The Dead Room (29 page)

66

The hall, about twenty feet long, led directly into a brightly lit kitchen of beige tiles and oak cupboards. One man lay dead on the floor and another one was crawling away, trying to hide behind the kitchen island. The shotgun blast had shredded most of one leg.

Darby fired another shot at his chest and swung her attention to her right, her weak spot – the half-closed wooden door. She kicked it open and ducked to the side, expecting gunfire. Silence. No movement. She swung around and saw a ceiling lamp hanging above a small room with a bench built into the wall.

She ducked into a small room. She couldn’t use the shotgun in a hostage situation – no accuracy. She threaded the Remington’s strap across her shoulder and switched back to the SIG. Six shots left in the clip and a fresh one jammed in her pocket.

The shotgun resting against her back, Darby turned and checked the hall. Clear.

She looked at the man lying on the floor, bleeding out. He didn’t move. Had to make sure he was dead. She fired a round into his back. He didn’t move. One of her shotgun rounds had hit a plastic toolbox similar to the one she used for her forensics kit. Through the broken plastic she saw cleaning supplies – towels, latex gloves and small bottles of bleach leaking on to the tiles.

She stepped over the dead man’s body, her boots sliding across the bloody floor, and stuck close to the wall as she crept towards the kitchen, thankful that the house was lit up.

Past the kitchen, she saw a living room. Light on in there. TV in the far-right corner, a long sofa and chair. Across from the kitchen island, an entranceway, probably for the dining room. Both good hiding spots – unless they were concealed upstairs. She wished she had her tactical vest. Wished she could kill the lights and go through this strange house with night vision.

Warner was dead. Two of his partners were dead. How many others were in here?

Too quiet.

Where were they hiding?

Have to go in hot. Fire fast and make it count.

She kept moving, hands steady on the SIG.

No room for error.

Legs steady.

No room for error.

Movement.

A man spun around the corner of the living room. Darby hit him in the chest. She fired three more rounds as he stumbled. One round went too high and hit the TV screen, exploding the glass.

She caught a blur of movement to her left as another man dashed into the kitchen. No time to spin around and fire; she dropped to the floor. Rapid-fire went over her head – the type that came from an automatic weapon.

The shotgun slammed against her back. Spent shells dropped against the floor as she swung her leg around and, using all her weight, kicked her assailant behind his knee.

Kevin Reynolds was knocked off balance. He crashed backwards against one of the kitchen island’s bar stools. She brought up the SIG, fired a round into his stomach and spun her weapon to the foyer. Clear.

Darby scrambled to her feet and stood back against the wall. She felt her mobile phone vibrating inside her pocket as Reynolds screamed, writhing around the floor in pain. His weapon, a Glock with an extended magazine, lay only a few feet from his face. He saw it. His hand crept across the floor.

‘Don’t,’ she said.

He reached for it.

Darby shot his hand. Reynolds screamed and she slid into the top part of the foyer, aiming her weapon at the stairs. Clear. She swung around and checked the living room. Clear. She returned to the kitchen and kicked his weapon away. He grabbed her ankle with his good hand, and she kicked his head and broke his nose. He wailed, his legs thrashing, knocking over more stools and a small table with a vase. The sound of the crashing glass and his screaming covered her footsteps as she bolted across the kitchen expecting gunfire.

No shots, and now she was inside the living room checking all of her blind spots. She saw only the dead man. Back to the kitchen. Reynolds had propped himself up on his forearm. Blubbering, he tried to crawl across the floor, heading for the blasted door leading to the garage.

Darby kicked the back of his head. Eyes moving around the kitchen and foyer, she whipped the handcuffs off her belt. She dropped them on Reynolds’s back, then grabbed both of his hands and cuffed him.

She yanked Reynolds by the back of his hair, wanting to snap his neck.

‘How many others are in here?’

He wouldn’t answer.

Darby stood up and fired a round into his ass.

Reynolds howled in pain, the sound masking her footsteps as she doubled back through the dining room. Darby turned the corner and aimed her weapon at the top of the stairs.

Dim light came from an opened door to the right. A bathroom across the top of the steps. To her left, covered in shadows, a closed door.

