All the Way Home (46 page)

F
inally, he’s made it, after hours stuck in traffic—first on the clogged Mass Pike leading west out of Boston, then on the Northway, where a horrendous accident had closed the road just short of the exit for his destination
.

Now he’s here, driving through the downpour battering the town of Lake Charlotte, following the familiar route to Hayes Street.

Along the way he passes several familiar landmarks—the big stone library, the brick post office with white-paned windows, Talucci’s Pizza Parlor
.
Amazing how some things look exactly the same.

But not everything. There’s a new, trendy-looking cafe where the Rainbow Palace used to be, and McShane’s Hardware has closed down, along with the old A&P supermarket on Front Street. And the entire town seems to have had a face-lift—there are quaint, hand-painted shingles hanging from brackets above some shops, and hanging flowers dangling from the lampposts, and far fewer potholes than he remembers.

It’s comforting, in a way, to see that the little town he’d once called home has lived up to the potential he always sensed. And yet the changes leave him with a hollow feeling—the knowledge that if he hadn’t been forced to flee years ago, he might have enjoyed spending the rest of his life right here in this picturesque town after all.

You weren’t forced to flee,
he reminds himself.
You made your choices. You knew the risks. And you paid the price.

He slows the car on the wet brick pavement, approaching the corner of Hayes Street.

“What the . . . ?”

There’s a roadblock, and a cop in a bright orange raincoat is standing beside it, talking to people in a white van marked
Eyewitness News.

He pulls to a stop and watches as the van turns around and drives away.

The cop spots his car, and glances at the Massachusetts plates. He walks over to the window.

He rolls it down and tries to sound casual as he says, “Good morning, Officer.”

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I have to get down Hayes Street.”

“You don’t live there.”

“No,” he admits. “But I need to visit someone.”

The officer looks dubious. “They expecting you?”

“No.”

“Which house?”

“Number 52.”

The officer raises his brows. “The Connolly place? You know—”

“That Molly Connolly is missing. Yes. I know.”

“You’re a reporter, right?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I’m not. Really.”

“Yeah?” the officer smirks. “But you urgently need to get over there, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Mind if I ask why? I’m assuming you’re not selling Mary Kay cosmetics.” He laughs at his own joke.

“No, I’m not.” He forces a chuckle, then hesitates.

“Well?” The cop is waiting, an expectant look on his face. “Why are you going to the Connollys’ place this morning?”

Here goes.

He takes a deep breath, looks the officer in the eye, and says, “Because I’m Molly’s father.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

T
he phone rings as Rory is sitting on her mother’s bed, watching Maura just lying there, staring at the ceiling. She hasn’t spoken a word all day. It’s frightening.

“I have to go down and answer that, Mom,” Rory says, getting up and hurrying to the door. “But I’ll be right back.”

No reply.

Rory tells herself that after she takes this phone call, she’ll have to get in touch with Dr. Desiderio. She doesn’t want to bring Mom to his office—she can’t take the chance of leaving home in case the police need to get in touch with her. But maybe the doctor will make a house call under the circumstances.

She dashes down the steps and into the kitchen, wondering if it’s Detective Mullen. He had called a while ago, back at police headquarters from the accident scene. He’d asked Rory more questions about Barrett Maitland, and said he’d be in touch again shortly.

Or it could be Sister Theodosia, Rory figures, reaching for the phone. She’d left a message for her at the rectory in Buffalo.

She hadn’t had any luck in tracking Kevin down. She’d realized belatedly that she should have asked him for a number where he could be reached when he’d called last night. She just hadn’t thought of it at the time And even if she had, she might have decided against it. She had been so adamant that Kevin deserved to cut the ties that for so many years had bound him to home in a stranglehold. She had wanted him to get away for once, carefree, the way she had done when she was his age.

Maybe it’s better he doesn’t know what’s going on with Molly,
she tells herself now.
He’d want to come rushing home. And maybe he won’t have to. Maybe she’ll turn up, safe and sound. In fact, maybe this was all just some crazy misunderstanding, and maybe this is her calling now.

She snatches up the telephone receiver and says, “Hello?” even as she realizes that it can’t possibly be Molly, that it isn’t just a misunderstanding, that this is real.

Molly is missing, and Rory has to face the truth: Molly, like Carleen, is most likely gone forever
.

“Rory?”

She freezes, clutching the phone against her ear
.

That’s Molly’s voice.

On the phone.

It’s Molly.

It’s Molly.

She’s alive.

“Oh, my God,” Rory breaks down, sobbing. “Where are you, Molly? Are you okay?”

“I need you, Rory. Please, please come.” Her sister’s voice is trembling, high-pitched and unnatural. She sounds out of her mind with fear.

“Where are you, Molly? Where are you?” Rory is frantic.

There’s a pause. “You can’t tell anyone. Don’t get the police, Rory. You can’t bring the police. You have to sneak in.”

“I won’t. I swear. The police are gone. There’s no one here but me, Molly.”
And Mom, but she’s catatonic.
“Hurry, tell me—
where are you?
”

“I’m next door,” her sister says in a strangled whisper. “At the Randalls’.”

