Darkness First (22 page)

‘I love you too.'

She helped Tabitha out the window and lowered her slowly, hand over hand, foot by foot, down to the ground. She watched her daughter pull the sling from over her head, grab the stuffed bear, look up once at her mother, who was leaning out the window.

‘Run!' Donelda called in the loudest whisper she dared.

Tabitha threw her mother a tentative wave. Then ran.

Donelda pulled up the sheets, threw them in a heap on the floor, and slipped as quietly as she could out of Tabbie's room, shutting the door behind her.

A
man stood at the bottom of the stairs. Donelda went out to the landing, determined to give her daughter as much time as she could.

‘Where's the child?' the man asked, pointing Pike's gun up at Donelda's chest.

Donelda said nothing. To the man's surprise she started silently down the stairs toward him. She came slowly. Step by step.

‘Where's the child?' the man repeated.

‘What do you want with her?' asked Donelda, surprised how calm her voice sounded, at least to her, in spite of the fact that her heart was pounding so hard she could almost hear it. The longer she could keep the man talking, she told herself, the better. She descended a few more steps. The man backed off a little. He didn't want her too close.

‘She's only a child. She can't hurt you in any way,' Donelda said. ‘Leave her be.'

‘She has something that's mine,' the man said. ‘Where is she? Tell me now or I'll shoot you where you stand.'

‘You'll shoot me anyway. Just like you shot Pike.' She glanced over at the figure slumped in the chair. ‘Is he dead?'

‘Yes. He's dead. Killed himself. Suicide.'

Donelda snorted. ‘You did him a favor. He was killing himself anyway. The bullet was just a lot faster than the booze.'

Curiously, she felt no fear. Just hatred for this man standing in front of her.

‘One more chance,' the man said. ‘Where's the child? If she gives me what I want I won't hurt her. Or you.'

Liar
, thought Donelda. She looked the killer in the eye. ‘She's not here,' Donelda said. ‘We sent her away.'

‘Sent her where?'

‘A sleepover,' said Donelda. ‘At a friend's house. To take her mind off what you did to her sister.'

‘What friend?'

What friend? Donelda searched her mind desperately for a name to give him.

‘She's at the Bouchers',' she finally said. ‘Frank and Alva Boucher. They live by the airport.' Boucher's house, if he dared to go there, was more than three miles away. It would put more distance between Tabitha and almost certain death. ‘She's staying with them. Frank's the police chief here in Eastport.'

She saw a flicker of doubt flash across Conor Riordan's eyes.

Donelda started toward him.

He backed away, into the living room. She followed. He positioned himself directly behind Pike's chair.

When Donelda was only four feet away, he pointed the gun at the middle of her face. She took another step forward. He pulled the trigger.

M
aggie hung up before the chief could ask any more questions, threw on some clothes and ran downstairs to her car. She had no idea why Tabitha Stoddard had called. But, whatever the reason, she was sure it couldn't be good. She backed out of the driveway and stomped on the gas.

C
onor Riordan checked the room and smiled to himself. It was as close to perfect as anyone could have made it. Gunshot residue on Pike's hand and temple. The angle of the shot that killed Donelda came from where Pike was sitting. The position of her body, the spray pattern of blood on the floor and wall seemed exactly right. The only thing he hadn't counted on was the missing kid.

M
aggie tried Sean Carroll's cell number from the road. His phone went directly to message. She tried again. Same result. She left a message telling him to call her as soon as he could and then slipped the phone back in her pocket. There was no way in hell she was going to call Emmett Ganzer.

S
tepping carefully around the woman's blood, Riordan went upstairs. He found Tabitha's room, opened the door, turned on the lights and quietly seethed. The tied-together sheets, the open window, the screen discarded on the floor. The story told itself. The mother had lowered the child to safety before coming downstairs to give her daughter time to get away. Probably sent her to a neighbor's to call for help. Which meant the cops would likely be here in minutes. Which meant the entire plan was totally fucked up. Trying to calm the rage boiling up inside him, he untied the sheets, tossed them on the bed. Then he pushed the screen back in place, hurried downstairs and went out the way he came in. Locking the door behind him, he ran back to the gray box and reconnected the telephone.

