The Last to Know (35 page)

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep
 
. . .

The familiar rhyme is lost in the roar that fills Tasha’s head as she snags the elusive thought at last.

This morning she came downstairs to find that Joel had taken the children, and she knew it before she finished searching.

She knew it instinctively then, on the stairway, as she knows it now.

The house is empty.

The children are gone.

Chapter 15

“H
ow much farther?” Tasha asks from the seat beside Paula, well over an hour later.

“Not much, I don’t think,” Paula tells her, checking the speedometer. She’s going over sixty. The speed limit on this mountainous stretch of highway is fifty-five, and the rain is coming down in torrents. She doesn’t want to risk an accident. She’s not used to driving this big a vehicle—a truck, really—but here they are in Tasha’s Ford Expedition. She told Tasha the Honda would never make it where they are going.

“Do you think the cops are there by now?” Tasha asks for the millionth time.

“I told you, I called the local police on my cell phone and explained the situation while you were throwing your clothes on upstairs.” The wet road reflects the glaring headlights of the car behind her, blinding her in the mirror. She flips it up, keeping her gaze on the windshield, looking for the sign.

“What did you say, exactly?”

“That your children weren’t in their beds,” Paula says patiently, focused on the slick, deserted road snaking ahead. She craves a cigarette, but she doesn’t dare light one. Not here. She needs both hands on the wheel. The wind keeps slamming into the SUV, as though in an effort to push it off the road.

“What else?” Tasha asks, with a mother’s intense need to know everything, every detail.

“I said that I thought Fletch Gallagher had taken them, and that I was pretty sure where he had them.”

“I just don’t understand why he would take my kids,” Tasha says tearfully.

“He’s desperate, Tasha. He’s about to be arrested for three murders.”

“So he’s using them as hostages?” Tasha sobs. Outside, lightning flashes. “But why my kids? It doesn’t make sense. . . .”

When she trails off and falls silent, Paula darts a glance at her. Tasha’s face is turned away. She’s gazing out the window.

“Two of the women Fletch murdered were his lovers, Tasha,” she says quietly, over the distant rumble of thunder. “Three, if you count Melissa. The police seem to have overlooked her, but I haven’t.”

“Have you told them?”

“No.” She exhales. “It’s just a guess. But I’m sure I’m right. And the last woman he killed was his wife—presumably because Sharon found out what he’d done.”

Tasha says nothing.

Finally, Paula comes right out with it. “Think about it. What reason could he possibly have for wanting to hurt
you
, Tasha?”

For a time, the steady, rapid beating of the windshield wipers is the only sound inside the car.

Then, taking a deep breath, Tasha turns away from the window and finally admits what Paula has already known, ever since she sat beside Sharon Gallagher on the couch little more than twenty-four hours ago.

“There was something between me and Fletch, once, Paula.”

“What happened?” Paula asks, feigning surprise. “Did you have an affair?”

Tasha’s answer catches her off guard.

“No. Not an affair.”

Trying to hide her surprise, Paula asks, “Then what happened?”

“We kissed. Just once. Nothing more than that. It came out of nowhere. I’d never even met him before, and I’d never done anything like that . . . Maybe it was because I was stuck in the house with a new baby, and Joel was starting to get busier at work, and I didn’t feel very attractive because of the weight I’d gained with pregnancy . . . whatever it was, Paula, it happened only once. I wouldn’t let it happen again.”

“But he wanted it to?”

“He tried calling me a few times. Then I guess he moved on. To Jane. Or Rachel. Or someone else.”

Or someone else
.

Paula clenches the steering wheel tightly as she guides the Expedition around a sharp curve.

“What about that puzzle?” Tasha asks suddenly. “You said something about it back when we were home, but I was too far gone to even hear you.”

“I’ve been investigating, Tasha. There were similar puzzles linked to every murder. All nursery rhymes. One was in Sharon’s car. A nursery rhyme. Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater . . .”

“Had a wife and couldn’t keep her,” Tasha murmurs, quoting the rhyme her mother taught her when she was a child.

“Sharon had a lover, too, Tasha. Did you know that?”

She shakes her head. Of course she didn’t know that. But nothing could surprise her at this point.

“Not many people knew, but I’m guessing Fletch did,” Paula says. “ ‘Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.’ Do you know the rest of the rhyme?”

