Goodbye to the Dead (Jonathan Stride Book 7) (28 page)

52

It was morning, but Erin had no way of knowing what morning it was. Her world was black.

Every movement of her body brought pain now. Her skin was blistered where she’d struggled fruitlessly against her bonds. Cuts had scabbed over and broken again on her face. Her muscles, once so supple and strong from her visits to the gym, had balled into knots, like shoelaces tied so tightly they couldn’t be undone. She knew she had a urinary tract infection. Peeing brought a knifing sting.

Twice a day, the voice came back. The door would be unlocked and locked again, but the darkness was unrelenting. She was given food and a chance to relieve herself, with a knife at her throat and her limbs tied. Most days, she couldn’t hold it until then, so she found herself doused with a bucket of cold water to fight the smell. Even in the heat, she shivered so hard that she thought her bones would break.

She’d screamed once when the gag was removed. As she did, she found herself choked, every atom of air cut off until her limbs twitched, while the voice hissed obscenities in her ear. She didn’t scream again. She became docile, learning the routine, living by it.

Eventually, the animals at the zoo understand there is no way out.

One time, she’d murmured: ‘Why?’

She got no answer.

Another time – maybe it was yesterday, whatever yesterday was – she’d said: ‘When?’

Because she knew this was the beginning, not the end.

This time the voice told her: ‘Soon.’

Above her head, a summer rain began. It was still summer; the heat and drenching humidity told her that. She could smell the freshness of the rain from outside, and she could hear its drumbeat assaulting the roof. A squall, loud and sustained. She couldn’t see lightning through her blindness, but a growl of thunder made her prison tremble. It sounded like a devil’s throaty laughter.

Hammering raindrops squeezed through the roof. Drips leaked on her face, and she grabbed for them with her dry, swollen tongue. She heard a toneless plink-plink, too, water making music on metal. The change in pitch among the falling water told her there was something large inside the room with her, and she knew instinctively what it was. Her car was hidden with her. Her Barney-purple Nissan Versa. No one would find it. No one would find
her
.

In the beginning, she’d prayed for Matt to find her. Mattie_1987. Her confidant, her friend, her lover. When he arrived at the bar and found she wasn’t there, he’d spread the alarm throughout Duluth and call the police. He’d pass her photo from hand to hand. Strange how long it had taken the truth to sink into her brain. Even when it was obvious, she’d refused to believe it. There was no Matt. He was a figment of her imagination. An online fantasy. She’d been lured and trapped here by the voice.

What bothered her more than anything was how easy it had been to be tricked. She felt like the perfect fool. Growing up, she’d thought girls were naive to fall for scams. She couldn’t understand how women could believe the same tired lines from guys in bars. And now she’d allowed herself to fall in love with a lie. To be drawn into something far worse than a one-night stand.

More thunder. The devil chuckled at the joke.
No one’s coming for you, Erin.

She had tried to escape, but the steel of handcuffs and chains was insurmountable. She’d screamed and struggled, achieving nothing. She’d cried. Wept. Prayed. God didn’t answer and left her in hell. When the gag came off twice a day, she’d beg for mercy and bargain with the voice. Let me go. Please. I’ll do anything. What do you want?

That was all buried somewhere in the past. Her tears had dried long ago. She’d realized that the darkness was a grieving process; struggling, protesting, challenging – and finally accepting the reality. Her life was over. What was left to her wasn’t life at all. She’d felt herself going dead inside as the darkness continued, until she felt nothing at all.

Erin had a choice. Early on, she’d known that the choice was available to her. The last choice. When she explored the tiny universe allowed by her chains, she discovered that she was affixed to a heavy steel table. It was immovable. Bags of sand or concrete had been laid on top of it. The table was weighted, as heavy as her car, imprisoning her where she was.

However, the metal corner of the table above her head came to a sharp point. It was jagged, hooked, like the end of a dentist’s pick. The jab of metal was useless against the steel holding her in place, but that wasn’t what she needed it for. God had given her a way out of this hell, if she had the courage to use it.