T
abitha was less than a hundred yards from the house when she heard the sound of the second shot. The one she was sure was intended for her mother.
Run, Tabitha, run!
her mother's voice pleaded. But how could she run? She had to go back. Her mother might be hurt. Her mother might be dying. She might need someone to call for help. To call for an ambulance.
Run, Tabitha, run!
No! She couldn't just run and leave her mother to die. Clutching Harold by a single leg, she started back. That's when she saw the silhouette of a man coming toward her. She froze.

T
he sound had come from the woods that bordered the back of the property. Riordan was sure of that. Someone or some thing crashing through the underbrush not far from the house. Maybe the kid hadn't run to a neighbor's after all. Maybe she'd been hiding back there all along. Maybe things weren't as fucked up as he thought. Still, he didn't have much time.

He scanned the wood line for any sign of movement. Saw none. Stuffed everything but the penlight back in the gym bag and hurried in the direction he thought the sound had come from.

T
abitha set Harold on the ground. It was too hard carrying the oversized bear and trying to get away at the same time. She heard her mother's voice pleading with her once again.
Run, Tabitha, run!
She ran.

H
earing the sound, the man crashed into the woods. He figured the kid couldn't be more than thirty or forty yards ahead of him. He called out, ‘Tabitha, leave me Tiff's package and I'll leave you alone. I promise I won't hurt you. I want Tiff's package. Not you.'

There was no answer.

Holding his arms in front of his face to keep from being scratched by hanging branches, Conor Riordan charged ahead, unconcerned whether the child heard him coming or not. It was time for this to be over.

He pulled to a stop, squinted into the darkness at something he didn't recognize. The blackened silhouette of what seemed to be a small animal perched behind some brush maybe twenty yards ahead and slightly to the left. Was that what he'd heard crashing around? Some animal and not the kid? Whatever the creature was, it wasn't moving. Just sitting and staring in his direction. He flicked on the penlight. The beam was too weak to offer more information. From the shape of its ears the thing looked like a small bear. A young cub. But wherever there was a cub, a mother bear was certain to be close by. He pulled out his weapon and advanced slowly, listening for the approach of an angry mother bear, irritated by the fact that the child, if she was here, was getting further ahead of him.

The cub, if that's what it was, didn't move. The man knelt on one knee, aimed carefully and fired. The bullet struck its mark. The creature dropped and lay motionless on its back. A child's voice cried out in anguish from the depth of the woods: ‘Harold!' Riordan looked toward the sound. He saw the child running toward the dead bear cub. Lifting it up in her hands. ‘Oh, Harold,' she cried.

Riordan heard sirens screaming their urgent message and closing fast. Two police cars screeched to a halt in front of the house. He had no time.

Tabitha felt a large hand grab her wrist. Another clamped itself over her mouth, making it impossible for her to scream again. Or to make any sound at all. She felt herself being lifted off the ground. The December Man was carrying her deeper into the blackness of the woods.

She tried to struggle free but couldn't. He was far too strong.
He's going to cut me open
, she thought,
like a hog in a slaughterhouse
.

I
t was 3:15 before Maggie Savage pulled in behind Chief Frank Boucher's car in front of 190 Perry Road. A second Eastport cruiser and a MedCu unit were there as well, their flashing lights lending an eerie glow to the quiet night scene. An Eastport cop was stringing yellow crime-scene tape round the perimeter of the property.

Frank Boucher leaned in through the open window of Maggie's Blazer. ‘Two dead. Looks like Pike shot Donelda from his chair and then put the gun to his own head. Piece is still dangling from his finger. Empty whiskey bottle on the floor. Half-empty one on his lap. And a suicide note on the table next to him.'

