Mercy

Chapter 29

Okay, I don’t like the looks of this,” said Blum as they pulled down a long gravel road with thick woods on either side. A patch of fog was rolling in, and the only light was from the SUV’s headlights.

“This is right out of the opening scene of every slasher movie I’ve ever watched.”

“Don’t let your emotions run away with you, Carol,” said Pine.

Blum glanced at her boss. “Aren’t you a little nervous?”

“I think Desiree should be more worried about me than I should be about her.”

“You believe she’ll be there?”

“We’re going to find out pretty soon.”

They rounded a bend. In the distance they could see the lights coming from a small split-level rancher built of brick and siding. It had a forlorn look, as though it were lonely without any other homes around. There was a metal carport next to the house with no car under it. The light they saw was coming from the front room.

“Great,” said Blum. “The little house in the dark woods. I wonder if Hansel and Gretel are inside about to be eaten.”

Pine pulled the SUV to a stop and killed the lights.

“Wait here.”

“I don’t want you going up there by yourself.”

“I’m armed and I’m a federal agent who is more than a little homicidal right now. Put simply, Desiree is a munchkin and I’m an Amazon. But slide over into the driver’s seat. Keep the doors locked and your phone in hand.”

Pine climbed out and made her way toward the house, keeping off the road and sidling along the tree line with careful strides. She then veered toward the front of the home and peered into one of the lighted windows. She saw furniture, pictures on the wall, a burgundy-and-blue rug on the floor, and not a person in sight. She edged around the corner and entered the backyard. She spied a small toolshed with gray siding and a shingled roof. She made her way over there and shone her light in one of the windows. It looked empty except for some tools, a wheelbarrow, and a stepladder. She tried the door, but it was locked.

She slipped over to the rear of the house and walked up a flight of wooden steps that led to a deck, built onto the back, which held some old patio furniture. The door there was locked as well. She used her light to see inside the rear door and check for an alarm panel.

Shit.

There was one, and she could see that it was armed. Why have one here and not one at her business?

She stepped back and looked around.

Okay, that might be a way.

Pine hustled to the toolshed and used her knife to force back the lock. She ducked inside and came back out a moment later with the ladder. The grade of the property dictated that the home had a high foundation in the rear covered by a brick veneer. She stepped back up on the raised deck, set the ladder next to the back door, and climbed the ladder to the spot that all the warning labels implored should never be touched by a human foot. She gripped the edge of the gutter and did a chin-up, praying that the gutter would hold her weight. It did, and she swung her legs up onto the roof. She gripped the edge of an asphalt shingle and used that to pull herself fully on top of the roof. She walked across it to the upper-level section of the house where two dormer windows presented her with possible entry points.

Most home alarm systems did not arm upper-level windows. She was about to find out if this place broke that norm. She inserted her knife between the sash to pry back the clasp. If the window was armed, this far out in the country she figured she’d have time to search the place, make and drink a cup of coffee, and get away long before the cops showed up.

Fortunately, no alarm went off. She slipped through the window and closed it behind her. She shone her light around the bedroom she found herself in. It was meticulously neat and furnished sparingly. She checked the closet and found that all the pieces of clothing would fit someone of Desiree’s age and petite stature. She inspected the bathroom situated in the hall next to the bedroom, then looked into the other bedroom on the other side of the bathroom. This space was empty except for two boxes stacked on top of each other. She looked through them, but they just contained some old clothes and other odds and ends.

It seemed clear that Desiree lived here alone.

Pine walked back into the bedroom. She had never seen a place so neat and organized. The bed was made up with decorative pillows arranged just so and military-level tight corners. She poked her head back in the closet. It looked to be one of those California Closets jobs, with two tiers of hanging rods, glass-fronted cabinets, deep drawers running on smooth slides, and open shelves for all the footwear. It held stacks of sweaters so neatly arranged they could qualify as store displays, and pants and shirts and dresses and skirts on hangers that seemed to be arranged by type and style. Scarves, shoes, underwear, and socks were all scrupulously sorted and organized. In the bathroom, toiletries and other items were in perfect order. The bathtub/shower was sparkling clean, the floors and countertops scrubbed and smelling of disinfectant. Towels were arranged in order of size and color in the linen closet.

