Honeymoon

Chapter 101

THEY UNDERSTOOD IMMEDIATELY. Any cops might have, but Officers Will and Mitch Cravens—father and son—understood a little more. There was no waiting around for the ambulance. I’d sooner bleed to death than waste another minute out in the middle of the woods.

I crumpled into the backseat of their patrol car. Mitch and his young reflexes drove with the sirens blaring as Will radioed ahead to have the police in Riverside rush to the house. Meanwhile, I called there on my phone.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I muttered while the line rang.

And rang and rang.

“Shit! Nobody’s answering!”

The answering machine finally picked up, and I left a frantic message about going over to the neighbors’ and waiting for the police to arrive.

My mind raced with horrible, dreadful thoughts. Was Nora already there? And how did she know where there was?

Will was off the radio. He turned to me. “The Riverside police will be at your house in minutes.” He nodded at my phone. “No luck getting through?”

“No,” I said.

“Is there a cell phone?”

“I’m about to try.”

I hit my speed dial, only to hear the call go right into voice mail. I left the same message with the same ominous intro. It was like in the movies. It’s John. If you and the boys are in the house, get out right now! If you’re on your way home—don’t go there.

I leaned back my head and let out a frustrated yell. I suddenly felt dizzy again. I tried to get myself to calm down and not think the worst. It wasn’t possible.

“Faster, guys!”

We were already doing over eighty. We’d cut across the border to Connecticut and were making a beeline south for Riverside. I was feeling completely helpless when I had an idea. Call Nora.

Maybe that’s what she wanted. Maybe—hopefully—her threat was nothing more than that, the only intention being to scare the hell out of me and keep the game going. I’d call her and she’d laugh wickedly. Riverside was just a decoy. She was miles in the opposite direction.

If only.

I dialed her number.

Ten rings in a row.

No voice mail.

No Nora.

The police radio kicked in with a burst of static. We were being patched through to a patrolman in Riverside. He was outside the house. The doors were locked, some lights were on; as far as he could tell, no one was around.

I looked at my watch. 9:10. They should’ve been there. The boys’ bedtime was nine.

Will flipped the transmitter onto speaker. “No sign of forced entry?”

“Negative,” we heard.

“Have you checked with the neighbors?” asked Mitch as he slowed to take a sharp turn. The front and rear left tires screeched in stereo.

“She probably would’ve gone to the Picottes directly across the street,” I added. “Mike and Margi Picotte. Friends of ours.”

“We’re checking there now,” said the patrolman. “How far are you guys from here?”

“Ten minutes,” said Will.

“Agent O’Hara, are you there?” asked the patrolman.

“Right here,” I said.

“I’d like to dismantle the lock on one of the doors to the house. If that’s okay? Just to make sure no one’s inside.”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Take an ax to it.”

“Roger that.”

His voice cut off with another burst of static. Outside the cruiser, the siren blared into the night. Inside, it was silence. Small-town cops Will and Mitch Cravens and me.

I caught Mitch’s eye in the rearview mirror. “I know, I know,” he said. “Faster.”