Next to his own home, Nicole’s would be considered a cottage. And not a very nice one. Tidy, respectful, but no flair. Benjamin turned the SUV into the gravel driveway and started up the incline. His tires spun on the gravel, announcing his arrival, but who cared? Nicole had alerted them already. He was sure of it. She’d given the old lady who stayed with Jordan a list of instructions, no doubt: lock the doors, check the windows, don’t answer a knock, a ring, a snarl from outside. Too bad he had a way around all that.
He parked in front of the garage. No need to turn the SUV around for a quick getaway. Nicole was busy. Two dead and another on the way. He’d disposed of Charlene. She wouldn’t be found until the first thaw and by then would be completely unidentifiable.
Nicole had no idea who was next or she would have been here herself, armed and aiming for him.
He laughed, anticipating the moment when he brought Nicole’s world to a screeching halt. Sanders had put him in a killing mood. The woman was impossible to please, and in that, she and Nicole were very similar. Nicole would suffer for it. She would know that Benjamin had their son and that he was up to no good. He wanted to be there when she realized that all hope was lost. In this case, it would pulverize her. Nicole would have little left to live for.
He pulled up his hood and pushed out into the cold. He was coming to hate Montana. Winter was only a wonderland from the inside out—gazing from a window with a fire crackling at his back. The consistencies were tedious—the temperature flowed between freezing and breathtaking, and snow looked the same no matter how it fell or lay on the ground.
He knocked on the front door. This was purely a courtesy and executed to further mess up their minds. Surely a drug dealer, a thief, a murderer, didn’t knock on doors. By now, Jordan or the old lady would be dialing Nicole’s cell. Maybe they’d even gotten through. He watched a curtain panel peel back from the living room window. Not close to the front door, but on the side of the house facing the garage and his SUV. He saw a blur of short, gray curls.
“Jordan,” he called through the wood. “Daddy’s home. Come unlock the door.”
Nothing. As he’d expected. He pulled a slim LED flashlight from his pocket and walked around the side of the house. The electrical box was padlocked. Another expectation fulfilled. Nicole was a cop. Of course she locked up everything.
He lifted the hem of his parka and unsnapped his holster. He pulled Charlene’s Sig Sauer out and stood back from the padlock. He was a good shot from five feet. Fifty/fifty at twice that. He didn’t want to get hit by the shrapnel, but he didn’t want to start a bonfire either. He settled on eight feet and aimed for the outer rim on the Schlage. He pulled the trigger, and the loop popped and slid from the box. Benjamin kept the flashlight steady, located the main breaker, and tripped it. The entire house, security lights included, went black.
Nicole would know from the street that something was terribly wrong. He smiled, enjoying the thought. Then moved on. He stopped at the long sidelight window beside the front door and used the butt of his gun to break it. He knocked out fragments of glass and pushed his arm through and turned the locks easily. Then he walked through the door.
“Let’s try this again,” he shouted into the dark, cavernous house. “Daddy’s home!”
There was no response, and for a moment he damned people’s predictability, though he knew it was useful to him. He aimed the flashlight into the corners of the living room, behind the sofa and an overstuffed chair. Nothing. He moved on, deeper into the house.
“Let’s see. You’re the child of a cop. I’d say she taught you to lay low, behind a locked door.” He entered the kitchen and opened the pantry door, but it was empty. He moved into the dining area, swept the light under the table. “Nothing here,” he called. He loved the sound of his voice. He loved fucking with people’s minds. He turned into a short hall. Four doors. Three bedrooms and a bath. “Maybe you’ve burrowed under the things in your closet? Is that where you stuff your dirty laundry, son?” He tried the knob of the first door. It turned and he pushed it open. A bedroom. He stood on the threshold and checked the corners, waded slowly into the room, swung open the closet. Winter coats and rain boots. No kid. He knelt and checked under the bed. Dust and cobwebs.
He left that room behind and moved on to the next. Another bedroom, probably. The knob didn’t turn. “Now that’s a dead giveaway,” he said. “Excuse the pun. ‘Lock the door. Scurry under the bed.’ Some of the worst advice ever given. Do you know how easy it is to pop a lock this weak?”
As an answer, Benjamin stepped back, canted left, and launched a roundhouse kick so that the heel of his boot delivered a direct blow backed up by his body weight and momentum. An object in motion and all that. But it focused about five hundred pounds on an interior lock. Sandbox play, really. He heard the pin spring.
“That’s just a little trick your father learned early on in his career,” Benjamin said. The door had swung open, bounced off the wall, and now came back at him. He held up his hand and caught it. “Back when I had to do my own cleanup. Your daddy has come a long way, Jordan.”