Reynolds kept screaming as she moved up the steps, watching for movement, for shadows. Her eyes darted from the room with the light to the hall hidden behind her, her weak spot. Check there first. She moved from the wall and leaned her weight against the steps, still paying close attention to the light. She reached the top, saw the closed bedroom door. Next to it, an opened bedroom covered in darkness. She wished she had a tactical light and a stun or a smoke grenade.

Too exposed out here. She dived into the bathroom.

Someone was crying – a woman. The sound was coming from the bedroom to her left, the one with the light.

Hostage.

Across the hall she saw a fourth door leading into a bedroom covered in shadows. A bed and toys on the floor. She moved against the bathroom wall, near the doorway, and glanced quickly to an opened door in the middle of the hall. A lock and broken wood lay on the floor, the room beyond it pitch black.

Someone could be in one of those bedrooms
, she thought. If she went out into the hall to deal with the hostage, she’d be exposed. Someone could swing around the corner from one of those bedrooms and fire a shot into her back.

No one had fired when she’d dived into the bathroom.

The woman’s scream was a strange, strangled sound, as if she was fighting hard to breathe.

Punctured lung
, Darby thought, and swung around the doorway.

A badly beaten woman was tied to a chair propped up against the wall. Standing behind her was a man dressed in a black shirt and white collar – a Catholic priest. A .32 revolver was gripped in his hands.

The priest fired, the round splintering the wood above her head. She crouched against the floor as he moved the gun to the woman.

Darby returned fire. The shot hit his shoulder. The priest fell back against the door behind him, slamming it shut. She fired again and saw the priest stumble against the lamp on the nightstand as she pushed herself back into the bathroom.

No gunshots. She checked the bedroom to her right. No movement. She ran to the hostage, slammed the door shut and kicked the priest’s revolver underneath the bed. Checked the master bathroom. Clear. The bedroom door had a push-button lock. She hit it with her fist.

The priest had lost his glasses during the fall. He lay on his back, squirming, his shaking hand pressed up against the gunshot wound to his left shoulder. Both shots had hit him high on the chest and he was bleeding out on to the carpet.

The woman’s head hung forward, limp, her scalp marred with what appeared to be surgical scars. Blood trickled from her swollen lips. Blood covered her T-shirt and shorts. Blood on the chair, blood on the carpet and walls. A tooth on the rug.

Darby wiped the sweat dripping down her face. She stepped up to the woman and with her eyes on the priest said, ‘I’m a police officer. You’re safe.’

She removed her mobile and dialled 911. ‘I think you’ve punctured a lung so I’m going to have to leave you right here until the ambulance arrives. If I lay you on the floor, you won’t be able to breathe.’

Darby gave the dispatcher the address and asked for emergency assistance over the woman’s wheezing, painful sobs. In the distance she could hear police sirens.

Darby hung up and approached the priest. She saw, scattered across the floor near his legs, an empty bottle of scotch, a ratty leather briefcase and a syringe. Candle and burnt spoon.

‘What’s your name, Father?’

The priest gritted his teeth, hissing back the pain. ‘I want a lawyer.’

The woman’s head lifted.

‘
Preeee
,’ the woman wheezed. ‘
Hump… ah…prey
.’

Darby felt the skin of her face tighten against the bone. ‘Father Humphrey. From Charlestown?’

He didn’t answer the question. He choked on the pain, tears welling up his eyes.

‘I asked you a question,’ Darby said, and brought her foot down on his shoulder.

The priest howled. He gripped her ankle and tried to push it away. Darby twisted her foot.

‘
Yes! Yes, I used to be in Charlestown, now STOP, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE STOP!!!
’

She kept twisting her foot, her entire body shaking. ‘Do you remember a boy named Jackson Cooper? He lived in Charlestown.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘Yes, you do. You molested him. Repeatedly.’

‘
I WANT A LAWYER!
’

Darby released her foot.

The priest curled into a foetal position and started sobbing.

She raised the gun. ‘Look at me.’

His lips quivered. ‘You can’t,’ he said, and started to cry. ‘I’m a man of God.’

‘Not my God,’ Darby said, and shot him in the head.

67

The gunshot had startled the woman. Her head shot up and she started coughing up blood.

Darby moved next to her. ‘You’re safe. They’re all dead.’