“ ‘So he put her in a pumpkin shell, and there he kept her very well.’ ”

“Sharon Gallagher’s body was found stuffed into a pumpkin that was growing in the garden behind the ruins of Aidan Gallagher’s house that burned down.”

“But . . . How do you know that? I saw the news last night and they didn’t say where—”

“I’m a reporter. I have sources. That’s my job. A puzzle was found in Jane Kendall’s carriage, too. That one was Humpty Dumpty. ‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall . . .’ ”

“ ‘Humpty Dumpty had a great fall . . . ’ ” Tasha says in a faraway tone. “My God. He’s sick. So her sister didn’t kill her after all.”

“But the cops haven’t figured that out yet. They’ve overlooked the puzzle. They probably thought it was one of her daughter’s toys. They don’t realize infants her age are too young for that kind of puzzle.”

“How could they have missed that?”

“It’s the kind of thing a mother notices, Tasha.”

“But I missed it, too. Paula, I saw a puzzle on Rachel’s table. I thought nothing of it at the time, but now I wonder why I didn’t. Her house was always so clean. Not a toy out of place. Why would that puzzle have been on the table? Now I understand what it means. ‘It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring.’ ” Her voice trails off in a shuddering sigh.

“ ‘He went to bed and he bumped his head and he couldn’t get up in the morning.’ ” Paula finishes it for her, quietly. “And then I saw the puzzle on your counter. And I knew right away that he’d taken the kids. ‘Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep and doesn’t know where to find them. Leave them alone and they’ll come home—’ ”

“But we know they won’t,” Tasha cuts in, her voice wavering. “Not if we leave them alone. I hope to God the cops are there ahead of us. My babies . . .”

She breaks into another sob. She’s not hysterical anymore, as she was in the kitchen back home, but she’s been crying since they sped away from Orchard Lane. More than once she has said she wishes she could call her husband, but that she doesn’t know where to reach him. That she doesn’t have the phone number of the hotel in Chicago.

Now she says, “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before now. We can use your cell phone, Paula. To find out from the cops whether they called the FBI, like you said. This is a kidnapping.”

“I know, Tasha. I know. Stay calm, okay? I already thought of calling, but I left my phone on your kitchen table after I called the police. I just wasn’t thinking straight. All I wanted to do was get on the road so that we can get to the kids on time. . . .”

Her words hang in the air between them, along with those she leaves unspoken.

We can get to the kids on time
 
. . .

Before Fletch Gallagher harms them.

“Thank God you knew about his cabin,” Tasha says shakily. “But what if they’re not there?”

“They will be, Tasha,” Paula assures her. “I’ve been looking into every angle of Fletch Gallagher’s life. It makes perfect sense. That cabin is his getaway. Hardly anybody knows about it.”

“Why do you?”

The question isn’t suspicious. Tasha sounds more curious than anything else.

Still, it catches Paula off guard.

Should she tell Tasha the whole truth? Here? Now? Is there any way she can possibly avoid it?

“You were involved with Fletch Gallagher, too, weren’t you, Paula,” Tasha says softly.

Paula’s breath catches audibly in her throat.

But that—and the rhythm of the windshield wipers—isn’t the only sound in the car.

Paula’s ears pick up a faint rustling sound.

And it’s coming from inside the Expedition.

F
letch glances in the rear-view mirror.

Bright headlights are bearing down on the Mercedes. It’s a Mack truck, roaring along the dark, rainy mountain highway as though it’s high noon on a dry straightaway.

“Back off, you asshole,” he growls at the driver behind him, accelerating.

The truck keeps coming, obviously wanting to pass him. They’re always so cocky, truckers. Think they rule the road. Well, not this one.

Pissed, Fletch presses the gas pedal. He can outrun a freaking semi. He knows this road better than any trucker.

He’s been coming up here to the Catskills for years now. Day and night, in rain, in snow and ice. The route is familiar.

He just didn’t expect to be driving it tonight. All he wanted was a glass of scotch and a warm bed all to himself.

Then the phone rang.

And now, here he is.

Careering into the mountains in a storm.

Hating that he’s doing it, yet knowing only that he has no choice. She was right, of course. It’s the only way to save himself.