He paused and listened. The darkness was total, the curtains in this room closed against any moon that might be in the sky. And the silence here was complete. No breath, taken or expelled. No involuntary shifting of muscle in a new and cramped position. He knew before he opened the closet door that he would find it empty. But he searched it anyway. Laziness when it came to personal safety was not a choice.
“Is this your room, Jordan?” He raised his voice, because he knew his son and the little old lady were not in this room. “I think so. Lots of Star Wars and blue jeans. Definitely not your mom’s style. She always favored those tailored shirts, blazers that would hide her gun.” He turned and let the beam from the flashlight fall over the room. Planets hung from fishing line, books were scattered on the bed and nightstand, Legos filled boxes that were pushed against a wall. Benjamin had never had such a room when he was a kid. Mostly he’d slept on the couch in the living room. A change of clothing had been a luxury. “I like your room, Jordan,” he called out, then bent and lifted the bed ruffle under first one and then the other twin bed and found nothing but rolled-up dirty socks, scattered pieces of what looked like homework, and a single shoe.
He left that bedroom and walked quietly down the hall. “Are you in the bathroom, cowering behind the shower curtain?” he wondered, loud enough that he could be heard anywhere in the house. “Let’s see.”
He stepped into the bathroom, which was small. Maybe forty square feet. White toilet, basin, and tub; burgundy towels hung from the rack; exhaust fan, no window. Certainly Nicole had taught their son better than to seek refuge in a box with no escape hatch. But he swept an arm forward and pushed the curtain back on the metal rod with a scratching sound. Empty.
“That leaves one room, Jordan,” Benjamin said. Glee made his voice light. It floated up from his throat like bubbles from champagne. He was getting closer. Soon he would have his hands on the prize. Nicole’s raison de vivre.
The door to the master bedroom stood ajar, and he pushed it back with the tips of his fingers and stood on the threshold. Nicole’s private domain. Thick carpeting and a full-sized bed in a lifted iron frame that was a complicated pattern of curlicues. No walk-in closet here, but double doors that slid back on a metal track. A small door leading to the master bath.
Didn’t people know they could live better? he wondered. And then he heard a snuffling sound. The wet nose of an animal sniffing, panting. His hand tightened on the gun grip. He felt its beaded texture against his palm. He didn’t like dogs. They were loyal and brave beyond reason. They lacked common sense.
He followed the sound with his ear, his head turning toward the right. Beyond the bed a wall with two windows, heavy curtains, and a swath of carpet. Were they huddled in the shadows? Seemed likely. But why hadn’t they gone for the windows?
“Jordan, come say hello to your father,” Benjamin demanded.
“No thanks.”
The voice was calm, and bigger than Benjamin had expected.
“Well, that’s polite,” Benjamin returned. “Really. I’m glad your mom taught you to say please and thank-you. Didn’t she also tell you it’s a common courtesy to greet people when they come to your house?”
“Invited guests,” Jordan agreed. “But you’re not invited. In fact, we’d like you to leave.”
Definitely coming from the floor on the other side of the bed, below the windows, which he could shatter with a single bullet.
“But I just got here, and I went to a lot of trouble to see you, Jordan.” He took another step into the room, lifted the flashlight, and tried to illuminate the well behind the bed, but the beam touched only the wall and curtains. “It’s been too long for a hug, and there’s no picking up where we left off. I get that. A handshake will do. A ‘happy to see you, Dad’ would be okay.”
“My mother taught me never to lie.”
Benjamin shook his head, took another step. “I don’t remember you so sassy, Jordan. No, I remember you whiny and crying and filling your diaper. You were not a pleasant baby.”
He heard it again, the wet sniffling.
“What do you have with you, Jordan? A dog? Small, medium, or large? It’s better you prepare me so I don’t kill it offhand.”
“A teacup poodle,” Jordan said, and Benjamin laughed.
“Now, that snuffling sounds too deep for an animal that small. I’m guessing a Lab of some kind. Maybe a collie or German shepherd. It looks to me like your mom has done everything she can to give you an Opie kind of childhood.”
“What’s Opie?”
“Don’t you watch Nick at Nite?”
“You do?”
Benjamin smiled. He loved challenges. So long as they were entertaining and required little effort. He was thinking he might change his opinion of fatherhood. “I like reminiscing. Thinking of the old days. Nothing like yesterday’s TV to bring all that back.”
“My mother told me you hated your childhood. That there was nothing good about it.”
Benjamin felt a tic at the corner of his mouth. “That’s where TV came in. I could reinvent myself every afternoon watching other kids who got it good.”