The woman trembled against her restraints. Blood trickled down her chin. She was trying to speak.

‘Say that again?’ Darby moved her ear close to the woman’s lips.

‘Kevin… ah… ah…’

‘Reynolds?’

‘Yes.’

‘I cuffed him downstairs. He can’t hurt you.’

‘Babies,’ she wheezed.

‘What babies?’

‘Sons… ah… Michael. Carter.’

‘They’re here? In the house?’

‘Hiding. Michael…. ah… hid brother. Safe.’

‘Where are they hiding?’

‘Dead… ah… room.’

Dead room? She must have meant bedroom.

‘Safe,’ the woman said. ‘Hiding underneath… ah… bed.’

‘I’ll go get them.’ Darby opened the door.

‘
Ma-Ma-Ma-Michael
!’ Russo’s scream was a wet, crackling wheeze. ‘
Come… ah… out
.’

Darby ran across the dark hallway.

‘
Come. Ah… ah… safe. Okay
.’

Darby stepped up to the door with the broken lock. Almost pitch black in there; the light-blocking shades had been drawn. She searched the wall and found the light switch.

Dried blood screamed from the walls. Pools of it covered the carpets and valance.

‘
Bed
,’ Russo wheezed. ‘
Un… ah… Un… der… ah… neath
.’

Darby got down on her hands and knees and gripped the valance. Dust blew into her face as she leaned forward and looked underneath the bed.

Nobody was there.

68

Jamie forced an eye open. Everything was blurry. She could see light down at the end of the hall, in the dead room. One of her boys was scrambling out from underneath the bed – Carter. She could make out the Batman mask hanging around his neck.

They’re safe. My babies are safe.

Jamie started to cry. ‘Okay… Carter. Okay, ah… now.’

Carter’s tiny feet thumped across the hall. The woman detective didn’t bother to try to stop him.

Michael was fast. He scooped up his brother before he reached the doorway. Carter tried to fight. He kicked and screamed. Michael turned him around and gripped him fiercely against his chest so he couldn’t turn and see the bedroom.

But Michael was staring, his wide-eyed gaze locked on Father Humphrey’s corpse and what little remained of the priest’s head.

Jamie drew in a deep breath, the feeling like razor blades slicing through her lungs, and tried to scream.

‘
Go, Michael!
’ she cried. ‘
La… ah… ah… Go!
’

He didn’t leave. He whisked his attention from Father Humphrey to her and kept gulping air. Carter kept wailing and the goddamn detective kept standing at the end of the hall not saying or doing a goddamn
thing
.

Jamie looked at the detective and tried to scream the words: ‘
Take… ah… them.
’

The woman didn’t move, just stood there staring back at her with those piercing green eyes.

Jamie bucked against the rope, almost tipping over her chair.

‘
TAKE
…’

Her lungs burned with a crackling sound.

‘TAKE… AWAY…BABIES.’

Darby heard the policemen running through the downstairs rooms. Heard them shouting orders as doors slammed open and shut. She didn’t move or speak. Stood in the hallway frozen, watching in horror as the woman tied to the chair had an imaginary conversation with her two children – two boys the woman believed had been hiding underneath the bed of a room covered in dried blood.

‘
Take… ah… please
,’ the woman begged in her fractured speech. ‘
Take
.’

A shadow moved across the wall near the stairwell. Darby saw a young male patrolman standing on the stairs aiming his handgun at her.

‘
Freeze
.’ He crept up another step.

Darby raised her hands slowly. Then she clasped her hands behind her head and spoke in a loud, clear voice.

‘My name is Darby McCormick. I’m a special investigator for Boston’s Criminal Services Unit. My wallet and ID are in my back pocket.’

‘On the floor. On your stomach.’

Slowly she dropped to her knees. ‘I’m armed. Shotgun and a SIG tucked in my right pocket.’

Darby lay against the floor, hands clasped behind her head. The patrolman did what he was trained to do. He grabbed her wrists, yanked them around her back and cuffed her.

She rolled her head to the side. ‘The woman in the master bedroom is tied to a chair,’ Darby said. ‘She has a punctured lung. Don’t move her. When the ambulance techs come, make sure you tell them.’

