One Scream Away (27 page)

“Ick,” someone muttered, pulling out a plastic two-liter bottle filled with a yellowish fluid. “Guess it had to be a man hiding in there. Never knew a woman who could piss into a Coke bottle.”

“Got a piece of a candy wrapper, Reese’s Cup,” said a technician, holding it up with a pair of tweezers. “We’ll get some prints, anyway.”

Not that they needed any. They knew exactly who he was.

“Uh-oh.” It was Harrison, and Neil followed the direction of his eyes. A gray Ford inched along the street, rolling through each checkpoint with the driver’s hand hanging out the window showing his shield. Beth was in the passenger seat.

“What the hell—,” Neil asked.

“I arranged it,” Copeland said. “She was hearing things on the news, seeing pictures of her house. I thought she might be able to help.”

Neil was furious. “You arranged for her to come see a woman tortured and staked out on her kitchen table?”

“I waited until Carter’s body was gone, and you can keep Denison out of the kitchen. But this is her home. If Bankes left something behind, we need her to find it.”

The ground actually swayed when Beth got out of the car. Neil had a grip on her elbow before it stood still again. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” It was a lie, of course, and he knew it as well as she did.

“Things are pretty well cleaned up,” he told her, his voice a growl, “but stay in the workshop.”

“She was killed in the kitchen?”

“Stay in the workshop, Beth. That’s where Bankes was. Help us look around. Maybe you’ll notice something we don’t know to notice.”

Beth could feel Bankes the second she walked into the garage. That was ridiculous, and she knew it, but knowing he’d been here, waiting like a cockroach in the woodwork… She walked around, looking, studying, careful not to touch anything. A couple of crime lab technicians still went about their jobs with quiet attention to detail as Beth walked over to the cabinet where Bankes had been. Sawdust on the floor.

She peered inside the cabinet, tried to imagine an average-size man inside. Possible, if not comfortable, and the crawl space behind it acted almost like another room under the porch. In the center of the cabinet floor, something caught her eye: a little steel pin, half an inch long, the diameter of an embroidery needle. She reached for it.

“Wait,” said a woman behind her. Beth looked up and saw the gloves and flashlight, the tweezers in her hands. “I’ll get it.”

“Sorry,” Beth said, stepping back.

The woman knelt down and picked up the pin with the tweezers, dropping it into a small plastic bag that had already been labeled.

“Do you know what it is?” Neil asked.

Beth frowned, shaking her head. She couldn’t seem to clear the haze. “It could have come from anything. It might’ve been in there for years, for all I know.”

“Okay,” he said, taking her arm again. “Come on. I’m getting you out of here.”

“I need to go upstairs.”

“No, Beth, you don’t.”

“She’s… I mean, Agent Carter. Her body—”

“Gone. But there’s still no reason for you to go in there.”

“It’s my home, Neil, my world,” she said, the backs of her eyes prickling. “I need to see what that bastard has done to my world.”

Beth had bought this house for its kitchen. Not that she was any great cook or anything, because for a while it was all she could do to make macaroni and cheese from a box or nuke a hot dog. But she’d always loved this kitchen. It was right in the middle of the house, where a family kitchen ought to be. Sunny and bright, with pale-lemon walls, hand-painted accents on the woodwork, and mosaic tile she’d designed for the backsplash. It was the place every day started and wound to a close with Abby, the site of watercoloring and homework and games of Go Fish. The place life happened.

And now death.

Her knees locked. Breathe. There was no body, no blood, no weapon. The room had been put back together with careful precision, everything in its place amid a deathly stillness and the sickening miasma of lab chemicals. All four chairs were pushed neatly under the table, even the centerpiece had been replaced. As if the crime lab people had been preparing for company, she thought ridiculously.

Except that was the problem. Beth’s kitchen never looked like company was coming. The centerpiece was always pushed to one end, so Abby had room to paint or mold Play-Doh. And one chair was kept in the far corner, so Abby could drag it to the counter when there was something to stir, or when she wanted to help with measurements. And the rugs, one of which was perennially crinkled in the corner where Heinz dug it up and napped, were missing completely, on their way, she presumed, to the FBI crime lab.

