Throw in the Trowel (24 page)

I stared at the neatly written page in shocked silence. All three men had been in on the killing.

“See?” Tara asked proudly, tapping the journal. “Didn't I tell you I had evidence?”

Not only evidence, but Tara, without even knowing it, might have solved the case. I flipped to the next page to see if there was more, but Haydn had written about school, so I used my cell phone to take a picture of the single entry.

“Aren't you going to take the journal with us?” Tara asked.

“Not on your life. I don't want the Cannons to know we found it. How did you know about the journal anyway?”

“Hannah wanted me to see the poem Haydn wrote about me, which is pretty sweet, by the way.”

I handed her the slender book. “Put it back where you found it, and then we need to get out of here fast. My car is on the other side of the pond.”

“I can't leave my bike,” she said, following me down the stairs.

“I'll have Marco come back for it. How did you pull the steps down?”

“They were already down.”

At the door, I leaned out to be sure the way was clear. “Okay, Tara, we're going to run behind the garage and then head into the woods—”

A black Lexus SUV turned into the driveway.

I jerked back inside. “What kind of car does Mr. Cannon drive?”

“A black SUV.”

Crap.

A car door slammed. I peered out and saw Doug walking up the long drive heading toward the garage. He had his cell phone against his ear and was talking to someone. Behind him, Rusty's red pickup pulled into the driveway followed by Henry's hybrid.

I leaned against the door, heart racing, mind going in ten different directions. Should we run for the woods? Hide in the attic? What if they saw us? What would they do? Come after us?

“What is it?” Tara asked in a frightened voice.

I could hear the men's voices in the distance. “Mr. Cannon and his friends are here. We'll have to hide in the attic.”

“I'm scared, Aunt Abby,” she said at the top of the steps.

I was, too, but I didn't want to frighten Tara more than she already was. “I'll text Marco. We'll be fine.”

I had her climb into one of the boxes of sports gear and covered her with an old blue-and-gold Bears stadium blanket. “Whatever happens, Tara, do not make a sound and don't come out unless Uncle Marco tells you it's safe, okay? Promise?”

“Promise,” she said in a muffled, little girl's voice. “Where will you hide?”

I looked around, but the other boxes were sealed with tape. “I'll find a place where I can listen. Don't worry.”

I moved away from Tara's box and closer to the opening. Checking for spiders, I hunkered down behind the largest container I could find. Then with shaking hands I texted Marco:
In Doug's garage attic w/Tara. D, R, H, all here.

Damn. Where was
here
? What was the address? My mind was a blank.

I heard men's voices directly below and ended with:
Hurry!
Then I put my phone on mute and set it in front of me so I could see his reply.

“Okay, we've got two options. Either we get rid of the Salvares or convince them to drop the investigation.”

I was voting for option two. I knew the speaker was Doug. Their voices were distinctive enough that I had no problem identifying them.

Henry: “Convince them to forget a murder? He was a cop. It'll never happen.”

Rusty: “Not so fast now. Marco's a reasonable guy. And Miss Abigail has a heart of gold. If we present our case well enough, they'll understand.”

Henry: “Understand that Doug killed his father, and we helped him cover it up? In whose lifetime?”

Something tickled my hand. I glanced down and saw a brown spider with long legs crawling across the back of it. I shook my hand hard, biting my lower lip to keep from letting loose with a bloodcurdling shriek. I took deep breaths to steady myself as it scuttled away. I
had
to keep quiet. No spider in the world would make me put Tara in danger.

Marco, why haven't you texted me back?
Shuddering, I pulled my knees tightly against myself and wrapped my arms around them, trying to make myself into an invulnerable ball. I tuned back in to the men below, trying not to think about the webs all around me.

Rusty: “They know what a bastard Kermit was. If they're not convinced, we'll give 'em more. Right, Doug?”

Doug: “They haven't heard half of what that asshole did to us. But I have to agree with Henry, Rusty. Marco was a cop, and Abby worked for a lawyer. Would they be able to turn a blind eye to murder? I don't think so.”

