Son of the Enemy (32 page)

Oh God, don’t let it be Ty. Please.

He didn’t let himself imagine it was Hannah. If the car he’d heard pulling away from the front of his house had been a cab, she hadn’t had a long enough lead to be—

Don’t even think it.

But where the hell was she?

He picked his way around the cottage, staying back in the trees, to the side of the house where Hannah’s bedroom was. The shades were down only halfway. Sure enough, he could see the dim glow from the nightlight she kept in the bathroom. If the bedroom door was open, he might be able to see into the living room as far as the front door. He had no choice. Staying as low to the ground as he possibly could, he crept forward and flattened his back against the side of the house, then waited, listening. The only sounds were dead leaves rattling in the light breeze and distant traffic sounds. When he felt reasonably safe, he turned his head and peered inside the window.

What he saw caused his heart to pound in fear.

Christ, no, it can’t be!

He made his way quickly to the front porch. Up close, he could see the wet, sticky trail up the steps to the front door. At the bottom of the door was a large, dark stain.
Blood
. He swallowed hard and tasted bile.

He stepped to the side of the bloody trail, pulled his shirt down over his hand and turned the knob. It opened. Gun in hand he stepped inside and nearly went down when his feet slipped. He grabbed on to the doorjamb and followed the trail, in the dark, to the bedroom, feeling like a condemned man on his way to the chair.

In that moment he knew he would never forgive himself.

Once inside the bedroom, he could see the long, thick lump under the light comforter, now dark with blood. Where the hell was Rita? A clump of dirty blonde hair protruded from beneath.

Ty, I’m so sorry, man.

Hot tears stung John’s eyes, but he willed them not to fall. He needed his wits about him, goddamn it. He reached forward and pulled back the comforter.

And felt the breath whoosh out of him.

Chapter Thirty

It took Hannah several seconds to realize she was slumped in an upholstered chair in her office at school. No lights were on, and her head felt heavy and woozy. How in the world had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered was Ty calling her name.

“I see you’re awake,” a familiar voice said from the shadows. She shivered.

“Edna?” she asked in a loud whisper. “Is that you?”

“Oh, no,” the voice said, amused. “That old bitch has been dead for years.”

Hannah forced herself to sit up despite the spinning in her head. A glance at the digital clock on the mantel said it was 2:38. Nearly an hour and a half had gone by. What was going on?

“Who…who are you?” she rasped.

“Just the man who saved your life at Mr. Bradshaw’s the other night.”

The eyes.
Oh God!

“What’s your name?”

“Philip.”

“What…what are you doing here, Philip?” There was no spit in her mouth.

“I came for you. Like I said I would.” The voice was closer now.

“No.” She was fighting not to sound hysterical. “That’s not necessary.”

“I’m not your enemy, Belle.” The singsong quality to his voice made him sound disturbed. Unstable. As he moved farther into the room, Hannah was able to make out his shape in the darkness.

Not too tall…light hair…smiling.
Oh, Lord help me!

“My name is not Belle,” she said, getting slowly to her feet. “So, you’ve got the wrong person. Just go away and I’ll forget this ever happened, okay? I couldn’t even describe you if I had to.”

“Oh, you’re the right person.”

“Where’s Ty?” She was inching her way toward the fireplace, and Philip wasn’t stopping her. Philip.

Philip Krantz
.

Edna Krantz
.

Was the son Edna always badmouthed really— She gasped. The voice was the same. Was that why Edna had always grated on her? The voice. The voice in the dream. Edna was in the dream. The voice…

No. Oh, God, no.

“Ty’s in a special place, waiting for you,” Philip said.

Hannah was close enough now to reach back and wrap her hand around the fireplace poker. Cold panic threatened to paralyze her, but she couldn’t let him take her. She just couldn’t. And Ty. She had to think about Ty.

“Is he okay?” Her voice sounded hollow. Unfamiliar.

Pull it together, Hannah.

Philip stopped, rested his elbow on his hand and tapped one cheek with his finger. “Is he okay? Hmm. I guess it depends on what you call okay.”

Hannah swallowed. What if this sicko had hurt Ty? “Where is this special place?”