She made her way downstairs to find that it was laid out simply but was, if it was possible, even more organized and clean than the upstairs. The wooden furniture in the main room was highly polished, the cushions plumped without a stain or smudge visible. The tracks in the rugs laid over oak hardwood floors showed they had been recently vacuumed. The knickknacks on the shelves were dusted, and the windows held not a streak of dirt.

She started searching the other rooms down here. Each one she got to was model-home organized. There was one door that was locked, but when she put her ear to the door she could hear the rumbling of the air handler. Probably just the furnace room.

The small powder room across from the foyer looked like one you would find in a high-end hotel, right down to the decorative tissue box holder and copper soap dispenser and framed artwork, plus a fancy toilet paper holder in the shape of a cat’s long tail.

The kitchen was small but it sparkled. The travertine tile floor looked clean enough to have a picnic on without the blanket or even dishes. The counters were wiped down, the table set with a plate, cup, and cutlery in a rolled napkin. Canisters on the counters were arranged by height. The stove top’s six burners glistened with not a speck of grease on their surfaces.

Pine opened some of the cabinets and drawers and found everything so organized she felt like she truly was in a model house where everything was on display, no one actually lived there to do any damage, and thus all was perfect. The contents of the refrigerator were so carefully arranged that it made her own fridge back in Arizona look like a dumpster. But that really wasn’t a high bar, Pine conceded.

The thing that was bothering her was that she could understand Desiree being a neatnik, maybe even OCD. But then why was her shop so messy? Normally, a person with that condition didn’t let their desire for organization stop at the front door of their home.

Off the kitchen was a small laundry room. A basket on top of the dryer held scrupulously folded clothes. She glanced at the items and then looked away, but only for a moment. Then her gaze swung back to the stack of clothes. She took a pair of jeans off the top of the pile and held them up.

Desiree had been described to her as being very short, under five feet, and her driver’s license had confirmed this. Pine held the jeans against her own legs. They would have been too short for her, but they were also far longer than someone Desiree’s height could have worn, even if she had on heels.

And the style and narrow hip cut of the pants were for someone a lot younger than Desiree.

The blood seemed to solidify in Pine’s veins.

No way. No way in hell.

She put the pants back in the basket and left the laundry room. She raced back upstairs and made a more thorough search. She noted the pulldown attic door in the ceiling in the unused bedroom. She yanked on it, and a set of hinged stairs collapsed downward. Pine locked the steps in place and hustled up them. She shone her light around in the darkness and called out, “Hello? Is anyone up here? I’m with the FBI? Hello?”

There was no answer, no sound. She hit the entire space with her light and found nothing there.

She climbed back down and lifted the stairs up. They receded into the attic opening, and the access door banged shut behind them.

Pine felt something moving across her head. She was standing underneath a ceiling vent. The heat had just come on again.

The heat?

She ran down the stairs and over to the locked door. She put her shoulder against it and pushed. She felt the lock start to give. She pulled a small lockpick kit from her jacket. She didn’t bother picking the simple lock. She just used one of the tools to merely slide the door bolt back. She opened the door and turned on the light. As she had guessed, the home’s HVAC system was located in here with the ductwork shafted into the unfinished ceiling where it headed on to the rest of the house. She looked around the space. There were a couple of shelves off to the side, all stacked with boxes. The floor under the HVAC was cement.

Had she been wrong in her assumption? But then why lock the door?

She then walked behind the shelves to a small space. She stopped and stared when she noted that the floor here was not cement. It was tongue-and-groove wood. Was it just wood flooring laid over the cement? But why bother with that for a room like this, into which no one other than a repairman would ever really enter?

In the farthest corner sat a hand truck with a large box perched on its lip.

Pine moved the hand truck away, then bent down to examine the spot the box had covered.

Pine felt like she had been gut-punched.

Recessed into the floor was a keyhole. As she looked over the area, she saw the parameters of the trap door. There was a lift handle inlaid into the floor next to the keyhole.

Okay, here we go again, thought Pine.