First Family (11 page)

“It must be nice to have friends in high places,” he said as they headed up the stairs to the bedrooms after passing the outline of Pam Dutton’s body on the living room rug.

“You should try it, but then you’d have that whole ‘getting friends’ challenge to overcome,” snapped Michelle. Sean elbowed her in the side as they stopped at the door to one of the bedrooms. Waters pushed it open. Sean and Michelle looked around as they stood just inside the doorway.

This was Willa’s room, the one that had been empty when they’d searched the house before. It was neat and clean. There were shelves full of books and a slender silver Mac on her desk. The words “Willa Land” were written out on one wall that was actually a black chalkboard.

“John Dutton said he thought Willa was downstairs with their mother when it happened. But Colleen said she thought she heard Willa on the stairs,” said Sean.

“The same thing they told us,” Waters said curtly.

“Could you tell which version was right?”

“If Willa was attacked on the stairs there’s no trace left there. What she might have heard on the stairs were the kidnappers.”

“Any sign of forced entry?”

“We think they gained access through the back door. It wasn’t locked. There’s a rear stairs to the upper level from there.” He pointed to his left. “Just down that hall.”

“So is the idea that the attackers came in via the unlocked door in the rear and worked their way through the house, room to room, back to front?” said Michelle.

“Drugged Colleen, then John, knocked out Tuck, and then killed Pam and took Willa?” finished Sean.

“That’s one theory,” said Waters.

“Why not drug Tuck too? He told us he opened the bedroom door and something hit him.”

“He’s a big guy, not a kid. Maybe they didn’t want to take a chance with the drugging part. Blow to the head was better.”

“What drug did they use?”

“The docs took some samples from residue on the kids’ faces. Looks to be a liquid form of general anesthetic.”

Sean said, “And is your theory that Willa was the intended victim all along?”

“Not necessarily. It might just be that they ran into Willa first and grabbed her. Pam Dutton comes in the room, sees what’s going down, and starts fighting to protect her daughter. Only natural. They kill her and take the kid.”

Sean shook his head. “But the living room is in the
front
of the house. If they came in the back like you think they did and worked their way through the rooms, they would have come on Tuck first, John next, then Willa’s room, and Colleen last. And only then gotten to the front. And if Willa had been in her bedroom they would’ve got her before Colleen. And I can’t believe they would have killed Pam first and then taken the trouble to knock out Tuck and drug the other kids.”

Michelle added, “And when we drove up we heard a scream. Probably Pam’s dying one. The bad guys were already in the living room by then. Tuck and the other kids were already taken out.”

Sean said, “So Willa probably wasn’t in her bedroom at the time. She was maybe in the living room. She was the oldest, it was her
birthday; Mom let her stay up late, or got her up when Dad got home so he could wish her a happy birthday.”

Michelle picked up the train again. “Mom leaves the room, maybe goes to the kitchen for something, Tuck goes upstairs to change. Maybe the other kids are already drugged. They knock out Tuck, hustle to the living room, grab Willa, Mom comes back, sees what’s happening, fights, and it costs the lady her life.”

“But the point is,” added Sean, “that Willa was the intended target. They would have already had access to the other kids.”

From Water’s expression the man had clearly not thought any of this through yet. He said, with as much confidence as he could muster, “It’s early yet.”

Michelle’s face telegraphed her opinion of this answer.
Lame.

“Did the ME say how much of Pam Dutton’s blood was missing?”

“More than could be accounted for by the wound leakage and what we found on the rug.”

“Who’s the ME on this?”

“Lori Magoulas. You know her?”

“Name rings a bell. Any idea why they would take her blood?”

“Maybe they’re vampires.”

“How about the trace under the fingernails?”

“We’re processing it,” he said tersely.

“Prints? How about on the vials?”

“They must’ve worn gloves. They were good.”

Sean said, “Not that good. They lost control of Pam and had to kill her, at least it looks that way.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Waters said evasively.

“Did you find the Tundra?”

“It’s registered to the Duttons. We found it in some woods about a mile from here. They’d driven the damn thing down into a ditch. Probably for concealment.”

“Any signs of where they went from there?”

“Still checking the truck out for trace. They must’ve had another vehicle nearby, but we didn’t find any evidence of that. We’re canvassing,
see if anybody saw anything. No hits yet.” He eyed Michelle. “You sure it was
two
guys?”

“One submachine gunner, one driver. I saw the wheelman through the windshield. Tall. Definitely a guy.”

Sean checked his watch. “With the time she’s been missing and calculating driving radius in all directions you’re looking at thousands of miles they could have covered, easily.”

“By private jet, they could be anywhere in the world,” added Michelle.

“I take it no ransom note has been received?”

Waters turned to face Sean. From the expression on the man’s features it was clear that the short leash had just come off. “You know, I did some digging on you. Does it still hurt that you were thrown out of the Service on your ass for screwing up and costing a guy his life? That must be some serious shit to have to deal with. Ever think about eating a round because of it? I mean, it’d be understandable and all.”

“Look, Agent Waters, I know this is an awkward situation. And I know it seems like we’ve been crammed down your throat—”

“Nothing
seemed
about it, you
have
been crammed down my throat,” he declared.

“Fine. I’ll make a deal with you. If we crack something or get onto a lead, we’ll provide it to you to run with. I could give a shit about nailing any headlines from this. I just want to find Willa, okay?”

Waters took a few seconds to think about this, but then finally put out his hand for Sean to shake. But when Sean reached for it, Waters pulled it back and said, “I don’t need you to
provide
me with anything about this case. Now, something else you want to look at while I’m babysitting you and your
partner
?”

