Hour of Need (Scarlet Falls) (7 page)

“Now what about us, Carson?” he asked.

“I’m not hungry.” Carson sat next to him, resting his head on a bent arm, watching. At least while he’d been helping, he’d been reactive. Purple smudges underscored his eyes. Freckles popped on fair skin. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I am. Any suggestions for lunch?”

“Waffles.” Carson slid out of the chair. On his way past, he gave his baby sister an affectionate pat on the head.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Grant said. “I could sure use a nap.”

Carson pulled a box of waffles from the freezer. He dragged a step stool to the counter, eyed his uncle, and then loaded the toaster. When the waffles popped out, he put them on a plate. “Daddy always eats four, and you’re bigger than him.”

Eats.
Present tense.

The ache in Grant’s heart swelled until he wasn’t sure he could swallow food. He cleared his throat. “Thanks. I don’t think I can eat so many, though. Are you sure you can’t help me out?”

Carson plunked a bottle of syrup down on the table. He went back to the cabinet for another plate, forks, and knives. “Mommy likes me to set the table.”

“You’re doing a great job.” Grant kept his voice clear. Obviously, Carson wanted to talk about his parents, so talk they would, even if Grant would prefer to bury his grief until it had formed a solid scab like the thickened skin over the bits of shrapnel in his leg. His to-do list rearranged itself. Lee’s estate issues got bumped.
Call school about grief counseling
shot up to number one, and
buy books on children and grieving
took the number two spot. He’d need to read a baby book, too. Kate probably had one or ten around the house.

Carson moved a waffle onto the second plate. He poured syrup over it until it floated.

Faith’s bottle was empty. Grant set it on the table and eased her over one shoulder. She let out a reverberating belch that would have impressed a mess tent full of recruits. He put her back in the car seat and helped Carson cut his waffle. They dug in together. Two kids, both eating. So far, so good.

Carson gave his baby sister a suspicious glance but finished his breakfast.

Grant loaded the dishwasher. Now what? He’d planned on getting the kids to take a nap so he could dig into Lee’s paperwork and make a few calls. Grant needed to know more about his brother’s life. Maybe he’d ask Ellie Ross next door. She seemed kind and intelligent. And pretty. Not that
that
mattered.

“What do you want to do?” he asked Carson.

The boy lifted a shoulder. Kids needed fresh air, right?

“Do you want to go outside and play with the dog?”

Carson shook his head. He looked like he would pass out where he sat. Grant spied crayons and paper tucked under the bowl in the center of the table. The fridge was covered with colorful, primitive drawings of stick people and grass and trees.

“Would you draw me a picture?”

“OK.” Carson breathed out the answer as if the request was a huge imposition.

Great, he’d had the kids less than an hour and he was floundering already. Maybe that social worker was right to doubt him. A raw, wet sound jerked his attention back to the baby just as she spewed what appeared to be ten times more than she’d eaten all over herself, the car seat, and the floor.

Karma had a sick sense of humor. The baby
was
an explosive.

“I guess I have to get her cleaned up.”

Carson huffed. “Better get used to it. She does that all the time.”

Carson’s head was bent over his drawing. Grant lifted the baby out of her carrier, holding her at arm’s length. He found clean clothes in the laundry room. He wiped her off and changed her clothes and diaper, which took longer than field stripping and cleaning his rifle. But then his M-4 didn’t try to wiggle away from him. A bath would have to wait until he reconnoitered the baby-bathing facilities and did some research. Faith babbled and grabbed at her toes while Grant stuffed her into a one-piece suit with a zipper up the front. He drew the zipper up her chest, and she let loose again. Regurgitated formula splashed over both of them.

Carson looked up from his drawing and heaved a long, disgusted sigh. The situation would have been funny if the prospect of Grant not being able to care for the baby wasn’t so terrifying.

The social worker’s statement rang in Grant’s head.
This baby is a challenge.

Words that had seemed bitchy at the time now felt prophetic.

