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Chapter 28

Noises filtered through the shock.

Annabel, wheezing. A ragged sound that seemed to come not from her mouth but directly from her body.

The agitated murmur of the man’s voice. ‘Shit oh shit. Look what you made me do.’

The faintest creak of the doorknob, clenched in Mike’s frozen fist.

And then smells.

Dish soap.

Men’s deodorant.

Cordite.

Mike’s.357 lay in view, nestled in the carpet by the fireplace rocks. The man, facing away, was rocking slightly, agitated, cursing. Still, Mike couldn’t see Annabel’s head and upper torso. His angle was offset so he could make out only the faintest edge of the man’s profile. The guy’s cheek was raked open, fingernail gouges so deep they looked like claw marks. He was William and not William. The features seemed too even, the musculature too formidable. His arm looked to have been nicked by a bullet, a pencil-thick groove of skin bored from the curve of his biceps where presumably Annabel’s shot had skimmed him.

Bunched on the floor to the side of them was, surreally, a plastic drop cloth. Mike’s spinning brain couldn’t yet attach meaning to it, couldn’t fasten onto the ramifications. He remained motionless a half step into the house, one hand still behind him on the doorknob, his hip a few inches off the kitchen counter, the handle of the omelet pan poking his forearm.

The man fell to his knees, the jolt shuddering his shoulders, and Mike caught a glimpse of Annabel’s blanched face above his shoulder. Then the man shifted, and only her arm and hip were in view, her sleeveless shirt hiked up from her fall, bra strap misaligned. Ink gurgled from a slit in her left side, just below the ribs.

‘You couldn’t just listen and sit on the couch and wait for him to get here.’ At first it seemed the guy was whispering like a lover, but then Mike caught the tension – no, fear – in his voice. The man reached forward, working the bra strap like a rosary, his skin wet and shiny, stress popping out of his pores. ‘This is too messy, too messy. We were supposed to wait. I wasn’t supposed to… What am I gonna…? What am I gonna tell…?’ Eyes squeezed shut, he twisted his head back and forth, a child’s vehement no.

In total, maybe three seconds had passed.

Surreally, the silence was split by a Muzak version of ‘The Blue Danube.’ The man dug a shitty plastic phone from his pocket, the ringtone ceasing when he clicked to answer. ‘Hello?’

His voice jarred Mike from his stunned suspension. Grabbing the protruding handle of the omelet pan, he closed the distance in four or five massive strides and tomahawked the disk of stainless steel at the man’s head. The guy registered Mike’s footsteps late, his head craning around to look over his shoulder, his eyes flying open a second before impact. He emitted a terrified noise like a whinny.

Mike caught him at the corner of his jaw with all his force, the momentum twisting his head back around his neck the wrong way, the brutal sound like the snap of a stick wrapped in wet cotton amplified ten times over. The guy toppled over, body hitting carpet as a single rigid piece and giving off a deadweight vibration.

Sobs flashed across Annabel’s face – downturned lips, then normal, a strobelight of pain. Her mouth came open, but there was no sound. Air moved through the hole in her side. Mike clamped both hands over the wound. She pawed at his shoulder, missing, missing, and then hooked his neck. He leaned over, pressed his forehead to hers.

Mike took her hand and firmed it over the wound. ‘Hold this. Hold this tight.’

To her side lay her attacker, his eyes turned to glass, one boot obscenely touching her calf. His shitty cell phone, an untraceable throwaway model, lay on the carpet where he’d dropped it. Mike pulled back, Annabel’s fingers trying weakly to hold him there, and snatched the phone off the floor, remembering only now that there had been a live call going. The connection had been severed, and he wondered who had-

– but then he was dialing 911, not giving a shit about alerts, which agency suspected him of what or how this would play, not giving a damn about anything except-

‘-an intruder stabbed her bleeding everywhere get someone here our address is-’

– her fingers were loose over the hole, though the stream had stopped, and then he had his hands, wet with blood to the wrists, back on her and-

Annabel rested a hand against his cheek. He was, he realized, choking back sobs, his breath seizing in his throat. With a groan she tilted her head to take in the blood slick that had robbed the carpet of its texture. ‘Oh, Jesus. This isn’t gonna… work.’ The words leaked out of her, breathy, hoarse. Her legs cycled against the floor, one sandal loose at the heel, the other kicked off.