The rain kept on, as hard as ever, but the thunder quieted. It was as if the devil knew what she was going to do.

Erin twisted her body, pushing herself onto her knees in the dirt, until she could nudge her chin over the smooth cold tabletop. She smelled the concrete dust, but she took a breath anyway, savoring it. Funny how you took life for granted. Breathe in, breathe out. She slid her face leftward, hunting for the prickly corner, like the needle of a cactus. It bit into her neck. Her salvation. Metal couldn’t penetrate metal, but it could penetrate flesh.

Home squirmed into her brain. Her apartment in Grand Forks. Good days. Swimming in the river. Red wine on Saturday nights. She couldn’t let those thoughts control her. Home didn’t exist. That life – her life – didn’t exist anymore. She pressed against the point of the table, which bit harder. Her body wanted to jerk away, but she didn’t let it.

The little claw took hold of her neck. Erin slung her head in a single sharp pivot. The pick held, and ripped, and tore. Pain awakened her, but pain was a friend. Rain leaked onto her body, warming her skin, but she knew with a wild sense of freedom that the rain had stopped.

This was blood.

This was escape.

*

Bernd Frisch didn’t smile at the coast guard officer. Smiling was what guilty people did. He wasn’t concerned by the search of the boat or the extra security. His fake Dutch passport would come through the computer databases as clean as spring rain. The entire crew had cleared customs inspections over and over, and today would be no different.

He answered questions. Politely. Offering nothing but facts. Where the ship had been. Where they had docked. What they loaded and unloaded. The voyage of the
Ingersstrom
was routine.

The one surprise was the photographs they showed him. The officer presented him with pictures of women. Had he seen them? Had he witnessed any of the crew interacting with these women? Had he seen them here in Duluth or elsewhere in Europe?

No. No. No.

Did he have any knowledge of human trafficking activities on this or other foreign ships operating in the St. Lawrence Seaway?

No.

Bernd recognized the photograph of the woman he’d delivered from Duluth last year – the woman who’d been found murdered in Amsterdam. He recognized Kelly Hauswirth, whom he’d shot in the back of the head. He recognized the woman who would be smuggled on board after dark tonight, before the boat set sail into the waters of Lake Superior at 2:00 a.m.

‘These women are unfamiliar to me,’ he said.

And that was that.

Bernd was cleared. He took his backpack and left the boat. They didn’t search him, so they didn’t find the gun at the bottom of the pack, fully loaded now. If they had spotted the gun, he would have told them that America wasn’t a safe place. Didn’t they watch television?

He swaggered down the gangplank to the busy port. Steam rose from the ground in humid clouds. The sky over the lake was black where a storm blew eastward away from the city. It had rained, but the rain was gone.

Welcome to Duluth.

Bernd slipped out his phone and texted.
I’m here.

53

As soon as they climbed out of Stride’s Expedition at the house in Superior, Maggie knew she’d made a terrible mistake nine years earlier.

This was where Cat’s boyfriend lived, but she recognized exactly where she was. She remembered the sea-foam green, two-story house on the corner. The coming-and-going of the trains across the street. The overpass of Highway 2. The arborvitae, even taller now, towering over the roof.

‘I’ve been to this house before,’ she said.

Stride and Serena both stared at her. ‘What? When?’

‘After Jay Ferris was killed.’

Maggie’s memory painted the picture for her. Back then, it had been winter. Mountains of snow were piled on the street corner. The engineer who waved at her from a passing train wore an orange down coat and gloves. The sky was slate gray over her head, like it was today. And across the street, parked beside the two-story house, was a white Toyota Rav4.

The Rav wasn’t there anymore. There were no cars on the street or in the driveway. Even so, she remembered being here, questioning a man on the front porch. She and Guppo had interviewed dozens of Rav owners in Duluth and Superior, trying to pinpoint one of them who may have been parked on the street near Janine Snow’s home on January 28.