With her pumps in her tote and snow boots on her feet, Ellie buttoned her wool coat, pulled on her gloves, and walked out the firm’s back door. She’d worked an hour over her official five p.m. quitting time to finish a rush client report, throwing off her evening schedule.

She hurried around the building to the small parking lot. Still on her to-do list was a stop at the grocery store. The sun had fallen behind the buildings an hour before, and shadows stretched over the frozen ground. The wind whipped across the lot. Her boots crunched on the half-frozen snowpack. Ellie clutched her coat lapels together and dug her keys from her pocket. Her old minivan sat in the rear of the lot, where employees were required to park. Prime spots closer to the building were reserved for clients.

Shivering, she passed into the shadow of a giant oak tree. She pressed the fob button, and her car doors unlocked with a chirp. Sliding behind the wheel, she started the engine and turned the heater on full.

Something jabbed at her hip. Ellie jumped, her heart knocking against her rib cage.

“Don’t turn around,” a male voice whispered.

Without moving her chin, she rotated her eyeballs down and right. Just over the center console, a gloved hand pointed a gun at her lower back. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw a shadow in her peripheral vision. A man lay on the dark floor behind the van’s front seat. Fear solidified in her stomach like ice.

He motioned with the barrel. “Eyes front.”

Her gaze snapped forward. Her panting breaths puffed out and fogged the windshield. There was no one in sight. The only other car in the lot was Roger’s Mercedes, and his office was in the front of the building. He’d never see or hear her. A hedge separated the law firm’s parking area from an oral surgeon’s lot next door. Not that it mattered. Their office wasn’t open on Tuesdays.

Options whirled in her head. She couldn’t get out of the car faster than he could pull the trigger. The way the gun protruded from between the seats, there wasn’t room for her to try and grab it. The close quarters also made getting out of the way of a bullet impossible.

He prodded her again. The muzzle poked her in the kidney. “Pull out of the lot and make a left on First Street. If you shout or draw attention in any way, I will shoot you.”

Light-headed, she shifted into reverse and depressed the gas pedal. The vehicle jerked backward. She stomped on the brake, and the car lurched to a halt.

“You dumb bitch,” he whispered.

Ellie breathed and willed her shaking limbs to obey. She could crash the van once she got out of the parking lot. That was her only chance.

“No speeding, and if you crash this ride, I’ll be able to shoot you no problem. I’m wedged tight back here. I’ll be fine.”

Her hopes dimmed. The air bag would deploy in her face and immobilize her. She’d still be helpless.

What did he want? Was he going to kill her? She wanted to open the door and run, to take her chances in the parking lot, where she had at least a chance of getting away. Once he took her somewhere else, he could do anything he wanted to her. But there was no way she could get out of the van fast enough.

She turned left onto First Street. Under her coat, sweat soaked through her silk blouse, and her snow boots seemed bulky and awkward on the van’s pedals. Cruising at twenty-five miles an hour, she stopped at an intersection.

“W-where do you want me to go?” she asked.

“Make a left.” He ground the gun into her back as he answered in the same hoarse whisper.

She drove past the elementary school, now empty and dark. He levered his upper body higher to look out the window. “Pull into the parking lot of the thrift store.”

Two blocks later, she turned at a lighted sign. St. Paul’s Thrift Shop closed at four. Ellie had been there many times. She’d bought most of Julia’s baby clothes secondhand. Gravel and ice crunched under her tires as she drove past the converted brick bungalow that housed the used clothing shop. Inside, the building was dark. A single light by the rear door cast a yellow glow across the pavement. He could kill her right here, and there was no one close enough to hear the shot. The lot was empty, except for one car parked in the very back. Light reflected off the windshield. Was there anyone inside?

Fresh terror sent sweat rivering down her back. She could smell her own fear, amplified under the heavy wool of her coat.

“Stop,” he said.

She braked and waited, her hands clenching the steering wheel like a life buoy.

“Put the van in park and raise your hands.”

Ellie followed the instructions. She was alone. He might have reinforcements. She fought to keep her breathing under control. Freaking out would not help.
Think!
She had to get away, but shock paralyzed her brain. Escape seemed impossible.