“I’ll take you there.”

“No. No. That’s okay, just tell me where it is and—” Philip was shaking his head in that way Edna always did.
Philip…Edna. Oh God.

“You’ll never find it,” he said. “It’s hidden, and the only ones who know where it is are Ty and his friend who snorted all that cocaine.”

Christian.
“Why don’t you bring Ty here?”

“Oh, he’s in no condition to move right now. He needs you to come and take care of him. I think he’s had a little too much of his drugs. Like his friend.”

Panic, fresh and new, rose in her gut. “What? Is he—?”

Philip reached out his hand. “Come along now, Belle. Ty may not be able to talk to you if we don’t hurry. He wasn’t feeling very well when I left him.”

This was it. She had to do something. Philip was so close now, maybe five or six feet away. “Okay, I’ll come,” she said. She stepped forward and swung the poker with all her might. His arm came up and grabbed it. Hannah grunted and thrust hard, and he stumbled backwards and fell—with the poker still in his hand.

She shot past him and down the stairs to the front door, then panicked when she realized it was locked and she didn’t have the key.

Shit!
Her breath was coming hard.

She turned and raced across the foyer to the back door—that one could be unlocked from the inside. The sound of feet pounding down the stairs spurred her on, faster, desperation choking her.

Go go go! You’re almost there!

Just a
couple of feet from the door, something smashed into her shoulder, numbing it and dropping her to her knees. Then he was on her, pushing her face to the linoleum, tying her hands behind her back as she struggled.

“You’ve been a very bad girl, Belle.” He shoved a handkerchief in her mouth. She gagged. “Oh, you don’t like that, do you? Well, maybe it will teach you to cooperate. I have a lot of things to teach you.”

John was badly shaken after the state policeman told him they’d found Mary Barnes’s decomposed body in the basement of her home, and evidence that someone was currently living in her house. Was Edna a murderer, or had her son murdered Mary? Either way, she had been living in Mary’s house and telling Hannah she was nursing her friend back to health.

The smell of deer blood lingered on his hands, even though he’d wiped them off on the damp grass. Philip Krantz, stalker and murderer, had planned an elaborate hoax to draw John to Hannah’s house and then scare the shit out of him. Which he’d succeeded at brilliantly. But the fact that the man had butchered a deer and dragged it into Hannah’s bed gave him no comfort. He was dealing with a deranged personality, and an angry one at that. And he wanted to get back at John, which meant he’d been watching him with Hannah.

John had searched for a note of some kind but found nothing. Sirens in the background signaled that emergency vehicles were on their way to collect their fallen comrade and check out the crime scene. He knew he should stay to talk to them, but he had to find Ty and Hannah.

He ran across the soccer field to the school, figuring that either one of them could be holed up there. On the way, he listened to one of Ty’s earlier messages. It said he was sitting on the floor outside John’s office and had just shoved a note under his door. John pressed the phone to his ear and picked up his pace.

I’m no fucking hero,
Ty said.
Philip saved Christian, and then I was so scared, like about Christian maybe dying, I went down to this old leaf hut by the river, in back of Hannah’s house but down the hill, and the freak was there. He scared me so much I peed my pants and broke into your office. And hey, thanks for not mentioning it, about the pee.

John ran the rest of the way to school and went in through the side door, gun in hand. He unlocked the door to his office, shoved it open and picked up the note on the floor.

“Holy Christ,” he said when he read it. He snapped the note against his thigh and pulled out his cell phone. “Goddamn it, Santini!” he shouted when he got her voice mail. “This isn’t a fucking game. Both Ty and Hannah are missing and in danger. The guy who has them is Philip Krantz, and he’s the person who murdered Hannah’s mother. You got that, Santini? If you want authorization to help me, call Ronald Geer, okay? He’s with the bureau. He’s an SPC with the Richmond Office and he knows the whole story. It’s possible this Philip is hiding in the woods in back of Hannah’s cottage, some old leaf hut by the river, so get some snipers out here.”

That ought to get her off her ass. Santini was ambitious and wouldn’t want to miss out on an arrest like this. He ran up the steps to the teachers’ lounge and stopped dead at the back door of the kitchen. Squatting down, he noticed spots of blood on the floor, and the small braided rug in front of the sink was messed up.