‘The owner’s name was Seymour Pugh,’ Maggie recalled. ‘He was on our checklist back then. He owned a white Rav, and he had a criminal record for burglary. I talked to him about Jay’s murder.’

‘Cat’s boyfriend is Al Pugh,’ Serena said.

Maggie nodded her head in frustration. ‘Al must be his son. That’s the connection.’

She’d misread Seymour Pugh all those years ago. He’d fooled her.

She was angry with herself, but there was no way she could have put the pieces together back then. Pugh was just one of many interviews, one playing card dealt from a full deck. She remembered liking him. He was a family man. A man who stayed with his wife and kids instead of running out. A man who got a solid job after his run-ins with police and prison.

A job. Maggie remembered Seymour Pugh’s job, and it meant something important to her now.

‘Pugh told me that he drove a truck,’ she said. ‘He was all over the Midwest delivering machine parts. Including Illinois.’

‘You think he was the one who bought the gun on the street in Chicago,’ Serena concluded. ‘That’s how the gun got to Duluth.’

Maggie banged her fist into her palm. She was stupid. Pugh had given her a song and dance about his values, about supporting his family, about finding God. She’d believed him. And now, she was convinced that he’d lied to her. The clues fit, and they all pointed in one direction. The white Rav. The connection to Chicago, where the murder weapon had been sold. The stolen jewelry that came from Pugh’s house.

She’d been talking to the man who murdered Jay Ferris.

‘Come on,’ Stride said. ‘Let’s go inside.’

The two streets leading to the house were barricaded a block away. They had a dozen officers with them, all in militia gear, with vests on. They weren’t taking any chances with what might be waiting behind those doors. The team fanned out around them, staking out positions on all sides of the house. A wooden fence surrounded the yard, and half a dozen officers made their way through the gate.

Gray clouds layered the sky. The street steamed with puddles. Stride, Serena, Maggie, and Guppo approached the front door, which was secured with bars. So were the windows. Maggie drew her Glock and aimed it at the door, and Guppo did the same. Stride pounded on the wall and shouted for anyone inside.

Those were the tensest moments. The silence. The waiting. Either this would go well or it wouldn’t.

Ten seconds later, they heard the knock of the deadbolt being undone. The door inched open. A young black man stared out at them, eyes wide. Just a sliver of his body was visible. He saw the guns and their stony faces.

‘Al Pugh?’ Stride demanded.

‘Yeah – yeah, what the hell
—
’

‘Put your hands up, open the door slowly, and come outside.’

The young man did as he was told, but he looked scared. Maggie thought he couldn’t be more than nineteen years old. He was tall but underfed, all skinny arms and legs. He was good-looking with his trimmed goatee and black hair against smooth cocoa skin. It was easy to see why a girl like Cat had fallen for him. He wore a T-shirt and loose-fitting cargo pants, and dressed like that, he looked a lot like the man Maggie had interviewed years earlier. But this young man would have been a child when Jay Ferris died.

Al nudged onto the porch, and Stride grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him down the steps. Stride spun the boy around, kicked his legs apart, and frisked him from head to toe. No weapons. He put a strong hand on Al’s shoulder and pushed him down on the front step at their feet.

‘Who else is inside?’ Stride asked.

‘My mom and my sisters. What’s going on?’

‘We have a warrant to search the property.’

‘Search? For what?’

Stride ignored him and barked at Guppo. ‘Gather the people inside in one room, and make sure someone stays with them. Search everything inside and out. Attic, basement, garage. Keep an eye out for false walls and false floors.’

‘False walls?’ Al asked. ‘What are you talking about? What are you looking for? We don’t have anything like that.’

Guppo led the team inside. Maggie heard shrill protests from a woman. Al’s mother.

Stride crouched in front of Al Pugh. ‘Are you Cat’s boyfriend?’