‘Where’s Kat? Is she-’

‘She’s fine she’s okay I have her in the truck.’

‘I got your message. Sorry I… didn’t listen and keep her… home.’

‘It’s not your fault didn’t mean what I said not your fault.’

Jesus, she’d listened to his message blaming her, the last words she’d heard before-

‘… said he was a cop,’ she murmured. ‘I thought he had news about Kat. Opened to check his badge-’

‘None of that matters you didn’t do anything wrong.’

If he hadn’t left the message, she wouldn’t have been worried enough to open the door to someone who said he was-

‘Where’s my baby?’

‘The garage she’s in the garage.’

‘I don’t want her to see… to remember me like…’

‘It’s okay you’ll be okay don’t talk like-’

‘Get her away from… all of… Leave… with her… now. Promise me.’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you to the hospital and-’

She grabbed his face in both hands, a burst of strength. ‘Promise me.’

‘I promise.’

Her hands fell away from his face.

She said, ‘I’m scared.’

He was breathing hard, pressing uselessly. ‘It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.’

‘But I am scared.’

He stilled. Looked at her. Held that gaze, those eyes. ‘I know,’ he said.

She lay back, shuddered, and was motionless.

Her lips were bluing already, or was it just a trick of the eye? His vision dotted; he reminded himself to breathe.

Wrist. No pulse.

Neck. No pulse.

Chest. No pulse.

His own heart seemed to halt in stunned sympathy. He heard a low, frustrated bellow – from his own mouth? – and then leaned over and vomited on the rug.

No pulse.

He squeezed her cheeks, her lips opening with a faint pop. Was it breathe breathe then push? Where the hell were the -

The cheery three-note chime of the doorbell.

He shoved himself up, sneakers losing their purchase on the bloody carpet, and sprinted around the corner to the entryway. Shards of glass gleamed on the floor tile; it took him a moment to piece them together as the empty vase that used to sit on the accent table. Ripped from the front door, the slide catch dangled from the end of the security chain. Both dead bolts remained unfastened. Annabel must have opened to the length of the chain – no peephole – and the man had kicked in the door, knocking down the table. She’d fled into the house, turned, and gotten off a shot. And then he’d stabbed her. Flying over the glass, Mike reconstructed the event with one part of his brain while the rest hummed with senseless panic.

No pulse.

He flung open the front door. A man with thick black hair and stubble so dense it looked as if his skin changed shade around his mouth and cheeks. Average height, compact build crammed into a rumpled suit. Deep wrinkles split his forehead like cracks. In the midst of the nightmarish chaos, those wrinkles were something Mike could fasten onto; they said this was all real.

The man wiggled a badge in front of Mike’s nose. ‘Rick Graham.’

‘You’re not the ambulance where’s the ambulance?’

‘Dispatch sent a request. I was the closest responder-’

Mike grabbed him, pulled him inside. ‘Help her in here do you know CPR?’

Graham jogged back, keys jingling in his pants pocket. He came around the corner and drew up, grimacing at the dead man’s head, twisted around on his neck at that impossible angle. ‘Jesus, Mary, and-’

Mike steered him down to a knee. ‘Here she needs… she needs-’

As Graham checked her vitals, Mike glanced at the door to the garage. Kat out there, plugged into her TV show. He could see the light of the screen flashing on the windshield. He had to get this on some kind of footing before she-

‘I’m sorry.’ Graham stood, rubbing his hands together in what seemed a misplaced show of humility. A new network of lines knit that empathetic forehead. He was older than he’d appeared at first glance, maybe early fifties, with some gray threaded through his black hair and puckers at the edges of his lips. ‘She’s dead.’

‘She’s not,’ Mike said. ‘She’s just got no pulse.’ Tears were gliding down his cheeks, but his breathing stayed smooth, not fitful – a statue draining through the eyes. If he didn’t move, if he didn’t breathe, it wouldn’t be true.