It’s just a room. Just a—

“Enough.” Neil pulled her out, piloting her back through the foyer and out the front door. “Are you satisfied? Did standing there staring at it prove you’re strong enough to take it?”

She looked up; there were two of him, and Standlin seemed to be hovering in multiples in the background. Beth closed her eyes, took three long breaths before she opened them again.

“Abby—”

“Is fine. I’ve been calling Covington every twenty minutes all day. Our people are all around her.”

“Your people were all around Agent Carter, too.”

Neil cursed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Bankes was in here first. He must’ve holed up while we were still chasing you to Covington Wednesday night, getting the story. He set himself up in your workshop and waited. The cops swept the house, but even if they checked cabinets you kept locked, he already had it so he could be out of sight.”

“He thought it was me?”

“No. He knew Carter was a setup. She was part of his plan.”

“Was Hannah part of the plan, too?”

“Probably, though he couldn’t have known which employee would be driving when the joint gave out. He just knew it would be someone you worked with.”

Beth stepped away, looking at nothing. Her skin felt as if little creatures were burrowing just beneath the surface. Bankes had penetrated her world. He’d been at antiques shows, at the gallery, and here in her home. Listening. Watching. Planning.

Killing.

A shout went up down the street. An officer in uniform ran up the hill. “Lieutenant. Lieutenant.” He jogged toward Lieutenant Sacowicz.

Sacowicz started out to meet him. From another direction the FBI agent in charge—Copeland, Beth thought—also jogged over. A little bit of commotion had erupted where a UPS truck was trying to get through. The driver was shouting at a police officer.

Neil followed Sacowicz; Beth followed Neil. The uniformed cop was panting. “UPS guy down there has a package for this address. Said it needs a signature, came high-priority. Second-day air.”

Everyone looked at Beth. “Were you expecting anything?”

“No. Not unless Mrs. Chadburne sent another doll. I haven’t heard from her.”

The officer shook his head. “It’s not from Boise. It’s from Charleston. The return address says
Wakeford
or
Winford
or—”

“Waterford?” Beth asked.

“That’s it. Waterford.”

Beth shook her head. “Kerry would’ve let me know if he was sending anything. I don’t know what it is.”

She saw Neil, Copeland, and Sacowicz all share a glance, then Agent Copeland said, “Let’s find out.”

They gathered on the driveway, noticed the media, and moved inside Beth’s workshop. A woman wearing a County ID tag and rubber gloves set the box on one of Beth’s counters. There were a few minutes of discussion and careful examination of the box itself, then, apparently satisfied that it wasn’t a bomb, the woman received the go-ahead to slice through the packing tape with a knife. Bankes, Beth thought bitterly, would have approved of all the ceremony.

Everyone held their breaths as the box flaps were lifted. A folded piece of paper sat on top of packing paper, some Styrofoam peanuts falling out when the technician picked it up. She handed the paper to Agent Copeland.

“It’s a sales receipt,” he said, reading. “Six grand at a store called Days Gone By. For an 1873 Benoit, it says.”

“That’s Kerry’s store,” Beth said, “but I didn’t order anything from there.”

“No. Margaret Chadburne did. She gave this as the shipping address. It’s dated two days ago, Saturday, April 18.”

Beth reached for the receipt, but Copeland pulled it back, and the woman with the gloves held open a Ziploc bag. He dropped it in. Went back to the box and gently pulled out the doll.

Beth watched, her mind a jumble. Maybe Mrs. Chadburne had bought a doll from Kerry and wanted it to be included with the others. An 1873 Benoit wasn’t in the same league as the ones her husband had left her, but perhaps she didn’t know that. Maybe—

The woman with the gloves held up the doll. Beth stared. She couldn’t believe it.

“Honey.” Neil was at her side. “What’s the matter?”

She swallowed, feeling as if a breeze could topple her.
Oh, Mrs. Chadburne. What have you done?
“I know that doll. It’s not a Benoit. It’s a fake.”

W
here are you taking me?” Beth asked. It was evening now, and Neil drove in the opposite direction of the hotel.

“A safe house. Someone might’ve seen you at your house today.”

“Someone.”

The nerve in his cheek jumped again. “The press, maybe.”

Right.