‘Cat? Is that what this is about? What did she say? Hey, I’m sorry I cheated on her, man. I don’t know what she told you, but I didn’t do anything. I didn’t touch her either!’

‘How did you meet her?’

‘Here at my mom’s house. It was a church painting project. I thought she was cute, and we started going out. Tell me what she said, man! I didn’t do anything!’

Maggie held up a photograph of Kelly Hauswirth. ‘Do you know this woman?’

‘What? No! No, I – aw, wait, isn’t that the chick who got shot? That was all over the news, right? I recognize the face, but I don’t know her.’

Serena held up a photograph of Erin Tierney. ‘What about her?’

Al shook his head. ‘No way. Never seen her.’

‘She’s missing.’

‘I’m telling you, I don’t know who she is! That’s the truth.’

‘We’re taking your laptop, Al. We’ll find out all about the chat rooms. You might as well tell us about it. And who you’re working with.’

‘Man, I can’t tell you what I don’t know! I don’t even
own
a laptop.’

‘Cat says she took a ring from your house,’ Stride said. ‘A black pearl ring. Where did you get it?’

Al stared at them. ‘Ring? I don’t have any ring. Shit, man, laptops and pearl rings. Does it look like we got the money for stuff like that? I’m lucky if we got mac and cheese for dinner.’

‘This ring was stolen during a murder in Duluth almost nine years ago,’ Stride told him. ‘The gun that was used back then is the same gun that murdered a woman outside the Grizzly Bear Bar last month. The ring and the gun are
connected
, Al. And Cat says that ring came from this house.’

Al tried to stand up, but Stride shoved him down. ‘Aw, man, are you kidding? I don’t know anything about a ring, and I sure as hell don’t know anything about a gun! You guys are crazy!’

Maggie looked up as they heard a commotion inside the house. The front door wrenched open, and a woman in her late thirties stormed onto the porch, long hair flying. Guppo, in hot pursuit behind her, grabbed her flailing wrists, but when that didn’t stop her, he bear-hugged the woman and lifted her off the ground. Her legs kicked, and one high heel flew off like a missile. Her voice got louder and screeched for the heavens.

‘You people let me go and get out of my house!’

Al stood up again, trying to calm her. ‘Mom, Mom, knock it off, it’s okay.’

‘Put me down!’ she screamed at Guppo.

Guppo did, but he didn’t let her go. Al bounded up the steps before Stride could stop him and put his arms around his mother. She kept screaming. Police officers ran from different parts of the neighborhood. Finally, Stride shouted, raising his voice above the chaos, and everyone stopped in place.

It was silent. Al’s mother panted. Her face was furious. Her raspy voice dissolved in a coughing fit.

‘Listen,’ Al said, sounding calmer and older now, like a boy who wanted to protect his mother. ‘I don’t know what Cat told you guys, but you are on the wrong track. I swear. I don’t know anything about this ring she has, and I sure as
hell
don’t know anything about a gun.’

Maggie stared at Al’s mother. She was young, but she looked old. The woman wiped spittle from her lips and stared back at Maggie.

‘You know about the gun,’ Maggie said to her quietly. ‘Don’t you, Mrs. Pugh?’

Al started to interrupt, but then he saw his mother’s face, and he let her speak. She stood up straight and smoothed the housedress she was wearing. She was tall, like Al. The boy couldn’t hide his confusion. This was all new to him, but it wasn’t new to his mother.

She knew exactly what was going on.

‘Yes,’ she told Maggie. ‘Okay, yes, I do. I know all about that gun.’

*

They sat inside. One of Mrs. Pugh’s daughters made tea. The search of the house was over, but it had revealed nothing of importance in either murder investigation. There was no hidey-hole in the house or grounds in which the kidnapped women had been kept. Erin Tierney wasn’t here. She never had been. There was no jewelry from nine years earlier.

Everyone stared at Al’s mother, waiting for her story. There was an oversized photograph of Seymour Pugh with his family in a frame that leaned against a freshly painted wall. Maggie recognized the man from her visit years before. He still had the same smile, but life had corroded him at a fast pace. She wasn’t surprised to learn that he’d died of a stroke three years after she met him.