‘You read it?'

‘Yeah. Looks to me like the guilt finally got to him.'

‘Where's the child?' she asked.

‘No sign of Tabbie.'

‘You looked?'

‘I looked and didn't find her. Called her name. Didn't get an answer. But she might still be hiding somewhere in the house. I didn't want to do any kind of thorough search till the evidence folks have been through. State police run murder cases and the last thing I need is Emmett fucking Ganzer accusing me of messing up his crime scene. In any case I figure Tabitha was so terrified by what was going on she just ran away.'

‘Get me some gloves, Frank. Also a Maglite. I'm going in.'

Boucher looked like he was about to say something.

‘Frank, don't argue,' Maggie said softly but firmly. ‘Just move. If there's any chance that kid is in there, maybe wounded, maybe bleeding to death, we've got to find her.'

Boucher ran to his car. He met Maggie at the front door. She had on a telephone headset. Told Boucher she wanted him to stay on the line while she went through the place. Just in case. Maggie went in through the front door. Closed it behind her.

‘Tabitha,' she shouted. ‘Are you here?' Pause. ‘This is Detective Margaret Savage.' Pause. ‘You called me earlier tonight.' Pause. ‘Please let me know if you're here.'

The only answer was silence.

She swung the Maglite around the living room. The scene was as Boucher had described. An obvious murder-suicide. She'd check the bodies later. Finding Tabitha had to take priority.

She opened a small coat closet near the front door. Coats and hats and boots plus a few more of Donelda's paintings inside. No small bodies. No one bleeding.

She moved to the kitchen and frowned. The black and tan Rottweiler was lying listlessly on the kitchen floor. It glanced up at Maggie but made no effort to rise. Not a bit like the Electra she met on Saturday.

‘Frank,' she said into her headset.

‘What?'

‘The guys on the MedCu unit still here?'

‘Of course.'

‘I want the dog on the kitchen floor muzzled and chained. And then I want one of the EMTs to draw a blood sample for me. Two blood samples.'

‘Why?'

‘I'll explain later. But it's important. Just do it.'

Boucher grunted. Maggie drew her gun and left the kitchen. The downstairs bathroom was empty. So was a closet under the stairs.

The only other room on the ground floor was an eight-by-ten bedroom in the back that had been converted into a small art studio. Empty except for an easel and some brushes and paints. And more paintings of lighthouses. Tabitha wasn't here. Nor was the killer.

The door at the top of the stairs opened into a small bedroom with a queen-sized bed. Only one side had been slept in. Donelda's clothes, the same ones Maggie saw her wearing on Saturday, were piled on a chair. Okay. So Donelda had gotten up from her bed and gone downstairs. Why?

‘Tabitha?' Maggie called again. ‘Can you hear me?'

No answer.

There was a small armoire pushed against one wall. Big enough, Maggie gauged, to contain a child's body. She pulled it open. Nothing but Donelda and Pike's meager wardrobes hanging limply from the crossbar. Some shoes on the floor.

In the bathroom Maggie pulled the shower curtain aside. Again nothing.

She opened the door to a second bedroom. Two beds neatly made. Photos of Tiff and Terri hung from the walls. Other shots of what Maggie figured were high-school friends. The small closet lay nearly empty. No one had used this room for quite a while. No one had dusted it either.

‘Any luck?' Boucher's voice boomed through the headset.

‘No. Not yet. You have people outside looking for her?'

‘Yes. We already checked with the nearest neighbors. Tabbie didn't go banging on any of their doors. I've got a couple of guys searching the woods behind the house now. One of my guys is waking up some folks in town as we speak. Should have a good-sized search party fanning out from here inside of an hour.'

While Boucher was talking, Maggie entered the bedroom at the end of the hall. Tabitha's room. A single bed with a headboard made of fence pickets with identical birds perched atop each picket. A bookcase full of books. Other books lay on the floor. On the top shelf, a couple of stuffed animals, a bunny and a panda. An empty space between the two.