Rusty: “Hey, now. Remember, she worked for a public defender who represents all types of people, including criminals and those wrongly accused. She'd be the most likely to be impartial, and a woman knows how to convince her man. Come on, boys. Listen to the voice of experience here. No one likes abusers. Abby and Marco will listen to me. They respect me.”

Silence. Then Henry: “I don't know . . . I suppose we could try.”

Doug: “And if they won't go along with us, what then?”

Henry: “Then they'll disappear. You're the builder, Doug. I'm sure you can find an excavation site waiting for a load of concrete.”

My stomach turned over. They were plotting our deaths. Even Rusty. I didn't think I'd ever say this, but thank God Tara was a snoop; otherwise, we wouldn't have known what the three were planning until it was too late.

I began to listen again.

Rusty: “Let me contact Marco and have both of 'em meet me out at the saddle shop after hours. It's far enough out that no one drives past after six.”

Right. Like we were going to fall for that now. My cell phone vibrated against the wood, making a humming sound. I snatched it up and read the message:
Stay hidden. I'm on my way.

Marco was coming.
Thank you, God.

I felt something fall into my hair and quickly brushed it off. Three small spiders fell onto the floor in front of me. Pinching my lips with my fingers to keep from screaming, I shot to my feet, my body racked with shudders.
Keep it together, Abby. Think of Tara!

I glanced up and saw a white bag of tiny spiders dangling above me. My scalp prickled. There were more.

I stopped myself from screaming out loud but I couldn't keep in my terrified whimpers as I jumped away from the nest, slapping the top of my head. Still whimpering, I bent over to brush my hair furiously. When I looked up, Doug Cannon was halfway through the opening, staring at me in shock.

Marco

“A
train? Now?” I pounded the steering wheel with a curse, then remembered the little dog sitting on the passenger seat next to me. She was watching me fearfully, ready to leap off the seat and dive for cover. My fault.

I used a soothing voice to calm her. “It's okay, girl. I didn't mean to frighten you. Everything's okay.”

Except that my wife was in danger at this very moment, while I sat at the railroad crossing waiting for this mother—

I was working myself up—very unlike me. I needed a cool head.

The train seemed to be crawling past.

I hit my fist against the steering wheel before I remembered not to. “Sorry, Seedy.”

She was shivering again, her eyebrows drawn together in fear, so I reached across and ran my hand down her bony back. “Don't worry. We'll find Abby and Tara. By God, we will. Once the train passes we're maybe fifteen minutes away.”

It had taken me a few minutes to decipher Abby's text, to understand that Doug, Henry, and Rusty were meeting in Doug's garage. Obviously they had all participated in the murder. Was it a strategy session?

Son of a bitch, my wife is in danger and I get caught by a damn train.

I wanted to phone Abby, but knew better than to draw attention to her. I decided to try a text. She was smart enough to have muted her phone:
R U OK?

It wasn't much but it said what needed to be said. I set my phone in my lap and waited for her reply. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and checked the rearview mirror. Two cars waited behind me. Very little traffic on country roads at that time of day. I glanced up and saw the gates rising. Finally.

“Now we're moving, Seedy. Get on the floor, girl. Down. There you go. We're going to travel fast.”

Another benefit from my Army Ranger days: I learned how to drive defensively, maneuver out of dangerous situations, save lives. With both hands on the wheel, I gunned it through the countryside, taking turns faster than most people could handle. Just let a cop try to stop me now.

You don't get it, man. I'm trying to save my wife's life. Two people's lives. They're depending on me. So step back and arrest me later.

I checked the time and clenched my teeth. Still about ten minutes away. Why hadn't she texted back? I willed my thoughts to my wife:
I'm almost there, sweetheart. Hang on. You'll be safe soon.

Abby
had
to be safe. What the hell would I do without her?

“Thank God. Here's the pond,” I said to the dog, who raised her ears and tilted her head, as though to say,
What's a pond?