Knee-high black tactical boots tucked inside dark blue trousers rushed up the steps. A pair stepped up next to her and three more rushed inside the bedroom.

‘Don’t untie her,’ the young patrolman called out. ‘She might have a punctured lung.’

Darby felt a muzzle pressed against the back of her head. Heard someone trying to unclip the strap for the shotgun. Hands patted her down and hands pulled everything from her pockets.

A pair of EMTs came up the stairs. Darby stared off into space, trying to make out the conversation of the men barking orders downstairs. She could barely hear them over the crackle of radios surrounding her. She kept hearing one say ‘Jesus Christ’ over and over again.

A chest mike crackled and Darby heard a dispatcher’s voice in a sea of static relay her information.

‘Looks like you’re legit,’ the young patrolman said. He undid her cuffs.

Darby stood in front of five men, their gaze bearing down on her. The tall one with the pie-shaped face said, ‘You mind telling us just what the hell is going on?’

Darby collected her things. ‘Who’s the detective in charge?’

‘Branham.’

‘I’ll speak to him when he gets here.’

‘I asked you a question, missy.’

‘Get the hell out of here. All of you. You’re disrupting a crime scene.’

Darby brushed past pie-face and moved to the other rooms.

A baby boy’s room, decorated like something out of a Pottery Barn catalogue. The name
CARTER
was stencilled on the blue painted wall above a white crib. A mobile was covered in a thick layer of dust. All the furniture was – the chest-of-drawers and matching changing table, the oak shelves holding diapers and bottles and tubes of lotion.

The room across the hall belonged to an older boy. Racecar-shaped bed, the sheets unmade. Star Wars action figures and space ships scattered along the floor and play table, everything covered in dust.

Nobody had been inside either of these rooms for years.

A note on the bed, written in pencil:
Michael, I’ll be home soon. Needed to go to the hospital. No camp today. You can stay home with Carter. Stay inside until I come home, and make sure the doors are locked. Love you, Mom.

Darby stepped back into the hall thinking of Sean Sheppard.

The ambulance tech, a pudgy man with curly blond hair, walked into the hall. He blinked in surprise to see Darby standing instead of cuffed. She showed the man her ID.

‘Are the kids downstairs?’ he asked.

‘There are no kids.’

The man frowned. ‘She said they went downstairs. Wanted me to go check them out and make sure they were okay.’

‘The kids aren’t here. They’re dead.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’re not supposed to,’ Darby said and walked down the steps. The air was heavy with gun smoke.

Kevin Reynolds lay dead on the kitchen floor. An older patrolman with a pot-belly and ruddy cheeks hovered close to the body.

‘Is Detective Branham here?’ Darby asked.

‘Not yet.’

‘See that Glock lying on the floor? That weapon and those spent shells are most likely going to be an exact match to a recent homicide in a home in Charlestown. When Detective Branham gets here, tell him I’ll be out front. I want to talk to him about this man lying here.’

‘Kevin Reynolds.’

‘You know him?’

‘We tried to pin this son of a bitch down for what we think he did here about five years ago to this woman named Jamie Russo. Some sort of home invasion. Broke into the house, tied up the family in the upstairs bedroom and shot the two boys to death. Mother survived.’

‘What about the husband?’

‘Stuck his hand in a waste-disposal unit and strangled him – don’t ask me why, I don’t know. Nobody does.’

Darby stared down at Reynolds thinking about the room upstairs, the room with the lock and the dried blood splattered across the floor and walls.

‘How old were the kids when they died?’

‘Youngest was a toddler… one or two, I forget.’ Darby saw the room with the crib and mobile covered in dust. ‘And the older one?’

‘Don’t know.’

She heard footsteps coming down the stairwell. She moved into the foyer and watched as the two EMTs carried the woman, strapped now to a gurney, IV lines in her arm and oxygen mask on her face.

Darby didn’t realize the old-time cop had stepped up next to her until he spoke.

‘Jesus H. Bloody Christ. That’s her. That’s Russo.’

Darby watched as the EMTs wheeled the woman across the front door’s threshold and then navigated the gurney down the steps.

‘What was his name?’ she asked the cop.

‘Who?’

‘Russo’s older son.’

‘Don’t remember.’

‘She does,’ Darby said.