No Safe Secret (17 page)

M
olly drove all day and through the night, stopping only for gas, two bathroom breaks, and to let Ace take care of business. He knew what his litter pan was, but she decided he preferred doing his business outdoors.

It was just half past six when she took the exit off I-75 to Blossom City. It seemed like only yesterday, she thought, as she headed down Carroll Road, the highway on which she had run over those bastards who had raped her. She rolled down the window, and the blast of hot, moist air took her breath away.
Hotbed of hell
, she thought as she cruised toward her destination. Pulling off to the side of the road, she got out of the Mustang, taking Ace along. It was too hot for him to stay in the car. There was no traffic at this hour, nothing to set any alarm bells ringing. She crossed the median and looked at the strip of road facing north. She walked about fifty yards ahead and stopped.

This was it. The scene of the accident. She knew it was because this was where the road curved, and just beyond this point, her rapists had been drunk and standing in the middle of the road. She looked to the west and saw miles and miles of orange groves. This is where Rickey Rourke had parked his bright-yellow Camaro that night. She took in her surroundings, waiting for a reaction. A panic attack, maybe her heart racing a bit, but she felt nothing. This was simply an old road flanked by orange groves. If you inhaled, you could still smell the tomato-canning factory. Molly was surprised it was still operational, but she knew that back in the day, it had employed a third of the town. Probably still did, she thought, as she crossed the median and returned to her car. She took a bottle of water from the cooler she'd placed in the backseat and filled Ace's water dish. He lapped thirstily, then settled back in his bed. She ran her hand along his spine and then tugged his tail. “I should've named you Lucky.”

She had just pulled back onto Carroll Road when her cell phone rang with Kristen's familiar cymbal sound. “Hey kiddo, what's up?”

“
Tu me manques.
”

“I didn't study French,” she said, a smile on her face. “What's it mean?”

“It means ‘I miss you,' and I do. Are you okay?” Kristen asked.

“I miss you, too, sweetie, and I'm fine. I have a surprise for you when you come home.”

“Mom! You know how I hate it when you do that. What is it? You know I'll go nuts thinking about it.”

“Don't go nuts, but it's something you've always wanted.”

“Are you with Dad?”

“No,” Molly said, hearing the anger in her voice. “Why do you ask?”

“You sound happy, so I knew you weren't with him; I just had to check. Okay, Mom, we are about to head out. I'll call tomorrow. Love you,” Kristen said, then hung up.

Molly placed the phone on the passenger seat and headed to her next destination. She knew the route by heart, and she felt a sudden sense of loss. She turned off Carroll Road and made the turn onto Orange Park Way. She slowed down as she drove past her old high school. There were a few cars in the parking lot, but school was out, so she knew there would be no students around. On a whim, she made a U-turn and pulled into the parking lot. The teachers' parking lot. Everything looked the same. Old and tired, with secrets that she knew weren't safe anymore.

She got out of the car, again taking Ace as the heat was horrendous. She needed to see for herself, needed to look at the exact location where her life had changed. Without giving it a second thought, she hurried toward the football field.

She stopped when she reached the bleachers. Taking a deep breath, and holding Ace so tight he meowed loudly, she walked around to the back of the bleachers. The ground was covered in dirt; the grass had long since dried up. Soda cans, empty cigarette packages, and other unidentifiable debris littered the shadowed area under the bleachers. She tried to find the exact location where she'd been brutally raped all those years ago, but time had softened her memory, and she'd been unconscious for some of it. She remembered waking up under the bleachers, but she had no way to pinpoint the spot. She walked the length of the old wooden bleachers twice, but she still couldn't pick out any definite place. All she recalled was that she'd been dragged under the bleachers. The lights from the football field had shone between the bleachers; she remembered that. She looked at the lights on the field, their positions, and had no memory of it since the lights looked new and most likely had been placed a few feet, give or take, from their original spots. She saw nothing that triggered a memory. Just as the place on Carroll Road was just a local roadway, this was just a high-school football field.