He tossed something over the seat into her lap. She flinched.

“Take a good look.”

Ellie dropped her gaze. An eight-by-ten envelope. She opened it and slid out two photos. She picked one up, her pulse stammering as she recognized Julia walking up the driveway after school, her full backpack dangling from one shoulder. The second photo was her grandmother stooping to pick up the paper in the driveway in front of their house.

“I know where you live. I know who you love. You will do exactly as I say or your daughter and your grandmother will suffer. Do you understand?”

Ellie’s head bobbed as if her neck had no muscles.

“You’re going to find the Hamilton file and give it to me.”

Shock swamped Ellie. This was about the Hamilton case? “I don’t know where it is—”

“I don’t give a fuck. Find it or I pick one of them to hurt.” Reaching forward, he collected the pictures and envelope, tucking them inside his jacket. He pulled the gun away from her back, opened the sliding van door, and got out. Baggy black pants disguised his body, and a black hooded jacket shadowed his eyes. A scarf covered the lower portion of his face. Dressed differently, she could pass him on the street with no recognition. He’d whispered their entire conversation. She couldn’t even identify his voice. In fact, since he’d taken his pictures with him, she had no proof the event even occurred.

Hoodie Man leaned back inside. “Tell no one about this meeting. If you call the police, I will kill your daughter. You can’t hide from me. I’m watching.”

“How do I contact you?”

“You don’t. You’ll hear from me. If you find the file, I’ll know.” He closed the car door and walked toward the headlights.

Ellie’s reflexes short-circuited. She sat frozen for a few seconds before she startled into action. She needed to get the hell out of that parking lot. She jerked the gearshift into drive and pulled out onto the road. Keeping an eye on her rearview mirror, she made several turns until she was sure no one had followed her. Twenty minutes later she pulled into her driveway. The grocery store would have to wait. She had to see Julia and Nan. Now.

She got out of the car and scanned her street. Widely spaced streetlights gleamed on the snow. At least a dozen cars lined the curb on her block alone. How would she know if someone was sitting inside one of them, watching her? She squinted in each vehicle as she drove past, but black windshields gave nothing away. At the corner fifty yards away, Ellie could just make out the shape of someone walking two dogs. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The window of the house next door glowed, and Grant’s rental car was parked in the driveway of the Barretts’ house. Could Grant help? In a way, they were in this together. If her extortion was tied to one of Lee’s cases, the murders could likely be linked as well. Grant would focus on finding the man who’d killed his family members. Ellie wanted to keep hers alive.

Did that make them allies or adversaries?

She resisted the pull. She couldn’t trust a man she barely knew. Guilt burrowed in her belly as she started up the walk. Hoodie Man
must
be Kate and Lee’s killer. Ellie shouldn’t help him conceal his crime, but her family’s safety had to come first. She would do anything to protect her grandmother and daughter.

Anything.

At the base of her porch steps, she paused, glancing over her shoulder. Wind gusted, sweeping snow from the roof and onto Ellie’s head. She shivered, her body shifting from nervous heat to cold as her adrenaline ebbed. Her gaze lingered on each car parked along the curb. Could someone be sitting in one of those vehicles?

I’m watching . . .

Chapter Eight

Lindsay

November

I slam the car door. Mom waves and drives off. Standing on the concrete apron in front of the ice-skating arena, I stare at the front of the hulking building.

Why do they hate me?

I scrape the toe of my black Converse on the cement. I’m in no rush to go inside. Mom is headed to the grocery store. I could just slip around back and wait for the free skate hour to be over. Before we moved here, I couldn’t wait to get to the rink. Now I really don’t care. I’m tempted to quit the team. It’s not like I’m going to be an Olympic star or anything. I only skate because I love it.

The rink is the one place I’ve always been able to forget my problems, and now they’re trying to take it away from me. At school, the hallways are covered with cameras, and teachers lurk everywhere. It’s hard for the Shrew Crew to do real damage to anything but my pride. The skating arena is where my tormentors choose to get creative.