“What?”

“I’m being held prisoner in this secret room, Rory. With Ozzie. And Rebecca. And we need you. Hurry, Rory. Come now—”

“But how do I find you?”

“The room’s behind Ozzie’s bookcase. Come, Rory, please—”

“I’ll be right there,” she blurts, hanging up and dashing toward the back door.

Halfway there, she pauses, and scurries back to yank open one of the cluttered kitchen drawers. With violently shaking hands, she rummages through the measuring spoons and shish kebab skewers until she finds what she needs.

Then she bolts out the back door into the pouring rain.

“W
e have to name her, Lou,” Michelle says suddenly, turning her head away from the window beside her bed. The rain is coming down in sheets, driven by strong gusts of wind, and all she’s been able to think is that her precious Ozzie is out there someplace, terrified, wanting his mommy.

And she’s helpless to do anything about it.

If she thinks any more about that she
’
ll go crazy, so she’s trying to focus on the baby, her tiny daughter, who is curled up, asleep, in the see-through Isolette at the foot of the bed.

“I know we have to name her,” Lou replies from the chair by the window. He, too, has been staring desolately out at the storm.

“We should really do it soon.”

“I know. The nurse asked about it earlier, and I told her we just couldn’t deal with it right now. But . . . we should.”

Michelle sighs heavily, wincing as her stomach muscles painfully strain her incision.

Ozzie is frightened and alone. Ozzie needs her. Where is he?

Or is he even alive?

A sob escapes her throat.

“Do you have any ideas?” Lou asks, looking at her, telling her with his eyes that she can’t lose it now. She has to hang in there. For the baby’s sake.

“Ideas?” she echoes morosely, struggling to focus. “For names?”

“For names.” He nods, obviously as distracted as she is.

“No. No, I don’t have any ideas.” Numb, she remembers how they had laughed over the process of naming Ozzie.

“How about Rainbow, Michelle?”

“Nah. Sounds too . . .”

“Feminine?”

“Yeah, and . . .”

“Flower-childish?”

“Exactly.”

How long ago those giddy days of her first pregnancy seem.

“Why don’t you just name her, Lou,” Michelle says, turning her head on the pillow so he won’t see the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Actually, I have a name picked out. I think you’ll like it.”

“What is it?” she asks hollowly, staring at the empty bed next to her, not caring.

“Joy,” he says.

“Joy?”

Her mother’s name.

Touched, despite her grief over Ozzie, she turns toward her husband. “It’s perfect, Lou.”

He nods.

“Joy,” she says tentatively, looking toward her sleeping newborn daughter.

Joy . . 
.

Something Michelle is convinced she’ll never experience again.

R
ussell Anghardt’s steel-toed boots make a clumping sound on the steep old wooden steps leading down two flights to the secret basement room that had once been used to conceal slaves
.

Very clever, the way the bookcase swings open to reveal the hidden panel hiding the entrance
.

Very convenient, the way the room is outfitted with shackles, a common fixture in rooms used for the underground railroad. If anyone ever approached the secret room, the fugitive slaves would hurriedly slip into the shackles, and the people hiding them would escape hanging by claiming to have captured the runaway slaves and imprisoning them with the intent of returning them to their southern owners.

The girl illuminated in the flashlight’s beam is poking along the second flight of stairs, taking much too long.

“Get down there.”

She flinches at the harsh order. “I’m going. There’s no railing, and I don’t want to fall,” she whimpers, clinging to the stone wall as she takes another step down.

“Oh, please. Do you know how many times I’ve had to lug things up and down these stairs? Heavy things. Like
you
. And I’ve never fallen
.
Get movin’
.
That sister of yours is gonna be here any second
.
”

Might as well poke her in the back with your gun for effect, even though you have no intention of shooting her. That wouldn’t be any fun. Too neat, and over too fast.

But the girl doesn’t know that. All you had to do was point that gun at her, and she’d been willing to do anything you asked. Even call her sister from the upstairs phone and repeat everything you told her to say, word for word.

“Please, I’m going. Please don’t shoot me.”

Finally, they’ve reached the heavy, rough-hewn wooden door leading to the long, narrow dungeonlike room that runs along one side of the old house’s foundation.

“Get inside.”

“What are you going to do to Rory?”

“Shut up. Get your hands back into those shackles, Carleen.”

“But I’m not—”

“Shut your mouth! Hurry up.”

“Please don’t hurt Rory.”

“Shut up!”

The girl’s jaw clamps closed and she allows herself to be securely locked into the wrist and ankle cuffs once again. But that damn bratty little kid has woken up again and is crying for his mother.

No time to silence him now.

No, I have to hurry back upstairs for our little reunion. Rory will be here any second . . . and will she ever be surprised to see me!

R
ory turns the knob on the back door of the Randall house and finds it unlocked.

Strange.

Her heart is pounding as she steps into the kitchen and, after pausing only briefly, pulls the door closed behind her. Instantly, the roar of the summer storm is muffled.

The house is silent.

Rory is about to call her sister’s name when she realizes that wouldn’t be wise. Whoever is holding Molly prisoner might be here.