Her phone rang, and adrenaline shot through Beth. Not fear, not terror. Fury. After the way Bankes had left Lexi Carter, after what he’d done to Hannah and what he might have done to Margaret Chadburne, Beth was looking forward to telling the bastard off. She dug her phone from her purse as Neil swerved off the road.

“Give it to me,” he said. “I’ll take it.”

“I can do it.”

“Beth—” He stopped. “Remember what I told you.”

Screw Standlin… Don’t say a word to Bankes unless it’s “Go to hell, you bastard.”
Yes, she remembered. But she would play whatever game she had to now. She’d do anything.

She looked at the caller’s number and blew out a breath. Not Bankes, after all. It was Cheryl. She pressed Talk and listened.

Sorrow. Disbelief.

“What? What?” Neil was whispering, but she ignored him.

The news sank like a disease into her bones. She told Cheryl not to worry about it and disconnected.

“What is it?” Neil was in her face.

“It was nothing. It wasn’t important.” She closed her eyes. “Heinz disappeared.”

“Oh, Christ.” He rubbed a big hand over his face.

“It’s not Bankes, Neil; it’s happened before. Cheryl said Chase left the gate open.”

“The toddler?”

She nodded. “Heinz will come back. He always does.” She swallowed, ignoring the lump of tears in her throat. Stupid to cry over a lost dog when Hannah lay in the hospital and Mrs. Chadburne was missing and an agent had been shot to death on Beth’s kitchen table.

“Sweetheart—”

“I said it’s nothing. I mean, come on, he’s just a dog.”

“Yeah, right,” Neil said, his voice rough. He pulled back into traffic. “Just a dog.”

The safe house was in a set of condominiums, with guards who looked different from Suarez and his crew: no more blending in like bellhops or hotel maids or janitors. These guys were armed, heavily and visibly, like soldiers.

Upstairs, she took the first bedroom she saw. Neil followed, his mood dark, and slid her suitcase onto a dresser. He strode the perimeter of the rooms and emerged after a quick inspection of the bathroom. “Jacuzzi,” he said, coming back out. “Ought to keep you warm, anyway.”

She didn’t bother telling him she wasn’t cold anymore. Feeling had gone away.

“I’ll put your equipment downstairs,” he said. “I brought the doll from Hannah’s car, and as soon as the lab finishes with the one that came today, I’ll send for it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m gonna go look around, show my face to the guards. You should get some sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

He made a haggard sound. “Suit yourself.”

“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re angry at me?”

He’d been on his way out, but now he turned and dropped his hand from the doorknob. “I’m not angry at you,” he said. “I’m angry at your… independence. Your spine.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean you shouldn’t have gone into your kitchen, Beth. I shouldn’t have let you. You don’t have to keep proving to everyone that you’re unbreakable.”

“Unbreakable,” she echoed, thinking the word—applied to her—sounded ridiculous. Her whole life was defined by the fear of breaking. “You know,” she said, “until Abby was three, we lived in an apartment above the carriage house at Foster’s. Abby loved it. There’s a maze of narrow old passageways connecting what used to be slave quarters to one another, and connecting the former stables and barn. We used to play in every nook and cranny.”

Neil crossed his arms, waiting.

“It was safe there—there were always people around, people I knew. But eventually, I had to grow up.”

“Beth—”

“No. I want you to understand. That house on Ashford Drive—the flower boxes and the curtains and the furniture—I sank everything into it to make it a place where I could live and play, even work. A protected little bubble where I could stay holed up and never have to remember there had once been a man named Chevy Bankes, who was still alive when Anne Chaney was dead and I was too much of a coward to tell anyone about it.” She took a step toward him. “I needed to see it, Neil. My house, my world. I needed to see if the bubble I built had really popped.”

“Damn it, Beth, you don’t need a bubble as long as I’m here. I can take care of you.”

She swallowed. That was probably true, and never, not even seven years ago, had she longed to lean on someone as much as she longed to lean on Neil now. Yet somehow, she knew leaning would never be enough for a man like him. He would want to carry her.

How tempting it was. To just let him take over and belong to him. In every way.

Her eyes dropped to his lips, and for a minute all she could think about were his kisses. He was velvet and steel, his body powerful and hard and demanding, yet his touch so tender that a single embrace from him had laid waste to seven years of brutal memories.