. He searched the freezer for an ice pack, remembered he'd left it in bed where it was now thawed, and dug out a pack of frozen peas. He snatched a bottle of Vicodin off the counter, slugged back two pills with a half bottle of Molson Golden left in the sink from the night before, then listened to Laroche's message: “Rath. Laroche. Call me.”

Laroche. Mr. Department of Corrections; no doubt calling to weasel out of darts so his wife could strut off to some scrapbooking or karaoke night with the gals. Supposedly. Rath suspected there was a man involved. He deleted the message. Let Laroche swing.

In the Scout, Rath tucked the pack of peas behind his back, sighing at the minor temporary relief it brought. He worked the Scout's choke and fired up the old lady. With 350,670 miles on her, she had leaky gaskets and bad springs, but she kept on stubbornly plugging along. Not unlike Rath.

 

Chapter 3

R
ATH DROVE NORTH
on his dirt road, past the enormous, looming, granite face of Canaan Monadnock, which gave way to flat farmland with the abruptness of the Fundy Escarpment smacking up to the Atlantic's edge; a geologic anomaly in a state of worn, aged mountains that folded into gentle foothills and gradually leveled out into Lake Champlain to the west and the Connecticut River to the east.

As a boy, Rath had been fascinated by this peculiarity and spent nights tucked under his covers, his sister asleep in her bed beside his, enrapt by books on plate tectonics, volcanoes, and the Earth's molten core. In 1862, whalebones had been unearthed by a farmer's plow blade in the surrounding fields; eleven thousand years before the world's most famed carpenter supposedly rose again, the glaciers had retreated, and the Atlantic had rushed in, creating a paratropical ocean that for three thousand years reached north to the Saint Lawrence and west to Ottawa. Hence: whalebones. Those early years, Rath had been obsessed with the violence of nature and how it shaped the physical world. As he'd grown older, his fixation had shifted from the violence of nature to the nature of violence, and how to stop it.

Rath turned north onto Route 15, toward Canada, lighting a cigarette and wondering about this missing girl.

Up ahead, the mountain foliage was set ablaze with the beauty of autumn's death, a supreme loveliness that ­people traveled across the globe to view from Peter Pan buses.

Regional tourists, those rocketing up I-­89 to flee Boston in their Beemers, cruising in Volvo Cross Countrys up I-­91 North from Connecticut, and oozing south from Montreal in Jag XJs were lulled by the pastoral idyll, the dairy farms dotted with black-­and-­white Holsteins; sugar shacks tucked tidily among the sugarbush; general stores painted “barn red” to approximate the original nineteenth-­century pigment created from rust.

As soon as the sightseers crossed into the land where billboards were banned for their affront to nature's aesthetics, they settled into their heated leather seats, bathed in a Rockwellian serenity and liberated from the gray grind of urban life. They'd power down their windows to breathe in the crisp mountain air, buoyed and intoxicated by the setting and by a pang of nostalgia for a past they'd never lived but could taste on their tongues nonetheless. Here, the air was sweeter. Here, they were alive. Safe.

Safe.
Rath snorted as he adjusted his back against the pack of thawing peas. Nowhere was safe. No one. Violence lurked here as it did the world over, most often exacted by known parties. Intimate, familial, and unspeakable.

He'd always wondered why ­people in rural areas, when interviewed after appalling violence, said, “This isn't supposed to happen here.” As if violence had forgotten to keep itself within some prescribed geographic boundary.

Rath drove along a piece of road that annually made the
New York Times's Top 10 Fall Foliage Drives,
but was known to locals as Murder Road: the stretch where Gabe Hoyt shot his cousin. The two men had been arguing over a woman in Hoyt's truck when Hoyt crashed his rig. As his cousin staggered away, Hoyt shot him in the head with a .45 he kept in his glove box. Panicking, Hoyt ran over his cousin's skull with his truck, believing it would hide the evidence. Good theory, for a pickled redneck. The blood still stained the road here, a dark smear like that left by a deer mauled by a logging truck.

Rath flicked cigarette ash in the Scout's ashtray.

There was last year's home invasion of two married Vermont Law School professors who had been tied up, tortured with a blowtorch, and bludgeoned with the fire poker they'd last used to stoke a Christmas fire. The fifteen-­year-­old killers recorded the crime on their cell phones. Neither boy had even a whiff of a violent past. They'd simply skipped school on a whim and along the way gotten it in their heads it would be “freaky” to kill someone. So. Knock knock.

How did one explain such acts? What word did you put to them other than evil?

Rath drew in smoke from his cigarette. The tobacco crackled.

Then, of course, there were the Pritchards, slaughtered on Monday, May 3, 1995, a notorious crime, because of the baby.

