Shattered (20 page)

Maura didn't hear the deputy's prowler approaching from the north, its heavy-duty tires crunching over the gravel composite that made up Black River Drive. She was upstairs, in the hallway, padding toward the door to Aaron's room, which had been shut and latched for the night.

Flesh crawling with panic as she approached her baby's door, she agonized over two contrary courses of action, the scenarios crashing in her brain like riptide waves in a stormy sea. Should she simply grab the baby and run? In this scenario, the biggest risk would merely be embarrassment (Most likely in front of Mrs. Cansino's house after both women realized the noise in the cellar was nothing more than a mouse or a stray raccoon that had slipped in through the window well). The other course of action involved bigger risks.

In this second scenario, Maura would go down the basement steps to investigate. After all, she had a gun. And if it turned out to be only a mouse, nobody would be the wiser.

She reached the door to the baby's room and paused, her hand on the cool brass surface of the doorknob.

A moment of indecision held her there, hand on the knob, frantically reconsidering her strategy. What if there
was
somebody in the basement? Should she take the chance of running into them with Aaron in her arms? Was there another way out? Could she get the baby out a second-floor window? The smartest thing to do, perhaps, was lock the baby's room from the inside, and then let the drama play out with Aaron out of harm's way. But wouldn't that be trapping her son—the most important thing in her life—in this godforsaken little brick prison? She stood like this, ruminating, her hand on the doorknob, for only an instant, a total duration of little more than a few seconds, but it felt like forever.

At last she made a decision.

She quietly turned the doorknob until the bolt unlatched, pushed the door open, and slipped into the baby's spartan, unfurnished room without making a sound. Aaron was curled up in the rental crib in the corner, his tiny thumb in his little mouth. Maura couldn't look at him, and yet she couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

Shadows swayed on the wall above the crib from the tree limbs rustling outside the window. The odor of baby powder and downy skin made Maura's solar plexus twist with fear. It was the mama-bear syndrome. It sent adrenaline rushing through her veins like an amphetamine blast as she crossed the room soundlessly, walking on the balls of her feet, careful not to make any noise.

She found the window latch in the darkness and securely locked the window.

One last thing. She went back to the door and turned the inner dial to the lock position. Then she slipped back out in the cool darkness of the hallway, gently pulling the door shut until it latched.

Now the hard part.

 

The deputy's prowler pulled up in front of 15 Black River Drive (two houses due east of the subject's domicile) at precisely oh-one-hundred hours and seven minutes. This was how Knox County Sheriff's Deputy Thomas Stanley Elkins—Tommy-Boy to his cronies—talked and thought: with military precision. It was how he did his job, too. A tall, slender, ruddy farm boy with a mousy mustache, he wore his starched olive-drab uniform and big, black Sam Browne gun belt with pride. He wondered if tonight would be the night. Nearly eighteen months on the job, and no action.

Maybe tonight.

He put the prowler in park, then settled back in his seat for a moment and let out a sigh as he marked off the salient milestones in his logbook: the time of the dispatch, the time of his arrival at the scene, the observable characteristics of the exterior of 11 Black River Drive.
Structure appears secure and quiet. Porch light on. First floor lights behind the windows. No discernable movement inside. Second floor dark.

Neighbors' windows all dark.

Sliding the logbook back into its plastic caddy, which was positioned next to the prowler's shotgun, Deputy Elkins grabbed the radio handset, and thumbed the send button. “Baker One, this is Sixteen Adam.”

The dispatcher's voice coughed out of the speaker: “Sixteen Adam, copy.”

“Ten-twenty, Black River Drive, will advise, stand by.”

“Copy, Sixteen Adam.”

Elkins put the mike back, grabbed his baton, opened his door, and climbed out of the prowler, rising to his full height of six feet, three inches.

He walked around the front of the car, unsnapping the safety strap on his Smith and Wesson, following protocol to the letter. Then he made his way down the street to the subject's home. The brick bungalow rose up benignly before the deputy, the crumbling chimney silhouetted against the night sky. The porch light sent a soft glow across the grass. The garage door was shut. No cars in the narrow driveway. Very quiet.

Elkins made his way up the landscaped path toward the porch. He made note of the thick fringe of crabgrass along the walk, the weeds poking out of cracks in the paving stones, the general unkempt quality of the house. Tommy Elkins would never let a home deteriorate like this. Who were these people? And why had Sheriff Tomilson been so cagey about ordering Elkins out here on the double, no questions asked?