Heading back to her car, she felt disappointed, not knowing what, if anything, she had expected to find. However, she knew what she was really doing.

Avoiding the most obvious thing.

It would be outright insane, but she knew she had to do this. She'd traveled many miles, and now she realized there was really no purpose in her returning to her hometown. What had she expected to find? Her rapists lined up in a neat little row with handwritten apologies? Of course not, she thought, as she put Ace on his bed. She sat on the seat and remembered this was Florida, the Sunshine State. Where the sun bore into the seat of your car seats and you burned your legs if you weren't careful.

She hated this place. She'd never liked living here, even though, at the time, she'd had nothing to compare it to. Still, she had hated it. The heat. The bugs, the sickening smell of the canning factory. This was her past, her history, but not her future. She would never bring Kristen to this place. Never.

Angry at herself, she left her old high school and headed for the place she'd called home. That hot tin can.
It was probably scrap metal by now
, she thought as she drove to the edge of town.

The old trailer park on Seahorse Road was still there! Shocked, she drove through the entrance, counting the tin boxes. One. Two. Three. Four.

And there was number five.

She pulled off the dirt road and put the car in PARK. Molly got out of the car and walked to the only home she'd ever known for her first seventeen years. The goddamn place hadn't changed one bit. The aqua siding had faded, and where once it had been white, it was now rusted and broken. The wooden porch was new. Their old porch was gray with age and rickety on the third step. She remembered how she'd hated hearing that sound when Marcus and his buddies were running in and out. This porch had a handicapped ramp. She supposed the tenants—that's what they called them then—were wheelchair-bound. The park was quiet, unlike it had been in her day. No teenagers roaring in and out of the lots, spinning dust in their wake. No women watching small kids run around in nothing but diapers. No clotheslines draped with the dark-green uniforms from the canning factory. There had never been a breeze.

The place looked like the end of the world. Dead. Dried up. She had a thought, and it sickened her, but she realized now that it was the truth.

She was about to get back in the car when the door to her old place swung open. Molly couldn't help herself. She turned and stared as a man in an old wheelchair pushed himself onto the porch. He sat there for a few seconds, then reached in his breast pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. His hands were atrophied, almost clawlike, as he arranged the cigarette between his lips. With the same deformed hands, he removed a lighter from the same pocket. He used his thumb, and she could see that it was difficult for him to light his cigarette. She thought she should offer to help him, but she hated the smell of cigarette smoke, so she remained rooted to her spot by the Mustang, with Ace fast asleep in her arms, as she watched the man take a long drag after he finally managed to light the cigarette. He blew the smoke out in circles. She remembered kids in school doing this but couldn't recall what it was called. He took another long puff, and again, he slowly blew the smoke out from his lungs in perfect white circles.

Something about the act brought back memories of her mother. And her twin brother. She gasped, rooted to the ground. It couldn't be! But her eyes told her it not only could be but was.

She stepped away from the protection of her car and slowly walked toward the trailer, where the man continued to blow white circles of smoke from his mouth.

As she came closer to the trailer, she saw an oxygen tank fastened to the wheelchair, with a long, clear hose wrapped around the base. Beneath that was a clear bag filled with dark yellow liquid.
Urine.
A drainage bag for a catheter.

Good Lord, she thought, as she openly stared at the man. Curiosity was like a magnet, its force drawing her toward the tin can and the man. She couldn't have stopped herself if her life had depended on it. Slowly, she crossed the dirt path leading to the home she'd left a little more than twenty-one years before.

She stood at the bottom of the ramp, sweat dripping down her face, her back, and beneath her arms. Ace felt like a heating pad against her skin, but she held him closer.

Her throat was dry, and she wished for a bottle of water from the cooler. Frightened, but not the way she used to be, she stepped onto the porch.

“Marcus?”

B
ryan rode in the patrol car with two uniforms, Jaime Rodriguez and Alex Craig.