I play with my lip ring. My mom will come into the rink when she’s done shopping to ask Coach Victor about my practice. If I don’t skate, she’ll ask questions. She’ll poke and pick at me until I bleed. Then she’ll blame me for my complaints. She won’t let anything ruin her new life. She loves New York State. Me and Dad, not so much.

Our new home sits on almost an acre of land in a small development. Big and yellow and white, the house has four bedrooms, two stories, and a porch that spans the whole front of the building. Behind the house is a meadow and woods. After living in a furnished shoebox in San Francisco for the last six years, my parents couldn’t wait to move to this country suburban bliss. A trail through the woods leads to my school, though I’m not allowed to walk. My parents don’t think it’s safe.

“Upstate New York will be green. We’re saving so much money, you can get a horse if you want. There’ll be snow in the winter.” They say all this as if it’s supposed to make leaving my friends and the city I love sound attractive.

I still don’t buy it.

What would I do with a horse? We’ve never even had a cat. The apartment was tight for the three of us. There was no room for a hamster or fishbowl, but to me, it was home.

We’ve been here three weeks. So far, the only thing that has been OK is the weather. To remind myself of this one and only high point, I close my eyes and turn my face to the afternoon sun. Its rays warm my cheeks and turn the inside of my eyelids blood red. So far, early winter has been mild. Unlike my parents, I’m not looking forward to ice and snow. I have no idea why my parents think this is such a BFD. It’s not like I’ve never seen snow. In California, we drove up to Tahoe a couple of times to snowboard. It wasn’t my thing. I spent more time flat on my face than standing on the board. On the bright side, if the lake down the road freezes, I’ll be able to skate outside. No need to come to the rink.

I dig my phone out of my pocket. No messages from Jose back home. I miss California and my friends with an empty ache, something like hunger, but it can’t be alleviated with food. No worries, though. Jose, best friend not boyfriend, isn’t home from school yet. It’s only lunchtime in Cali. He’ll text me later, and then maybe I won’t feel so alone. If the wireless signal holds, we can even Skype tonight.

I miss going to the Bay City Ice Rink with him every day after school to practice. Jose is a male figure skater. He knows what it’s like to be bullied. I just want to go
home and get away from this nightmare of suburbia. I miss walking down to the wharf and listening to the sea lions bark. I miss everything from the steep streets to the fresh seafood. The sushi here sucks and so do the kids.

And on that note, I’d better get inside. Someone is coming out. A member of the advanced team and her mom. Their practice must be over. Maybe Regan and Autumn, my nemeses, will already be gone.

Smiling, the mom holds the door open, a gaping mouth waiting to swallow my will to live. I’m being overly dramatic, but that’s how it feels, this sense of impending misery that crushes my chest.

I pass through the lobby and walk down the hallway to the rink. Free skate has started. A dozen skaters are warming up. Watching them, Coach Victor leans on the rink half wall. He nods to me as I pass by. I scan the ice. No sign of Regan or Autumn. Oh, wait. Their dads approach Victor. The coach is trying to watch his skaters. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I know the score. It’s not that different than back home. Regan and Autumn are the stars of the team. Their dads pay the arena a lot of money each month. They’ve bought and paid for Victor’s full attention. He gives it to them now. I catch a snatch of their conversation, something about Victor needing to step it up. If they don’t make nationals next year, they’ll be looking for a new coach.

I feel sorry for Victor. He’s been nice to me, but let’s face it. He’s been with the club for seven years and not a single one of his skaters has won a major event yet. I know some of this is luck. He can’t control who joins the club, but the parents will look for any excuse when their precious little darlings lose. Plus, there’s a rumor going around about Victor and one of the married skating moms, and that this isn’t his first indiscretion. Seems like Victor is a dog. Ew. I can’t even think about a guy that old doing it. I don’t know if it’s true, but a scandal won’t help him keep his job. He’s already one losing season away from unemployment.