He reached the front door and knocked.

 

Maura was upstairs, in the hallway, moving toward the staircase, when the knocking sound came. It was forceful and quick—obviously coming from the front door—and it penetrated her frenzied thoughts like an ice pick. She paused at the top of the stairs, her sweaty hand on the newel post. It was the middle of the night. Who the hell would be knocking on her door in the middle of the night? And what, if anything, did it have to do with the noise in the basement?

She didn't move.

Her mind reeled. It could be good news. It could be somebody coming to help her, maybe one of the marshals. But wouldn't they call her first? Didn't they have the unlisted number? Maura couldn't remember. Maybe it was Mrs. Cansino. Or perhaps one of the other neighbors saw something suspicious going on. But on the other hand, it could be a trick, a way to get her to open the door.

She stood there for quite a long moment before the second knock came.

 

Deputy Elkins knocked again.

From inside the house, after a beat of silence, came the muffled sounds of footsteps, somewhere on the second floor perhaps. Elkins stepped back and waited. He was about to knock again when a metallic clicking noise came from the side of the house. Then a shuffling sound, the crackle of leaves.

Elkins pulled his baton from its sheath, turned, and descended the steps.

“Sheriff's department,” he called out as he crept around the side of the house. “Anybody there?”

He turned the corner and saw a figure standing in the shadows by the basement window.

“Identify yourself, please.”

The figure pointed a gun with a silencer on it.

“Whoa!”

There was a flash of light and the first blast popped in the air like the snap of a slingshot, taking the deputy completely by surprise, striking him in the throat.

He staggered, the baton flying out of his hands. It felt as though a battering ram had smashed though his neck, lodging in his air passage, squeezing the breath out of him. He landed on his back in the side yard, gagging, his hands blindly reaching for his gushing neck, the blood running through his fingers.

He tried to reach for his gun. The figure was moving toward him. There was something wrong with the figure's face. This last observation was the deputy's final conscious thought before expiring.

There was definitely something wrong with the figure's eyes.

 

Maura had been standing at the front door, preparing herself to unbolt it and open it, when she heard the weird pinging noise from somewhere outside, somewhere nearby, like a rubber band snapping in two, sending fresh waves of gooseflesh pouring over her arms and legs and back. It was definitely not a raccoon. Raccoons didn't make snapping noises. At least, Maura didn't
think
they did.

She turned toward the picture window, which was obscured by dingy teal drapes. She gently pushed the drapes away from the frame, then peered through the half-inch gap. The porch was deserted.

What the hell was going on? Was this a prank? Did they celebrate Halloween in the spring in Indiana?

Maura stood there for a tense moment, frozen once again with indecision, her back pressed against the front door, her clammy hands flexing nervously, her mouth dry. Should she go outside and investigate? Should she call Mrs. Cansino first? The older woman was probably sound asleep but it didn't matter. It was better to be safe than sorry.

The closest phone was in the kitchen. It sat on the narrow counter to the right of the refrigerator, an old table model with scuffed white housing, an old-fashioned pigtail cord, and rotary dial.

Maura had jotted the neighbor's phone number on a scrap of paper that she had affixed to the refrigerator with a ceramic hula girl magnet.

She started to dial the Cansino's number when she realized there was no dial tone.

The phone was dead.

Grove gazed out the portal window at the twinkling carpet of lights that made up Indianapolis, Indiana, as the Eclipse bounced and bucked through the strata of clouds at five thousand feet, then four thousand, then three, then two. The thump of the landing gear deploying vibrated up through the floor. The turbulence was terrific. Across the aisle, Geisel made anguished grunting noises, gripping his armrests like a child in a dentist chair getting his teeth drilled.

But Grove hardly noticed the bumpy descent. He had withdrawn into a sort of shell—a zone of laser-focused concentration so intense it was practically an altered state—catalyzed by thoughts of his wife and child in mortal jeopardy. His breathing got slow and regular. He itched to get his gun out. It was packed away in a road case in the plane's cargo hold under its belly.

“Gentlemen”—the pilot's voice crackled out of the ceiling speakers—“let's buckle up, secure all loose items, as we start on our approach to Grissom Air Force Base.”

Grove and Geisel fastened their safety belts.

“Sit tight and we'll be on the ground in about three minutes, give or take.”