“This guy must be rolling in the bucks,” Craig said.

“He's a dentist. Worked on my teeth a few times. Actually, he's pretty good, but he charges out the ass,” Bryan said.

“Think he'll give us any trouble?” Rodriguez asked.

“I doubt it, but that's why I dragged you two along.” Bryan laughed. “Two of Goldenhills' finest.”

Craig was built like a prizefighter, muscles with muscles, but not very tall, maybe five-seven. With his shaved head and piercing, dark eyes, he was intimidation at its best. Rodriguez stood six-foot-seven, lanky, and lean, with the prowess of a panther. On one occasion he had wrestled three suspects at once to the ground and not broken a sweat. Bryan had known exactly what he was doing when he asked the pair to accompany him to deliver the search warrant.

The patrol car inched down the long drive as though they had all the time in the world. The tactic was used in the hope of catching recipients of search warrants, whoever they might be, in the act of either running or hiding something. Give the bad guys enough rope to hang themselves.

When they reached the edge of the drive, Bryan asked Rodriguez, who was driving, to pull up as close to the front of the house as possible. With luck, the good doctor would allow them to search the premises and be on their way. Bad luck, and they'd all be earning their pay.

They got out of the car. “Hang back for now,” he instructed the uniforms. “You'll intimidate the hell out of the doc. Hell, you intimidate the hell out of me.”

Bryan rang the doorbell. He knew the doctor and his sons were home because someone had been watching the house. No answer. Bryan rang the bell again, this time holding his finger on the button without removing it.

The door was yanked open by a young guy wearing nothing but a pair of green boxers. “Hey, dudes, what's up?” he singsonged cheerfully.

“Holden, get your damn ass back upstairs. Now!” someone yelled from within the house.

The guy, obviously Holden McCann, held both palms up in surrender before backing away from the door and turning to speak to his father, who had come up behind him. “Okay, Dad. You need to cool it, totally,” he said, and anyone who could hear him had to know that he was as high as a kite.

Tanner McCann stepped outside. “What can I do for you, Detective Whitmore? I was about to leave. I have an appointment in Boston.”

“You might want to cancel it, Dr. McCann. We have a search warrant.” Bryan handed the warrant to him for his perusal.

“Exactly what is it you're looking for? My wife? I'll save you the trouble. She isn't here. Now, if you will be on your way, I can be on mine.”

Craig and Rodriguez walked closer to the door.

“So you are giving us permission to search the premises without your presence?” Bryan questioned.

“Hell no, I'm not! What gives you that idea?”

“Dr. McCann, we have a search warrant. We are authorized to search your home with or without your permission. Remember, you wanted to file that missing person report? This is just the beginning. So, if I were you, I'd take the easy way out, let us do our jobs, and if you're lucky, you'll make your appointment in Boston. If not, we'll have to have Officer Craig restrain you so we can do our jobs. The choice is yours entirely,” Bryan explained

He'd never been so excited to see a grown man squirm in his life. The emotions that danced across the doctor's face were that of a child about to throw a temper tantrum. He couldn't help himself, and he laughed out loud.

“I don't see the humor, Detective. I bet if I report this to your superior, he won't see any either.”

“I thought you had already tried that, speaking to my superior. Strange, he never mentioned it to me. And I'm afraid that you're wrong. He would. Now, permission to enter?” He jerked his head toward Craig and Rodriguez.

The two officers stepped behind Dr. McCann and pushed the front door open. “Where to start, sir?” Craig asked Bryan, all formality now.

Molly McCann liked to cook, Bryan remembered. “Let's start in the kitchen.”

“I haven't given you my permission,” McCann yelled to their backs, as they walked inside.

Bryan hung back, hoping to quiet this idiot so they could do what they were here to do. “We don't need it, Doc. So let's just get this over with, okay. Remember, you called me? Your wife is missing. We want to do everything within our power to find her. I'm sure you do, too. I certainly would hate for you to lose another wife to a tragic accident. I know you're worried, and you're just acting out, but you do want us to find your wife alive, right?”