Oh, Jesus, Hannah.

He ran through the room, across the foyer, where the large oriental carpet was also askew, then took the steps three at a time up to Hannah’s office. He kicked open the door, leading with his gun, and instantly saw the overturned lamp and papers that had fallen to the floor. Hannah and Philip must have struggled—a glance at the fireplace told him the poker was missing—and Philip had chased her down through the foyer and in through the lounge to the kitchen. The spots of blood probably came from someone’s nose or a small cut of some kind. He swallowed and clenched his fist. If Hannah was hurt…

He raced down the steps and through the lounge and the kitchen to the back door, which was closed but not locked. In the dark with no flashlight, he couldn’t see much, but clearly Philip had taken her out this way.

How did you leave, Hannah? Was he carrying you or could you still walk?

Then he spotted a large lump in the bushes beside the back steps. A body. His chest seized and for a few seconds he couldn’t move. He forced himself to stay to the sides of the steps, to walk deliberately so as not to destroy evidence, as he made his way around to the bushes. It was definitely a body, but it was too big to be a woman’s. The relief was so great he closed his eyes for a moment and sent up a prayer of thanks. He squatted beside the body…and felt cold steel at the back of his neck at the same time he heard the click of the gun.
Damn
, in his panic he hadn’t been paying close enough attention.

“Don’t you move, you bastard.” The voice was gruff and unfamiliar, with a hint of a New York accent.
Little Italy.
Another set of footsteps told him this guy wasn’t alone.

“Are you one of the deputies?” he asked, knowing it wasn’t.

“Yeah, I’m Wyatt Fuckin’ Earp,” the man said. “Drop your gun. And stand up real slow, put your hands out to the sides and spread your legs.”

John did as he was told.

“Wyatt” picked up the gun and tossed it to someone, then reached into John’s pockets, pulled out his wallet, keys and credentials, and tossed them over as well.

“I had nothing to do with this,” John said, nodding toward the body in the bushes. “I just found—”

“Aw, fuck,” the other man said. “He’s a fed.”

Metal struck John’s skull, and then everything went black.

Chapter Thirty-One

When John came around, he felt the leather seat beneath him and realized he was in a vehicle. It was very dark, too dark to identify the man sitting across from him. It was a big car, maybe even a limo. His head throbbed and his hands were tied behind his back.

“I don’t have time for this,” he murmured, and was surprised at how weak his voice sounded.

“Really?” a familiar voice said. “Got an important date, Dr. Emerson? Or is it Dr. Daly?”

“Bradshaw?”

“I would have expected Hannah to have better sense than to allow a so-called writer into the school without checking him out. As soon as I see her, I’ll have to chide her for that.” His voice grew harsh. “Among other things. Like working with the feds.”

“It wasn’t her fault.” How to play this? How much did Bradshaw know about the FBI investigation and Hannah’s role in it? And what had gone down since that night? “Nothing’s been her fault. The bureau used her.”

Bradshaw leaned forward. “And what about you, Special Agent John Emerson Daly? Did you use her too?” There was a dangerous edge to his voice.

“I used her more than anyone.”

The slap in the face shocked him and caught him so off guard he slid onto the floor. At least now he understood what he was dealing with. Jealousy, pure and simple. Or maybe more complicated, depending on how much Bradshaw knew.

“If you care about her,” John said, “you’ll let me go so I can find her before it’s too late.”

“Do you take me for a fool, Daly? You tell me where she is right now.”

John grunted in pain as Bradshaw’s foot smashed into his ribs. Damn, the man had to understand. “He’s got your son too,” he rasped. “Philip. He’s been stalking Hannah. Ty was helping him so he wouldn’t tell you the truth about—”

Bradshaw grabbed John by the front of his shirt, lifting him off the floor, then leaned into his face. “Philip? What are you talking about?”

“Do you know where your son is right now?”

“Home,” Bradshaw said, but his tone betrayed his doubt.

“No. He left me messages on my cell, and a note…it’s in my jacket. See for yourself. Philip has him, and Hannah. They’re both in danger.”