I jammed on the brakes when I saw the hood of Abby's yellow Corvette through a stand of trees. No time to analyze why it was there. I pulled off the road, hopped out, and jogged to her car. She'd locked it. Good. It would have to stay there until I found her.
Until,
not if.

I drove around the pond, watching the addresses on the curbside mailboxes until I was close to the Cannon residence. Baseball cap and sunglasses on, I drove past, but no cars were in the driveway. Was it the right house?

Using my cell phone, I did a quick Internet search and the same address came up. I parked on the street between two homes separated by a huge expanse of plush green lawn and tall evergreens. Both houses seemed quiet—sun was setting but no lights on, no cars or bikes around—so I grabbed Seedy and walked her on her leash straight up between the yards to the back, where the grass abutted a wooded area. From there we wound through the trees to Cannon's property until we were near the garage; then I crouched down to observe the environs. I gave it five minutes. I didn't dare wait longer than that.

I crept up to the window on one side and looked in. Red Mustang, two bikes, no men. The steps to the attic were down. That alarmed me.

Seedy whined and pawed at my leg. I looked down at her and saw a filthy, balled-up tissue in her mouth. “Seedy, let it go.”

She dropped it at my feet, then put her nose in it and sniffed, whining like it bothered her. I picked it up to make sure nothing was rolled up inside. “Just a dirty tissue, Seedy. Nothing here except a dead spider.”

I tossed the tissue, then led her along the backside of the garage and entered through the service door. I checked the Mustang quickly then left Seedy at the bottom of the steps and climbed cautiously into the attic. I walked between the boxes, keeping my head down so I wouldn't bump my head.

They weren't there.

Shit.

I started down the steps and met Seedy coming up, dragging her leash behind her. Somehow she'd made it halfway. I snapped my fingers, trying to get her to follow me down, but she wouldn't buy it. She was determined to get to the top.

I climbed after her just as she made the last stair. She put her nose to the floor and sniffed along a path straight to an oven-sized cardboard container marked
SPORTS
. Glancing back at me, she gave her little yip, then scratched at the side of the box.

“What did you find, Seedy?”

A muffled voice said, “Uncle Marco?”

What the hell?
“Tara?”

A blanket was flung aside; then Tara's red head appeared. She saw me and began to cry, holding out her arms like a child. I picked her up, lifted her over the side, set her down, and hugged her to me. “You're safe, Tara. We'll get you out of here. Where's Abby?”

“They took her,” she sobbed.

My gut twisted so hard I wanted to puke. “Where?”

“I d-don't know.” Tara's teeth rattled violently. She rubbed her arms, shivering, her face white. She was in shock.

I picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her. “Tell me what happened.”

“I f-found Haydn's journal where he talked about the m-murder, so I showed Aunt Abby. We were j-just ready to leave when we saw the m-men coming toward the garage. Aunt Abby had me get into the box; then she hid out here s-somewhere so she could listen. All I could hear were muffled voices, so I d-didn't know what was happening until I heard her moving around and slapping herself and trying not to cry.”

Tara paused to glance around, then pointed out a dozen smashed spiders under the slant of the roof. “There.”

No wonder Abby freaked out. The tissue outside must have been hers, too. Seedy would have recognized her scent.

“Then I heard Mr. C-Cannon's voice. He was angry, s-so angry at her. I heard scuffling sounds, like she was fighting with him, and then I heard other men and they were all talking at once, and then their voices got softer and softer, and then nothing.” She began to cry again. “What are they going to do to her, Uncle Marco?”

I couldn't let my mind go there. All I knew was that if they harmed my wife, they'd wish they'd never been born. “Nothing's going to happen to her, Tara. I'll see to that. Go get the journal, and let's get out of here.”

I picked up Seedy, tucked the journal inside my shirt, then proceeded down the steps far enough that I could lend Tara a hand. I didn't think she was steady enough to walk it on her own.

“M-my bike is here. Can we g-get it?”