A shadow fell across McCann's dark eyes. He turned away, so Bryan couldn't see his face. Good reaction, he thought, but he knew that he had this sick bastard's number. He'd play nice. For now.

“Of course I do,” Dr. McCann said through gritted teeth. “What do you think I am? Some kind of maniac?”

That's exactly what Bryan thought. He couldn't have said it better himself. He grinned. This son of a bitch was hiding something, and Bryan was going to find out what it was or die trying. His gut rarely failed him, and it was jumping, big-time.

“Of course not. Now let's go inside, so you can show me around. I'll want to look through Molly's things. That way you can tell me if anything is missing.” Make him feel like he was doing
them
a favor.

“All right,” he said, and headed back inside the house.

“This is a beautiful home you have, Dr. McCann. I promise we'll be careful not to break anything, though it does happen occasionally.”

“If you break anything, I will hold the police department personally responsible.”

Of course you would, you jerk.
“As I said, we're careful.” Sometimes they weren't. Especially when they were dealing with an ass like Tanner McCann.

“Dude, what the hell? I mean, Dad, what the hell are the cops here for?” It was the same guy in the green boxers.

“Dr. McCann, this must be one of your sons.”

“Lucky for him,” said the guy. “I'm Olden, I mean Holden.” He held out a limp hand to Bryan. Bryan reached for the young man's hand and shook it, though his palm was so sweaty that Bryan could barely get a grip. Definitely a doper.

“Pleased to meet you, Holden.” Before the obviously stoned young man's dad had a chance to quiet him, Bryan pounced. “Holden, we're here because your father reported your mother missing last night. Were you aware of this?”

Holden's eyes doubled. “Wow, no, man I didn't know. She dead?” he asked in his drug-induced haze.

“Goddammit, Holden, go upstairs! You're drunk.”

“No, Dr. McCann, I want to speak to him. And I'm not sure that he's drunk, though we can do a Breathalyzer test if he consents. He is over eighteen, correct?”

“I'm cool, dude, but I need to get some clothes on.”

Bryan followed him. “I'll just hang behind.”

“Sure, dude.”

Bryan knew that both sons, though he'd yet to meet the other, had recently graduated from Harvard. Amazing what an Ivy League education could do for one.

Holden's room was at the top of the stairs and to the right. When Bryan stepped inside, he almost gagged. Piles of clothes smelling from sweat were everywhere. Pizza boxes, plates with something no longer edible were on the hardwood flooring. Little packets of bubble wrap with pills inside littered the floor. Bryan would make a call to the narcotics squad. They'd have a field day in this room, but he wasn't here to bust the guy.

Holden picked a pair of jeans from one of the many piles and a black T-shirt. “Do I need shoes?” he asked Bryan.

What a waste
, he thought. “Only if you prefer.”

“What's that 'spose to mean?” he slurred.

The words “Harvard-educated” kept playing through Bryan's brain. He'd make a point to tell Marty that Harvard wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

“Let's talk for a minute before we go downstairs. You okay with that?”

Holden nodded, then dropped down on the unmade bed. The sheets were filthy and stiff. How in the hell could a person do this to himself? But that wasn't for him to decide. No way was he going to sit down in the filthy room, so he crammed his hands in his pockets and began pacing. “So you didn't realize your mother was missing? Do you remember the last time you saw her?”

He doubted he would gain anything from this so-called talk, but it was worth a shot.

“Nope, not today. She's not our mom. Just the step one. She's nice, though.”

“So she's your stepmother, then?”

Holden nodded.

“Do you remember your biological mother?”

“Nope. She's dead. Fell downstairs, but Graham said Dad really pushed her. 'Cause she hated him, too.”

Bryan stopped pacing. Were these the words of a stoner, or were they true?

“Why do you think she hated your father?” Bryan asked him.

“Everybody hates him.”