At 4:30
P.M.
, Laura Pritchard had returned home from the farmer's market, put the baby to sleep upstairs, and was preparing a birthday dinner for her younger brother, when the doorbell rang. Her brother was supposed to have met her at the farmer's market. But he'd not shown, as usual. With a woman, as usual. No regard for anyone but himself. So she'd gone to the door, likely expecting it was him.

But it wasn't him. It was the man who had once mown Laura's lawn. A Mr. Fix It who drove a jalopy truck with power tools clanking around in the bed and a sign on the door that boasted
FREE ESTIMATES
. Ned Preacher. Though that wasn't the name he used then.

Laura must have been surprised to see him. Not just because he wasn't her brother but because, sixteen months earlier, Ned had skipped town, leaving a check due him for $150. Perhaps she'd thought Preacher had finally come to collect.

Rath had been first on the scene, and in the years since then, he'd imagined every possible scenario that might have transpired in that doorway. He'd found the front door open and a lake of blood soaking the carpet, clots and strings of it slopped on the walls like some macabre Pollack painting.

Laura's body had lain at the bottom of the stairs in an undignified pose: her legs pinned abnormally beneath her torso, her lacerated face turned to the side as if in shame. The plush, wall-­to-­wall carpet, once as white as a fresh snowdrift, now so drenched with her blood it squished underfoot. Her neck had been broken, and she'd been rudely violated with objects other than the male anatomy though that would prove to have been used, too.

Rath shuddered now, his flesh cold and rubbery.

The broken neck had killed Laura, but she'd have bled out in seconds from where the knife had nicked her superior
vena cava,
preventing the flow of deoxygenated blood from her brain to her right atrium.

Daniel Pritchard's body had been draped over his wife's chest as if trying to protect her even in death, a tableau out of some twisted
Romeo and Juliet,
these players done in by another's dark impulses.

Daniel had been stabbed as he'd walked in, Preacher hiding behind the door, the knife plunged between Daniel's third and fourth ribs, slicing the liver's caudate lobe and hepatic artery. He'd suffered four defense wounds in the palms of his right hand, his right thumb dangling by a flap of skin, and two more wounds in the back of the neck, both puncturing his posterior external jugular vein beneath the splenius and trapezius muscles: death by catastrophic blood loss.

Even now, the images cast a shadow over Rath's soul and left a bitter metallic taste on his tongue. Even now, he tried to beg off the misery squeezing his heart in its ugly, unforgiving grip.

Standing there with the two bodies at his feet, it had suddenly struck Rath: the vacuum of ominous horrific soundlessness. Then. Faintly. A nearly inaudible whine, like the sound of a wet finger traced on the rim of a crystal glass, piercing his brain.

The baby.

He'd scrambled over the bodies, slipping in the blood, mindless of physical evidence, as he sprang up the stairs to thunder down the hallway and smashed open the door across from the master bedroom.

He'd rushed to the crib.

There she'd lain, tiny legs and arms pumping spasmodically, as if she'd been set afire, her mouth agape but just that shrill escape of air rising from the back of her throat, air leaking from a balloon's pinched neck.

Rath had clenched the wooden rails of the crib until they'd cracked. Downstairs lay the baby's mother, raped and murdered by a man who'd prove no stranger to rape and murder. Laura Pritchard. Loving wife. Adoring mother. Older sister to a sole sibling whose presence would have prevented the murder if he'd been on time as promised, but, as always, had failed to be, just like their old man. Laura's only sibling, her younger brother.

Frank Rath.

Rath shivered, that day as alive and crawling inside him now as then. Nothing dulled the guilt or the loss. Not even his deep love for the baby girl.

Rachel.

At the moment Rath had picked Rachel up from her crib, he'd felt an abrupt shift within him, a permanent upheaval like one plate of the Earth's lithosphere slipping beneath another; his selfish past life subducting beneath a selfless future life, a deep rift created in him, altering his inner landscape. A niece transformed into a daughter by acts of violent cruelty.

For six months after the murder, Rath had kept Rachel's crib beside his bed and lain sleepless each night as he'd listened to her frayed breathing, her every sigh and whimper. He'd panicked when she'd fallen too quiet, shaken her lightly to make certain she was alive, been flooded with relief when she'd wriggled in her swaddle. He'd picked her up and cradled her to him as she'd broken into the loneliest cry he'd ever heard, her baby heart pattering as he'd promised to keep her safe. Thinking,
If we just get through this phase with its SIDS and spiking fevers and odd diseases, you'll be OK, and I won't ever have to worry like this again.

But peril pressed in at the edges of a girl's life, and worry planted roots in Rath's heart and bloomed wild and reckless. As Rachel had grown, Rath's worry had grown, and he'd kept vigilant for the lone man who stood with his hands jammed in his trouser pockets behind the playground fence. In public, Rath had gripped Rachel's hand fiercely, his love ferocious and animal.

If anyone
ever
did anything to her.