“Yeah, how about your brain?” snapped Michelle. “Where is it, still stuck up your ass?”

“This pissing contest isn’t getting us any closer to finding Willa,” Sean pointed out.

“That’s right,” agreed Waters. “And the longer I have to deal with you two, the less time I have to actually work
my
case.”

“Then we won’t waste any more of your time,” said Sean.

“Thanks for nothing.”

“Mind if we look around a bit before we leave?” When Waters looked ready to refuse, Sean added, “I want to make sure my report to President Cox is complete. And I’ll be certain to inform him of how helpful you’ve been.”

If Waters had gone any paler the forensic techs on site would’ve slipped him into a body bag. “Hey, King, wait a minute,” he said nervously.

Sean was already heading down the stairs.

When Michelle caught up to him she said, “Guys like that make me so proud to be an American.”

“Forget him. You remember Tuck’s bag, the one with the airline tag on it?”

“Garment bag, navy blue, standard lightweight polyester. Slightly ragged. Why?”

“Carry-on size?”

“Considering that these days people schlep packing crates the size of my SUV onto a plane? Yeah, definitely carry-on.”

Sean whipped out his phone and punched some numbers. He let the screen load and then worked through several more layers. “United Flight 567 into Dulles from Jacksonville?”

“Right.”

He stared at the tiny screen. “That flight routinely gets in at 9:30 p.m. He deplanes, goes to his car, and drives home. How long do you reckon that would take him?”

“Depends on which terminal it came into, because that determines if he had to use a people mover to go to the main terminal. Terminal A he could just walk.”

Sean made a quick phone call. He clicked off. “It gates at Terminal A.”

“So no people mover two-step. And not much traffic that time of night. I’d say thirty minutes tops to get home.”

“So say it took him fifteen minutes to get to his car and get out of the airport, plus the drive time, that would be 10:15. Round it to an hour to be safe, 10:30.”

“If the plane landed on time.”

“We’ll have to check that. But if it did, there’s thirty minutes that Tuck Dutton is unaccounted for if we believe him that he got home around 11:00.”

“Do you?”

“The blood was crusted on his face by the time we found him, so yeah, I do.”

“Wonder what the man was doing?”

S
AM
Q
UARRY DROVE
to a local UPS drop-off receptacle and mailed the box containing the labeled blood vials. They were being shipped to a lab in Chicago that he’d found using an online service at the local library. There was a prepaid return mailer packet inside.

After that he’d driven one hundred miles east, actually crossing over into Georgia. He pulled off the highway and into a truck stop. He had six packages with him but only one that mattered. He parked and walked across the truck stop to the U.S. mailbox. After making certain there were no surveillance cameras to record him doing so, he dropped all the boxes in the mailbox. The only package that mattered was being sent to an address in Maryland. In it were the bowl and spoon Willa had used, and the letter he’d typed earlier. He had no idea if the authorities could track exactly from where a parcel had been dropped off, but he had to assume they could. Thus the other boxes were just red herrings in case anyone was watching who could later talk to the police about someone dropping off
one
box here. Well, that wouldn’t be him. He’d simply look like a long-haul trucker sending multiple packages home.

He drove back to Alabama, stopping once to get a bite to eat before heading on. When he got to Atlee the only light on was in Gabriel’s room.

Quarry tapped on the door. “Gabriel?”

The little boy opened the door. “Yes, Mr. Sam?”

“What you doing up this late?”

“Reading.”

“Reading what?”

“Reading this.” Gabriel held up a book. Quarry took it and looked at the title. “
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian
?”

“It’s real good. Makes you want to laugh. And cry sometimes too. And it’s got some grown-up language in it, if you know what I mean. But I love it.”

“But you’re not an Indian.”

“That’s not all it’s about, Mr. Sam. It’s got stuff for everybody. Lady at the library told me about it. I wanta write a book one day.”

“Well, Lord knows you got enough words in your head, because they come out faster than I can listen to them sometimes.” Quarry handed the book back. “Your ma turned in?”

“About an hour ago. We wondered where you got to.”

“Had some business needed taking care of.” Quarry leaned against the doorjamb, struck a match against the wood, and lighted up a cigarette. “You seen Kurt ’round lately?”

“No sir.”

He eyed Gabriel from under his thicket of eyebrows. “Think he might’ve moved on.”

Gabriel looked surprised. “Now why would he do that? Where’s he got to go to?”

Quarry tapped his cigarette against the door and ash drifted to the floor. “Everybody’s got somewhere to go. Just takes some folks longer to figure out where to.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Anybody asks, I guess that’s what we tell ’em. Damndest thing, though. He was like family. Now don’t you go off like that without talking to me first, okay?”

Gabriel looked stunned by the very suggestion. “If I ever leave, Mr. Sam, you’ll be the first to know, right after my ma.”

“Good boy. Keep on reading, Gabriel. Got to be prepared. The world will give you a chance, but that’s all. The rest comes from you. You blow it you blow it.”

“You been telling me that long as I can remember.”

“Good advice worth repeating.”

Quarry trudged off to his room. It was set on the top floor and had once belonged to his mother and father. Tidiness had never been one
of Quarry’s strong points, though Ruth Ann and Gabriel did their best to keep the growing mounds of stuff at least orderly.

Quarry’s wife, Cameron, had been dead for over three years. The greatest loss of his life, and he had suffered through several of them. After she’d passed, Quarry had not slept in their bed. He used a long, ragged, hundred-year-old couch set against one wall of his bedroom. He’d kept many of his wife’s things in the bathroom, and Ruth Ann would dutifully dust them even though they would never be used again.