Grove looked at his watch. It was 1:23
A.M.
His brain began working the numbers. If Grissom was an hour from Fox Run, they wouldn't be able to reach Maura for another hour and a half. At least. The Marshal Service would be there long before that. But what would they find?

A tremendous jolt of guilt sliced through Grove's midsection, so deep and sudden he practically lost his breath. He knew he carried this terrible destiny with him now. Whatever the purpose, whatever the reason, he bore this burden like a disease, and now he had infected the woman he loved. He had brought this inexorable curse into her life.

For a brief and terrible instant, Grove's mind cast back to his wedding, back to the moment that he had exchanged vows with Maura County on the edge of that leafy golf course outside Alexandria. He stood in the sun and looked into her eyes, her beautiful green eyes flecked with gold, and he hesitated before saying, “I do.” Nobody else had noticed that weird, awkward pause that day, not even Maura, the moment was so fleeting. But it had felt to Grove, just for that one instant, as though a shadow had crossed over the sun, darkening the flower-laden alter. He finally managed to blurt out the words with a sheepish grin, vexed by the momentary hiccup in the proceedings. But Grove now realized he had hesitated because he knew the truth. He was dooming her.

Fingernails digging into the padded armrests of the aircraft seat, Grove sat there in stony silence, waiting for the plane to land, thinking, for a second, how he would trade places with Maura in a heartbeat. He would die for her.

Unfortunately, as Grove knew all too well, until the rescue team arrived, she was on her own.

 

Maura crossed the kitchen and stood at the top of the basement stairs, trying to decide what to do, her heart pumping, her scalp tingling with fightor-flight gooseflesh.

That was the central question now:
to flee or not to flee
. One thing was certain: She could not leave Aaron in this house. She had to protect her baby. But should she go grab him and risk running out with him? What if there was a gunman out there? Or worse yet, what if there was one huddling in the basement? Had he cut the phone lines? Maybe it was just a coincidence that her service was out. It had taken an entire day to get it turned on, and the service had been glitchy at first. And then again, maybe Maura was manufacturing this whole thing out of her raging paranoia.

A faint creak came from the basement, followed by a squeaking noise.

She got very still then, and became very aware of all the sensory information flooding her brain. The noise sounded as though it might be something small, something scurrying across the peeling paint of the basement floor. It had to be a mouse. Maura could not make her legs work, make herself move.

From her vantage point at the southeast corner of that tiny kitchen, her hip pressed against the little oilcloth-covered dining table, she could see the door to the basement steps to her left, sealed and latched, taunting her to come open it and investigate. She could also see the screen door to her right leading out to the narrow side yard, the shadowy patch of crabgrass from which the snapping noise had come. Which door should she open for all the cash prizes? Door Number One, Door Number Two, or Door Number Three?

America was waiting.

In her peripheral vision she could also sense the darkness of the unincorporated pastureland immediately north of Black River Drive, the distant tops of elms and black oaks swaying ghostlike against the night sky, just barely visible in the little curtained window. She could also detect a mixture of odors—some of them oddly incongruous, odors which she hadn't noticed before—such as the faint trace smells of rotting food, old ammonia, animal droppings. Her spine was vibrating like a piano string. She tasted metal on the back of her tongue, and something like rage burned in her guts.

She turned to the lacquered box on the table and flicked the latch.

It took her just a minute—maybe even
under
a minute—to get the gun out of the box, and inject one of the three ammo magazines that were nestled in the foam liner. She was careful to muffle it with her hands so that the metallic
clunk
made minimal noise.

She hadn't been completely honest with Mrs. Casino that afternoon (during the watermelon-killing lessons). The instructions were more like brushing-up exercises for Maura. She had learned to fire a gun years earlier, initially from her Uncle Dan, who was from Wyoming and was a big sportsman, and later for a piece she wrote on ballistic science for
Discover
. Not that she was ever fond of guns. But now, standing in that creaking house, with all those moving shadows on the walls, she was learning to love her new .22 caliber Ruger just fine, thank you very much.

The basement had fallen quiet again—no sounds for a minute or two, which spanned the total amount of time it took Maura to open the varnished box, get the gun out, and load it. Now she turned toward that insolent closed door at the top of the steps, and she ordered her feet to walk over to it.

The door came open with a dry click.