‘I’m sorry. You’re in shock. The paramedics’ll be here any minute to take care of you. But right now I need to know…’

The voice faded off in Mike’s head, as if someone had lowered the volume. He looked down at Annabel, his stomach clutching. Her skin had gone dusky, her fingertips mottled gray tinged with mauve, like the edge of a bruise. The blood flow from the stab wound below her ribs had ceased, leaving a distinct black cigar-burn hole.

Graham placed a hand on his elbow, shook him a little, and Mike heard his voice like a tinny echo. ‘Is anyone else here, sir? I need to know if anyone else is-’

‘My daughter. She’s…’

Graham said, ‘I’d better safe the house.’

It hadn’t occurred to Mike that there might be other intruders. Nothing had occurred to him.

Graham drew a Glock from his hip holster and moved cautiously down the hall, out of view. Mike turned an agitated circle. His wife at his feet. His daughter in the garage, still mercifully unaware. He looked down at the blood smears marking his shirt, his hands, even the bulge of the dead man’s cell phone he’d shoved into his pocket. Kat couldn’t see this. She couldn’t find out by seeing him painted with her mother’s blood. He tore himself away from his wife’s side. Pulling off his shirt, he staggered to the kitchen sink, blasted his hands with hot water, running it up his forearms, scrubbing at his jeans, dripping everywhere. The swirling water, against the porcelain, was tinged salmon pink. A gym shirt was balled up on the phone table by the oven. He pulled it on, thrust open the curtains over the sink, but still there was no ambulance.

Something seemed wrong with the view, but his overtaxed brain couldn’t lock on to what. It was the same view it had always been – stretch of curb, row of cypresses, Martins’ throwback porch. He glanced at the oven clock, realized that though an eternity had passed since he’d entered the house, less than six minutes had actually gone by.

Rick Graham had arrived with impossible speed.

It struck him, abruptly, what was wrong with that stretch of road in front of their house.

No vehicle at the curb.

Why would Rick Graham have parked out of view?

Down the hall Mike heard a closet door thump open. He could have sworn that Graham was a cop; twelve years at Shady Lane had taught him to read that vibe. But the badge Graham had flashed – Mike couldn’t recall which agency it belonged to. He was about to shout back to ask when a chill froze the question in his mouth.

He reached down to his pocket, withdrew the disposable cell phone he’d taken off the body. Phone book empty. Outgoing calls wiped. There was one incoming call, seven minutes ago, the one the guy had answered.

Mike pressed “call back” with his thumb, a rim of crimson showing beneath the tip of his nail. The ringing came through the cell phone’s receiver. Once. Twice.

And finally it was matched by a flat-toned version of ‘The Blue Danube’ from deep in the house.

Rick Graham’s voice came in concert through the walls and in Mike’s ear. ‘Hello?’

Graham had gone back there not to safe the house but to wipe out any witnesses.

Mike looked longingly at the revolver lying beside Annabel’s waxy arm, but already Graham’s footsteps were headed back down the hall toward him. Mike moved swiftly to the rear door, throwing it open hard enough that it banged against the side of the house. The distant sound of sirens rode the breeze. He retreated and hid behind the kitchen island, peeking out as Graham bolted into the family room, lowering from his ear a cell phone – a match for the throwaway Mike had just dialed from.

The whiteness of Graham’s fingers was momentarily shocking, until Mike realized that he’d donned latex gloves. In his right hand, Graham gripped not the service pistol he’d been holding when he’d stepped out of view but what looked like a cheap.22. His right pant cuff was snagged in the top of his black dress sock, revealing the ankle holster from which he’d removed the untraceable throw-down gun.

Graham stepped over the bodies and paused at the threshold to the kitchen, spotting the open back door. He cursed under his breath.

The concern in his tone did not match the purposefulness with which he sighted on the open back door. ‘Mike? You okay?’

Mike had not given his name.