P
aula’s slight gasp tells Tasha she’s guessed correctly. Paula, too, has been involved with Fletch Gallagher. Christ, is there a woman in Townsend Heights he hasn’t put the moves on?

I’ll kill him
, Tasha thinks, clenching her fists in her lap. And as pure rage courses through her tense body, she knows she’s capable of it. He’s taken her babies. If he’s hurt her babies . . .

She hears herself cry out, sobbing, as a new wave of despair sweeps over her. Agony. This is agony. She has to save her children. If only they’re not too late . . .

“Can you drive any faster?” she asks, glancing at Paula.

“I’m trying,” Paula says, her expression suddenly anxious. “I’m going as fast as I—there it is! That’s the turnoff!”

She hits the brakes.

The Expedition skids on the slick highway.

For a moment, Tasha is panicked, certain that Paula has lost control.

As they careen sideways, headed for a massive tree, all Tasha can think is that she’s going to die before she can get to her children.

No.

That can’t happen.

They need her.

She isn’t going to die, damn it. Not now. Not before she helps them.

Then she feels the vehicle turning, realizes Paula has regained the steering.

“Sorry,” Paula tells her, looking shaken. She shifts into reverse, backs up a few feet, then turns up a narrow road leading away from the highway. “It’s not far now. Hang in there. We’re going to make it.”

Tasha nods, not sure whether Paula is reassuring Tasha or herself.

The road is steep and winds through trees, climbing all the way.

Another turnoff.

Another steep road. This one isn’t paved.

“How do you know you’re going in the right direction?” Tasha asks.

“I’ve been here before,” Paula says simply.

Finally they turn into a curving tree-lined dirt lane that Tasha belatedly realizes is a driveway. There’s a cabin up ahead, around the last bend, perched at the very top of the incline, surrounded by a fringe of trees that hint at a steep drop-off just beyond.

The lights are on inside.

And Fletch Gallagher’s silver Mercedes is parked at the door.

I
nside the cabin, seeing the arc of approaching headlights through the window, Fletch stiffens. He lifts his glass to his lips again, sipping the amber liquid he poured moments before.

He needs it.

To calm him.

To prepare him.

Because now, in addition to facing his screwed-up past—his own mistakes and his father’s sins—he has to face
her
.

Still seated in a big leather chair by the massive stone fireplace, he raises the glass to his lips again and drains the scotch.

It burns all the way down.

Then, fortified for what lies ahead, he stands and walks to the door.

“W
here are they?” Tasha screams, leaping from the car while it’s still moving, hurtling out the moment she sees Fletch Gallagher framed in the doorway of the cabin, his silhouette outlined in the light behind him.

She rushes toward him, through the rain, vaguely conscious that there are no other cars in the driveway, that the police—or the FBI—haven’t made it here before them.

No matter.

She’ll handle this herself.

She’ll do whatever she has to do.

In a flash of lightning, she can see his face.

He looks . . .

Baffled.

Did he think she wouldn’t find him here? That she wouldn’t track him down? That she wouldn’t confront him, risk her life to save her precious children?

Then, almost simultaneously with the lightning’s illumination comes the deafening boom of thunder.

No . . .

Not thunder.

It was different.

Just one loud report.

A gunshot.

K
aren awakens with a gasp to a ringing telephone. In the first instant before she opens her eyes, she assumes it must be morning. Then she sees that the room is pitch black, and that the glowing bedside clock says that it’s almost three
A.M.
That’s when she becomes nauseated with apprehension.

“Oh, God,” she says as Tom sits up beside her, feeling blindly for his glasses on the table.

Karen reaches past him and snatches up the phone.

“Karen? It’s Joel Banks.”

“Joel!” And in that moment she knows.

Something horrible has happened to Tasha.

She’s dead, like the others. Jane. Rachel. Sharon.

And I knew it was coming
, Karen realizes. Her friend has been on her mind all day. Why didn’t she insist on going over to check? Why didn’t she send Tom down there tonight even if it was raining?

“Karen, I’m sorry to call in the middle of the night but do you know where Tasha and the kids are? I just got home and they’re not here. I thought they might have gone to my parents’ after all, but I called and they’re not there. Please say they’re with you, Karen.”

He’s distraught. “Oh, Joel, they’re not here.”