The sheets had been ripped off the bed and tossed in a pile on the floor. Why? Maggie wasn't sure. Next to the sheets a pair of little girl pajamas lay discarded. Had Tabitha gotten dressed before she left?

‘Find anything?' the unexpected sound of Boucher's voice coming through the earpiece made her jump.

‘Not yet.'

‘Gone through the whole place?'

‘Not yet. I'll let you know.'

The closet door hung open. Inside Maggie could see some kid's clothes on the floor. Looked like a pile of laundry. Under them, a lightweight blanket. Had the closet been Tabbie's hiding place while the murders were going on? If it was, maybe someone had found her. But if he had why didn't he kill her as well? Why wasn't her body lying on the closet floor?

Maggie pulled off her headset and called out. ‘Tabitha, if you can hear me, please answer! This is Detective Margaret Savage. I'm here to help.'

Maggie stood stock still, hardly daring to breathe, listening for the slightest response, the slightest sound from anywhere in the house. There was none.

Was there anywhere in the house she hadn't looked?

She went to the hall. Pointed the light at the ceiling. A thin cord hung down, connected to a set of pull-down attic stairs. Could Tabitha have gone up to the attic to hide? Had Donelda closed the door after her? Maggie reached up and pulled the steps down. Climbed halfway up. Poked her head through. She swung the light around a small attic space with sharply angled ceilings.

‘Tabitha?' she called out. Again, no answer. No sign of the child either alive or dead. She climbed the rest of the way up and then out on to the plywood floor. The ceiling too low to stand upright, she crouched as she searched the place, shining the light this way and that, hoping that if she did find the child she would still be alive.

One end of the small attic was filled with cardboard boxes. Too small to contain a child's body. Too small for Tabitha to hide behind.

At the other end Maggie could see the detritus of three children's lives. A disassembled crib. An ancient high chair. A car seat. A homemade rocking horse. Beyond them what appeared to be a child's play area. Crouching down to avoid hitting her head, Maggie duck-walked to the end. She saw a child-sized chair and desk. A bunch of cushions and half a dozen young adult books scattered on the floor. Tabitha must have come up here to read. Maggie saw a standing lamp and turned it on. A newsprint sketchbook lay open on the floor. Some Crayola crayons and a mostly empty box in the familiar green and yellow colors were scattered across the page. Maggie picked up the sketchbook. An image showing the back of a fishing boat. The
Katie Louise
. The kid wasn't a bad artist. Maybe she got that from her mother. On the deck a dark-haired woman stood arms flung out to the side. Behind her a man, much bigger than the woman, was holding her by the hair with one hand. In his other hand he held what looked like a sword against her throat. The woman's mouth was drawn into a wide-open oval reminding Maggie of the scream in Edvard Munch's famous painting. A splash of red poured from the woman's neck. At the bottom of the drawing Tabitha had written the words
Like a Hog in a Slaughterhouse
three times, stacked in three neat rows.

The words, Maggie's own, leaped off the page. She remembered the eleven-year-old Tabitha, round owlish glasses peering down at her from the corner of the stairs. She hadn't noticed the child till after she'd said them. But Tabitha must have heard. Maggie looked at the picture again and heaved a sigh of regret at the carelessness of what she'd said and how she said it. She tore the sheet of newsprint from the pad, folded it and slipped it into the rear pocket of her jeans. She headed back toward the attic stairs, climbed down and closed the trap door.

‘She's not here, Frank. Not in the house.'

‘Okay, then, you better get out of there and leave the rest to the techs.'

‘In a minute. I want to check the bodies first.'

‘Damnit, Maggie …'

She broke the connection.

The scene in the living room was as Boucher had described it. Pike lay slumped in his chair. She shone the light on the wound to his head. Blackened GSR – gun shot residue – surrounding the entry hole was plainly visible.

