The Secret Friend

11

Blackout, Darby thought. The snowstorm must have knocked out the building's power.

This wasn't the winter's first blackout. The endless cold days and even colder nights with their mean, freezing winds had knocked down power lines all over the city, sometimes for hours. Darby hoped that wasn't the case here. She hadn't brought a flashlight.

She did, however, have some light. Directly across the hallway was a bedroom. The door was open, and Darby saw a large bay window overlooking Arlington Street and part of the Public Garden. The street lights were on, as were the lights for the Ritz Carlton. The hotel must have had a backup generator – no, wait, the lights were on in the brownstones across the street. The storm must have knocked down the power lines for this side of the street. Wonderful.

Looking down the hallway, Darby saw another opened door; a dim rectangle of silver light spilled onto the hardwood floor and across the wall. She doubted the walk-in closet had windows. To examine the jewellery boxes would require a flashlight.

Two choices: she could wait here in the dark until the lights came on or she could go back downstairs and see if Marsh had a flashlight she could borrow.

Darby placed her hands on the railing and made her way down the stairs. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and she could see well enough.

The creak of a floorboard above her made her stop. Darby spun around, heart racing, and looked to the second-floor hallway. It was empty. She was alone.

Darby moved up the steps, another part of her mind taking control, reminding her of the night over two decades ago when she was fifteen, leaning over the second-floor banister of her home and staring down into the semi-dark foyer convinced an intruder had somehow broken into the house. Her rational mind told her she was being ridiculous. All the downstairs doors and windows were locked. She was alone and she was safe. Then she saw a black-gloved hand grip the railing.

Darby reminded herself she wasn't fifteen; she was thirty-seven, an adult. The creak she had just heard was probably nothing more than the sound of a big empty home settling in a particularly cold winter.

Still, she didn't move. Something about the hallway was off. It took her a moment to recognize it.

The rectangle of street light she had seen earlier on the floor and wall outside the room down the hall was different. The light was narrower now – not by much but there was a perceptible difference. The door had been wide open. Now it was three-quarters shut. Someone was in here, she was sure of it.

Only one way to play it.

Mouth dry and heart hammering against her ribcage, Darby removed the SIG from her shoulder holster. Her other hand was inside her jacket pocket. She took out her cell phone, and as she dialled 911, she kept her eyes focused on the bedroom door.

'This is Darby McCormick from the Boston Crime Lab.' She spoke loud and clear. 'I'm calling to report an intruder at four-six-two Commonwealth Avenue. I need you to send multiple backup units. Have them cover all of the exits.'

Shoving the phone back inside her pocket, she climbed the remaining steps. She stepped into the hallway, stopped. No movement, no sound. She spoke into the silence.

'Put your hands behind your head and step into the hallway, nice and slow.'

'I have no intention of harming you.'

The deep, male voice had a slight accent – British or Australian, she wasn't sure which. It came from inside the room down the hall.

'Step into the hallway with your hands behind your head,' Darby said.

The door opened and the intruder moved into the square of light, his hands clasped behind his head. The man stepped back, his face covered in shadows. He was tall, well over six feet, and wore a long topcoat and black shoes.

'You're much taller than I expected, Miss McCormick.'

'Do I know you?'

'We haven't officially met.'

'What's your name?'

'I'm not ready to share just yet.'

'How do you know me?'

'You're Boston's Persephone, the queen of the dead. Or is it queen of the damned?'

His topcoat was open. Underneath his suit jacket Darby caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster under his left arm.

'This is what you're going to do,' Darby said. 'With your left hand, I want you to take out your weapon. Make a sudden move and you'll be on a feeding tube for the rest of your life.'

The intruder wore black leather gloves. He slipped a finger inside the handgun's trigger and slowly lifted it out of the holster – a nine-millimetre. He dropped it to the floor.

'Now kick it over to me.'

He did.

'Keep your hands behind your head and kneel down on the floor. Then you're going to lie on your stomach.'

'I hope you're not going to shoot me in the back of the head.'

'Why would you think that?'

'I understand Emma Hale was shot in the back of the head.'

'Why are you interested in Emma Hale?'

'I might be inclined to answer your question if you answer one of mine.'

'You're not in a position to trade.'

'Then I'm afraid I'll have to leave.'

'That's not going to happen.' Darby cocked the trigger and stepped forward. 'Down on the floor. I'm not going to ask you again.'

'I saw you this past weekend at your parents' gravesite. Were you asking your father the beat cop for advice? Or were you seeking inspiration from your mother, the coupon-clipping housewife? I bet it was your mother. She kept a lot of secrets hidden underneath her apron, didn't she?'

Darby heard sirens. A moment later, flashing blue and white lights reflected off the windows and walls.

His hands clasped behind his head, the intruder stepped forward, into the street light shining outside the bedroom door. Darby got a good look at his face and her breath caught.