The door to the room filled with a presence. Bryan turned to see who it was and was a bit surprised when he saw a cleaned-up version of Holden.

“You must be Graham. I'm Detective Whitmore.”

“I know who you are,” Graham said.

Sober and a smart-ass, just like his father—at least the smart-ass part.

“Then you know why we're here. You're father reported your mother missing last night. We are here to search for anything that might give us an idea where she went, who she's with, that sort of thing. Do you remember the last time you saw your mother?” Bryan asked. He wasn't going to pussyfoot around with Graham. He was sober and could answer the questions.

“They had a dinner party the night before last. She was in the kitchen, with Sally, the maid. I haven't seen her since,” Graham stated. “Is that all?”

“I'm not finished, son.”

“I'm not your son, and I would appreciate it if you didn't refer to me that way.”

“Sorry. You aren't my son, you're right. But if you were, I can guarantee you wouldn't talk to me like some smart-ass middle schooler. So, let's continue,
Graham.
” He put extra emphasis on his name. “Were you home all night after the dinner party?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear your parents fighting?”

“Man,
I
did. Dad was sooo pissed,” Holden shot out from his perch on the bed.

Bryan directed his gaze at Graham but spoke to Holden. “What did you hear, Holden?”

“It was bad . . .”

“Shut up, Holden,” Graham said to his twin.

“Are you afraid he might say something he shouldn't?” Bryan asked Graham. The look on the younger twin's face said it all. Of course he was.

“I'm finished with you now,
Graham
. You can leave the room. I want to speak with your brother. Alone.”

“My dad will have your badge,” he said, then left the room.

What a little jerk. Like father, like son.

He directed his attention back to the lump of humanity on the bed. “So, Holden, you were saying your dad was pissed and that it was bad. What does that mean?”

“Dad was, man, he was so pissed. The kitchen was baked in. Molly, dude, she can bake good stuff. And Dad threw the pans. She wasn't here, but I saw her go, she, man, she wanted to go. But she's not driving 'cause that taxi got her. That pink thing. I seen her go, man. She had her bags all dragged behind her. She didn't wanna get tossed, like down them stairs, like Mom. Like before, Graham says.”

Though Holden was stoned, he wasn't as bad as he'd been when they arrived. If what he said was true, then Molly McCann hadn't gone missing. She'd left of her own free will.

“Okay, Holden, you rest up, and I'll talk to you in a bit.” He knew he sounded like he was talking to a child, but in all the ways that were important, he was. A child that just happened to reside in the body of a man.

He left Holden lying on the bed and hurried downstairs to the kitchen, where Craig and Rodriguez were taking their good old easy time as they searched the kitchen. It was huge. It could take hours.

“Sir, I think you might want to have a look at this,” Craig said. He was standing with a top-of-the-line dishwasher open. Inside, it was full of pans used to bake bread in. He knew this because he liked to bake. He'd never admit it to the guys, but on his days off he was known to make a hearty loaf of rye or two.

“What's so interesting about loaf pans, Officer Craig?”

He took one of the pans from the dishwasher; they were clean, which might not be a good thing in this case, and walked over to the kitchen cabinet. “See this?” He took the pan and placed its sharp corner in a large nick in the wood door on the cabinet. “It's a perfect fit.”

“It is. Let's get some pictures. Bag the pan, and let's take the door off the hinges.”

At that moment, Dr. McCann and his younger son both forced their way into the kitchen.

“You are not taking one item out of my house, and you are certainly not going to remove a very expensive door from custom-made cabinets. It's not going to happen,” the doctor said.

“We are, and it is. If you don't calm down, Dr. McCann, I'm going to have you arrested for verbal assault, and before you tell me I can't, I can. And while I've got your attention, I think your wife left. Willingly. And I think you know it, too. I want a complete guest list from your dinner party. I want names and numbers, and don't you dare try to tell me you don't have them. You got that, Dr. McCann?” Bryan all but snarled. He'd had enough mollycoddling for one day. “Now, not later.”