Cool, greasy air rushed out at her, the smell of grit and roots and old laundry. She took a bracing breath. She felt a primordial sensation of disturbing a vast cobweb, the resident spider freezing up at the vibrations resonating through the invisible dark web of the cellar. Maura turned to a switch plate to her left, and flipped the toggle button.

The light didn't work.

Maura paused, swallowing her fear and gazing down that length of steps into the darkness of the basement. Nothing was stirring down there; there was total silence. Had a fuse blown? She listened. Maybe the raccoon or squirrel or whatever the hell it was had toddled back out the window.

Whirling around toward the kitchen, Maura remembered seeing a flashlight on top of the fridge. She went over, found it behind a box of crackers, and thumbed it on. The intense silvery beam struck the ceiling. She went back over the stairs and shoved the flashlight behind her waistband.

Then she gripped the Ruger with both hands and snapped back the cocking mechanism. The
shoop-thwack
sound signaled a round injecting into the chamber with a comforting click. She thought of her baby on the second floor. She thought of those crime scene photographs, those ragged human remains. She licked her dry, cracked lips, retrieved the flashlight from her belt, and held it against the barrel of the gun.

Then she started down the stairs.

 

“Sheriff Tomilson!” Sarah Mosely, a petite African American woman with gray flecks peppering her tight little black Jheri-curls, pounded on the men's room door as hard as she could. She had been the night dispatcher for the Knox County Sheriff's Department for nearly eight years, and had seen it all, but astonishingly she had avoided losing any of her patrols. Until tonight. Tonight had shattered her perfect record. She pounded harder on the door. “Sheriff? You in there?”

From behind the bathroom door came a low, gravelly voice, coarse with irritation. “For shit sake, Mosely, I'm in the middle of a whiz!”

“I lost the deputy, sir!”

Behind the door: “Gimme a chance to shake the dew off the daisy, will ya?”

Mosely shoved the door open and lurched into the men's room, which was a small, reeking enclosure of tile and exposed pipes, with two urinals on one side, and a sink and a single toilet stall on the other. The sheriff was at a urinal, maneuvering his flaccid penis back into his trousers. He was a portly, rheumatic man well into his seventies, with a widow's peak of wispy gray hair and a noble hooked nose. Mosely averted her gaze, babbling, “I'm sorry, Sheriff, sorry…but something's wrong, I lost him…no contact.”

The old man went over to the sink and ran water on his gnarled fisherman's hands. “Slow down, Nursey. Gimme the chronology.”

The younger woman told him about Deputy Elkins's radio call-in at 11 Black River, and how the deputy never transmitted back.

“What time did he get there?” the sheriff wanted to know as he dried his hands on the towel roller.

“Seven minutes after one.”

The sheriff looked at his watch. “It's almost two, what the hell is he doing out there?” Shaking his head in exasperation, the old man turned and pushed his way out of the restroom. The dispatcher followed. The sheriff made his way down the dusty corridor to his cluttered office. “That's all I need,” he said, storming into his inner sanctum, grabbing the phone receiver off the extension. “Feds breathing down my neck, and now Elkins out there playing footsie with this fancy profiler's wife.”

“That's not all.” Sarah Mosely stood in the doorway, wringing her slender brown hands.

He looked at her. “Go on.”

“Tommy left his radio on, and I think I heard something.”

The sheriff let out a sigh, the mounting frustration etching his lined, sagging jowls. He forced himself to breathe deeply (instead of screaming). “Sweetheart? Honey? Can you be just a tad more specific?”

She licked her lips. “I'm not sure what it was, but it sounded like a grunt.”

The sheriff stared. “A grunt?”

She nodded. “A human grunt.”

Pause. Then the sheriff slammed the phone back down. He turned and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. “Listen, I want you to call Roger Lakehurst over at Salt Lick station, and Rudy Berger up at HQ.”

The dispatcher pulled a small spiral notebook from her breast pocket and started madly scribbling names and places. “HQ? You mean Indy?”

“That's right, sweetheart, I'm talking about Indianapolis, c'mon, chop-chop.” The sheriff snatched his hat off a bentwood rack behind his chair and started back around his desk.

The dispatcher scurried after him. “You want the whole SWAT team?”

“Just call Rudy, tell him we got a possible ten-ninety going down and it's better to be safe than sorry.”

Sarah Mosely nodded. “Will do.”

The sheriff stormed across the lobby, out the door, and into the ever-darkening night.