I didn't want to take the time, but I couldn't tell her no.

A misty rain was falling now. Tara carried Seedy and I rolled her bike back the way we'd come. On the drive to her house, I questioned her again about what she'd heard, but she had no new information.

My phone dinged with an incoming text. I checked the screen and immediately pulled off the road.

“What is it?” Tara asked, holding Seedy on her lap.

“Hold on.” It was Abby. Thank God.

But it wasn't Abby. The message read:
Abby is safe. No police and she stays that way.

Sons of bitches.
They were using Abby's phone. I texted back:
What do U want?

No reply.

“Tara, I need you to keep a secret. Will you do that for your aunt Abby? It's important.”

She nodded, her big green eyes wide with apprehension.

“Those men you heard in the garage want to meet with me. Your aunt is with them. Everything will be fine as long as I don't bring police with me. But here's the problem. If you go home now, your parents will want to know what happened, and there's no way in hell that they won't call the cops if they hear that Abby is being held. Do you understand?”

She nodded again, clutching Seedy to her.

“You okay with coming to the bar? You can sit in my office and play on the computer. Rafe can keep you company. You can tell your mom and dad you're on a sleepover at our apartment. I'll explain everything to them once Abby's safe, all right?”

She shook her head. “My mom won't let me spend a school night away from home.”

“Then you're going to have to get dropped off at home and tell a lie. It's the only way to make sure Abby doesn't get hurt. Are you good with that? Can you be convincing?”

Tara nodded. “Will you text me when she's safe?”

“You bet.”

I dropped Tara off, waiting outside until her mom came to the door. Then I gave a shrug, as if to say,
Kids!
Tara wiggled her fingers to say good-bye, then stood there watching as I drove off.
Do a good job, Tara.

Now to find my wife.

The windshield wipers had a hard time keeping up with the sheets of rain that were falling now, slowing traffic. There wasn't any sign of Rusty's pickup or the other two cars at Cannon Construction. No cars at the saddle shop or at Greer Plumbing either. I made the circuit twice. Where the hell were they?

I checked the rearview mirror. Seedy had climbed into the backseat and was curled up for a nap. My phone dinged, so I pulled into a convenience store parking lot. This time the message read:
We want to meet with you.

I replied:
Where. When
. I watched the screen until the phone shut off.
Come on come on come on. Answer, damn it.

The ding came minutes later:
After the bar closes wait for further instructions. No police or Abby's dead.

When I saw those last two words, my insides froze. But it didn't make sense to keep searching. I wouldn't find them until they wanted to be found. I returned to the bar, tucked Seedy in my office with a hunk of steak and a bowl of water, stashed the journal in my safe, then tried to distract my mind by mixing drinks, talking to customers, anything to pretend my world hadn't stopped.

At two in the morning, I sent my staff home. “We'll clean tomorrow.”

“Thought you should know, boss,” Gert said. “Someone propped that back door open again, but I caught it. I think one of the cooks did it going out for a smoke.”

“You caught it, not Rafe?”

“He's off tonight.”

Damn, I hadn't even noticed. My mind was too focused on my wife. But for once I couldn't blame my brother. A dubious silver lining.

“There weren't any muddy prints in the hallway,” Gert said. “Looks like we lucked out.”

“Thanks.” There wasn't anything left for the killers to take but dirt anyway.

I locked up and paced from front door to back, checking the time every few minutes. At two thirty, I got a new text:
Open the back door and wait in the basement. No police.

That was the third time they'd warned me, as if I were a novice. But it was better that way. If they wanted a rookie, they'd get a rookie.

I replied:
No Abby, no deal.

I took my pistol out of the safe in my office, tucked it in the back of my waistband, put my knife inside my sock, wedged a piece of cardboard between the back door and the jamb just enough to keep it from locking, grabbed a flashlight and went downstairs so I could turn the light on over the hole. I had no intention of waiting down there. If anyone was going to be a sitting duck, it wouldn't be me.