Another door leads to the locker room. Sweat gathers in my armpits as I traverse the narrow hall and push through the door marked Girls. If Regan and Autumn aren’t on the ice, then they must be in here. What can I do? Victor saw me. I have to get my butt on the ice or he’ll tell Mom I’m wasting my practice time—and her money. He seems to have taken an interest in me.

Not that this is a biggie. He’s not the greatest coach in the world. But his praise feels good anyway.

Voices ricochet on cinder block walls and rows of metal lockers set up in four U-shaped sections. Six girls are changing in the first niche. No sign of Regan or Autumn yet, but I know they’re here. My pulse skips, and my stomach turns queasy. I walk past the second alcove, and there they are, dressed and packing their equipment into duffels. Five more minutes and I would have missed them.

With their pretty highlights and trendy mall clothes, they look more like California natives than me. Like every other day, the aggression and hatred in their eyes makes me shudder inside. The metallic din fades into the background. Their hostility becomes palpable, an invisible force that presses against my body and squeezes the air from my lungs.

They hated me from the very first time they saw me skate. Why? Is it my Goth clothes? Compared to my friends back home, I’m pretty tame. I don’t even have any tats. Black hair, combat boots, and a lip ring aren’t exactly unusual. Plenty of kids dress like me at school. But at the rink, pretty is as pretty does. I stand out like Frankenstein on the ice. I only made the novice skate team, so why do they want to get rid of me so badly?

I lift my chin and turn my eyes toward the third section, where three younger girls are closing their lockers and gathering equipment bags to leave. As I pass Regan and Autumn, my foot catches and I hurtle forward. My chin hits the concrete. My teeth snap together, sending an ear-ringing shaft of pain through my face and head. My duffel slides across the floor and hits the feet of one of the girls walking toward me.

“Hey, watch where you’re going, freak.” She kicks it away.

I look down. The corner of Regan’s bag sticks out into the aisle. She approaches me. “Oh my God. Are you all right?” Her voice is sickly sweet, and the evil slant to her lips sends her true message.

“I’m fine,” I mumble as I get to my feet. My chin burns where it scraped on the floor.

“Too bad you’re so clumsy.” She returns to Autumn and whispers something in her ear. Autumn’s shoulders shake as she laughs.

I give her a glare, then roll my eyes at her, but my attempt at pretending she doesn’t bother me isn’t fooling anyone. Humiliation heats my skin and stirs the orange juice in my stomach into a nasty, acidic combination. My face is hot. My skin is pale, so I know my cheeks are flaming red by the time I get to the empty alcove and claim a locker. The commotion draws girls out from their locker nooks. Half the kids are smirking. The other half look away and pretend not to notice. No one else wants to be Regan and Autumn’s next target. I don’t blame them. It sucks. Why should they stick up for me? They don’t even know me.

My eyes burn, but I will not cry.

Instead, I try to shrink, to blend into the gray metal lockers around me as I change into the black tights I wear for practice.

Regan and Autumn leave, heads bent together. They are talking about me, maybe laughing, maybe planning something awful for my future. I can tell. I can feel their animosity wafting through the air even after they’ve left the locker room. The other kids won’t even look at me. A girl walks by, listening to her iPod. The tinny sound of music leaks from her earbuds. I sit on the bench to lace my skates. Once I get out to the rink, I’ll be fine. The locker room is their main torture chamber. On the ice, Coach Victor is strict.

I don’t even want to skate anymore. I know that’s their ultimate goal, so I guess they’ve already won. With a deep breath I launch to my feet and walk out to the rink. Regan and Autumn are standing with their dads and Victor. They watch me with way too much interest as I leave my skate guards on the wall and start to warm up. My muscles loosen. A sense of freedom flows through me, as it does every time I lace up my skates.

“Get warmed up. I want to see you working on that double axel,” Victor shouts as I skate by.

I see Regan lean over and say something to Autumn. They laugh.

“If you want to make nationals next year, you don’t have time to worry about anyone else. Focus on your own routine.” Victor’s admonishment echoes across the ice.

I appreciate his support, but the reprimand will give them one more reason to hate me.