Mrs. Pugh stared at the photograph, too, and Maggie saw pride in the fierce little smile she gave Seymour. This was a woman who loved her husband, no matter what he’d done.

‘What you’re thinking is what it is,’ Mrs. Pugh finally told them. ‘It was Seymour who did it. He shot that man. Took the jewelry. Guess it doesn’t matter now, although I didn’t want Al and the girls finding out about their daddy. Seymour’s long gone, God rest him. I know Jesus forgives him. Jesus understands what he did.’

Mrs. Pugh was silent. She wiped her eyes.

‘The gun?’ Stride asked. ‘Where did he get it?’

‘He bought it on one of his road trips. Never told me about it. I would have made him get rid of it.’

She sat primly with her knees pressed together. Her fleshy body would have been toned once, and her worn-out face with its tumbling black hair would have been pretty. Maggie could imagine her and Seymour, hooking up, having kids, bumping into the struggles of life. It wasn’t easy then, and it wasn’t easy now. Her chest wheezed. She sucked in the air around her but never seemed to get enough.

‘Did you know what he was planning to do?’ Maggie asked.

‘No, no, ’course I didn’t. He wouldn’t dare tell me. He knew I’d kick his ass if I heard about it.’

‘Then why did he do it?’

Mrs. Pugh gave them a rattling sigh and stared at her lap. ‘For his family, what else? For me, for Al, for the girls.’

‘You needed money?’

‘Sure we did. A man does what a man’s gotta do when it’s his family. Jesus understands.’

‘When did you find out?’ Stride asked.

Her shoulders gave a little shrug. ‘Don’t remember. Few weeks later, I guess. Some cop came by the house, asking questions. Seymour said it was nothing to worry about, but I knew he was lying. That night, after the kids were in bed, I got it out of him. He told me what he’d done. Showed me the gun. The jewelry. He was too scared to unload any of it. I told him to bury it all somewhere. Get it out of the house. Throw it in the lake. Whatever. I didn’t want it here. I thought he got rid of everything, but I was wrong. He kept it. After Seymour died, I was going through his stuff in the attic, and I found a shoebox hidden in the rafters. There was the gun. The jewels he’d stolen. I tell you, I swore a blue streak at that man!’

Serena leaned forward. ‘What did you do with the box?’

‘I shoved it up on a shelf in my bedroom closet. I didn’t feel safe getting rid of it myself, and it’s not like I was going to tell you people what I found. Figured you’d lock me up if I did.’

‘What happened to the gun and the jewelry?’ Stride asked.

‘Far as I know anything, it’s still in the box.’

‘It’s not. We found the box. It’s empty.’ Stride’s head swiveled to her son. ‘Al, if you know anything about that box – about what was in it
—
’

The young man shook his head. ‘I don’t know a thing. I never saw it. I never even knew it was there.’

Maggie saw Stride and Serena exchange a sober glance, and she knew what that look meant. Cat. If it wasn’t Al, it was Cat. Cat found the box. Cat found the ring. And along with the ring was the gun that murdered Jay Ferris and Kelly Hauswirth.

‘When was Cat here painting the house?’ Stride asked, with a frown that looked as if his world were ending.

‘Sometime in May,’ Al said.

‘Did Cat paint your bedroom while she was here, Mrs. Pugh?’ Serena asked the woman in a soft voice. ‘Could she have gone in your closet and found the box on the shelf?’

Al’s mother scratched her chin and thought about it. Then she said: ‘No, the pretty young one was painting downstairs. Sweet girl. I liked her laugh. It was the other girl that did the bedrooms upstairs. The pasty one with the Halloween hair. She was a little creepy, I have to say.’

‘The other one?’ Serena asked.

‘Anna,’ Al interjected quickly. ‘The waitress at the bar. Anna Glick.’