Donelda, shot in the face, lay on her back on the floor. Her left eye blown out. The right one remained open, reflecting the emptiness of death.

Maggie picked up the suicide note, holding it by its edges so as not to disturb the killer's prints, though she doubted they'd find any there. The note was written on plain white paper. Each word spelled out in big block letters like a child had written them. More likely someone trying to disguise his writing.

What I done to my daughters? Don't have nobody but me to blame?
Maggie tried to remember her conversation with Pike. Had he spoken so ungrammatically? She didn't have McCabe's photographic memory but she didn't think so. She sensed the grammar in the note was constructed by a killer mimicking imagined illiteracy. She put the sheet of paper back where she found it.

Maggie walked out of the house just as Bill Heinrich's Evidence Retrieval Team walked in with their cameras and equipment. Ganzer was talking to a couple of troopers. Frank Boucher stood next to the evidence van.

‘What are you doing here, Savage?' Ganzer called to her, ‘And what do you think you were doing inside the house?'

Maggie didn't answer. She just yanked off the gloves and stuck them in a pocket of her jeans. She went to where Boucher was standing.

‘Oh, I have something for you,' the Chief said, a little too theatrically. ‘Your father asked me to make sure I got this to you.'

Positioning his body so Ganzer couldn't see the transaction, Boucher handed Maggie a small vial of blood.

‘Thanks, Frank,' she said. After a few seconds she handed it back. ‘I'd like you to get this down to the Crime Lab in Augusta for analysis. It occurs to me that I have no official standing in this case. You do. But don't give it to Ganzer.'

Boucher glanced over her shoulder at Ganzer, who was heading their way, then slipped the vial back into his pocket. ‘Just so you know I had the EMTs draw two vials. I'll give one to Ganzer and send the second one to the lab myself.'

‘Perfect. What are you going to do with the dog?'

Boucher shrugged. ‘I don't know. Drop it off at the animal shelter in Calais, I suppose.'

‘Okay. Just one more favor,' she said. ‘Make sure they don't euthanase and cremate the animal. At least not till we're done with this case. If the tox tests show the dog was tranquilized we may need its body to prove in court it's where this blood came from.'

‘No problem.' Boucher smiled.

She offered her thanks and then started back toward her car. Ganzer followed. He caught up with her midway.

‘What was going on back there between you and Boucher?'

Maggie smiled. ‘He was telling me what a terrific basketball player I used to be.'

‘I saw you handing something back and forth. What was it?'

‘A blood sample. I asked him to give it to you to send in for a tox report.'

‘Whose blood? Stoddard's?'

‘No. Stoddard's dog.'

‘You know, Savage, I'm getting more than a little tired of your smartass remarks. Now I asked you a question and I'd like a straight answer. Whose blood are we having tested and why?'

‘I gave you a straight answer, Emmett.' Maggie studied Ganzer's face. How good an actor was this guy? ‘I had the blood drawn from Stoddard's dog.'

‘What in hell is dog blood supposed to show us?'

‘That Pike Stoddard didn't kill his wife or himself. That a third party, let's call him Conor Riordan, entered the house and tranquilized Stoddard's vicious Rottweiler so it wouldn't attack him while he committed the murders.'

Ganzer looked doubtful. ‘Why wouldn't this third party, let's call him Harlan Savage, just shoot the dog as well?'

Maybe Ganzer wasn't a good actor. Maybe he was just stupid. No, she decided, that wasn't it. Emmett Ganzer wasn't stupid. Never had been.

‘Because, Emmett, this third party wanted the killings to look like murder-suicide. If the dog is unhurt and there's no evidence it attacked an intruder, that's what it looks like. His only problem is Boucher and I got here a lot faster than the killer was counting on. The dog hadn't recovered yet.'

Maggie started back toward her car. Ganzer followed.

‘What were you doing here in the first place? What were you doing in the house? I know Carroll took you off the case.'