The sirens were getting louder. In the garage the door to Mike’s truck opened and closed, the noise faint beneath the rising wail of the sirens. Mike bit his lip, drawing blood, but it seemed Graham did not hear. In his crouch Mike was closer to the garage, and he knew the vibrations of the house. He sensed Kat’s approaching footsteps and he readied himself to leap out, but then Graham swore again and dashed out into the backyard.

Pressing “redial”, Mike left the phone open on the kitchen counter. He swung toward the door to the garage, catching it as it opened and pushing Kat gently off the step. ‘Come on, honey. Back in the truck. We gotta go.’ He turned her, commanding her back into the dim light of the garage.

‘What’s-’

‘Listen to me, Kat. Get back in. We gotta go.’

She climbed in. ‘Daddy’ – she only called him that when she was scared – ‘you changed your shirt.’

‘Yeah, the other one got stained.’

‘With what?’

As he smacked the wall opener, sending the garage door shuddering up, he noticed a trail of blood curling from his pinkie to his elbow. Light was streaming in, a veil lifting. He grabbed a rag from a shelf and turned away, scrubbing at his arm.

Was he really leaving his wife’s body alone? The image of her, still and cool as alabaster, nearly sent him sprinting back inside. He had to see her again.

An echo of Annabel, her dying request. Leave… with her… now. Promise me.

Kat peered out from the massive truck, her voice tremulous and thin. ‘Daddy? Daddy?’

‘Hang on a sec, honey.’ Staggering backward to the driver’s door, still swiping at his arm, he didn’t recognize the timbre of his own voice. ‘Be right there.’

Dropping the rag, he fell into the driver’s seat. The key waited in the ignition, left there to keep the TV on, and he twisted it violently and reversed out, nearly skimming the roof against the still-opening door. He braked with a screech and peeled forward.

The sirens were screaming now. Couldn’t be more than a few blocks away.

Hidden behind the row of cypresses at the property line was Graham’s car.

A dinged-up, black Mercury Grand Marquis. Just like the car that had followed him leaving the Promenade.

Mike skidded up beside it, grabbed his Leatherman from the glove box, and hopped out, unfolding the longest blade from the compact tool. Crouching so Kat wouldn’t see, he jammed the blade through the front tire, ripping forward. Hot air hissed across his knuckles.

Faintly, from the backyard, piped the melody of ‘The Blue Danube.’ Growing louder.

Stuffing the tool into his pocket, Mike rushed to check out the back license plate. Sure enough, preceding the numbers, an E with an octagon around it jumped out at him – the “exempt” mark carried by cop cars and G-rides. Beyond the cypresses, the side gate banged open, and Mike bolted before he could memorize the number.

He jumped back into the truck and floored the accelerator before he got his door closed, that E sizzling on his brain like a brand. Rick Graham was a cop or an agent. He was involved in Annabel’s murder. He wanted to kill Mike and was willing to off an eight-year-old girl as well just to keep it clean. How many other officers were in on it with him? How deep did this thing go? And where could Mike take his daughter that would be safe?

Kat’s face bobbed up in the rearview mirror. ‘What’d you just do?’

Through the back window, he saw Graham jog out into the street and crouch by that front tire. He tugged off his gloves, took a few steps away from the curb, set his hands on his hips, and stared after Mike’s truck. He was too far away for Mike to read his expression, but his posture showed equal parts amusement and exasperation.

No pulse.

‘I had to… do something to that car.’

He turned the corner, and they passed an ambulance and a line of cop cars, lights flashing, the noise splitting the air, loud enough to make him cringe. His head jerked to keep the vehicles in sight – windows, side mirror – as they rocketed past.

Kat sat rigid in the backseat, a departure from her usual loose-limbed flopping. Dread had turned her voice hoarse. ‘Where’s Mom?’

Again came the nightmare repetition, except this time it was not from his father’s mouth but his own. ‘She’s not… here.’

He was trying to watch the road, trying to grip the wheel steadily, trying to keep himself from flying apart. It took everything he had, and still he was coming up short.

‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong with your voice?’

‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘The light’s green.’

‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘Why are you breathing funny?’