He took another step forward. A second ticked by, two. And then his senses began to pick up movement. The air shifted, became dense and fraught with energy, and he turned because there was someone behind him. Definitely. But he was too late to do anything about it. A Louisville Slugger. Twenty-seven ounces of solid ash but, lucky for him, barreled by a pint-sized grandma. The bat connected with his upper arm. A solid blow. It knocked the flashlight from his hand, gave him a stinger, but did little else. Still, Benjamin ducked. He crouched and lurched toward the dark outline of the granny figure and caught her around the knees. She tumbled to the floor with a surprised gasp. But she didn’t waste time.
“Run, Jordan,” she commanded. “Run!”
“Stay, Jordan. If you don’t, I’ll kill her.”
Jordan stayed. Benjamin heard him move, the rustling of his clothing and the soft whimper of the dog he had with him.
“You got that dog on a leash?”
“In the house?”
“Hold on to him. I’m a good shot, Jordan. Close up I’m a hundred percent.”
“I’ve got him.” His voice warbled a little. He cared about the mutt, and the old lady too, probably. “What are you doing to Mrs. Neal?”
“She hit me with a bat,” Benjamin said. “I had to take her down.”
“Don’t hurt her.”
“Too late for that.”
“I’m fine, Jordan,” Mrs. Neal said. “Do as your mother told you.”
“Nicole? So you did talk to her.” And that made his heart sing. “What did she say? Is she scared for you, Jordan? Did she sound breathless? Worried?”
“She said you were harmless,” the boy returned.
Benjamin laughed. “Now that’s not true. Your old man’s a killer. She knows that. She’s been a real bitch about it too. Really chomping away at your dad over it.”
“And she’s on her way,” Mrs. Neal promised. “Her and about a hundred other officers.”
“Toole County doesn’t have a hundred officers,” he chided.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do.” And he didn’t hide the smile in his voice. “I really rattled her, didn’t I?”
“Nicole doesn’t rattle,” she informed him.
“She’s the sheriff,” Jordan said, and he was proud of it.
“So I hear.” Benjamin stood and hauled Mrs. Neal to her feet. “No sudden moves, Granny.” He tapped her with the tip of the bat he had wrestled away from her, but for extra measure, he rubbed the muzzle of the Sauer against her temple. “Double duty,” he told her. “And like I said, up close I never miss.”
He scanned the room, but the flashlight had gone out when it hit the ground. He figured they had maybe another ten minutes before Nicole and her posse made it here. They had to move fast now.
“Stand up, Jordan,” he said. “You and that mutt are going to leave the room first. I want you to walk to the front door.”
Jordan stood but kept a hand on the dog’s collar. Benjamin could tell by the outline of his stooped body. “Hall, kitchen, living room, door. Just like that,” he said.
Jordan followed his orders. Benjamin kept a hand on Mrs. Neal, and they walked a few feet behind the boy and the dog, but when they reached the front of the house and felt the cool air rush in, the old woman shouted again, “Run, Jordan! Make your mom proud.”
Benjamin tightened his hold on Mrs. Neal’s arm until he heard her back teeth grind together. To Jordan he said, “I’m a man of my word, Jordan. Remember that. You could make a run for it,” he reasoned. “Save yourself and your dog, but that would kill Mrs. Neal. Can you handle that?”
“I won’t run.”
“Your word is good enough for me.” He tried to remember the layout of the house. There was a door off the living room, a closet or laundry room. Either would do. “Put the dog in the laundry room and shut the door.”
He needed a clear path to his truck, pulling a reluctant son with him. He needed to dispose of Mrs. Neal without the canine intrusion. And he needed to do it all in minutes. Nicole was on her way. And the damn Mrs. Neal was clairvoyant or astute, adding to his growing tension.
“She’s almost here already,” she said.
“Almost? No. She was on her way to the Huntington Spa. That’s on the other side of town, and then a few miles of ribbon over the mountain pass. Police scanner,” he explained, and smiled though she couldn’t see it in the dark. “Now get walking.”
She complied, but slowly, and she called to Jordan, “Bring our coats from the closet, Jordan.” Sensible. Optimistic. Thinking forward.
He nudged her, because they had already wasted time on the dog and because she irritated him. Nicole had hired well. Most women would be hysterical at this point. He supposed that was good for him—made her easier to handle. But she had an air of superiority he didn’t like. For that he pushed her again, with more force, but she didn’t complain. She didn’t put up a struggle. She slipped into her coat as she moved. He figured she was agreeable because they were walking away from Jordan and she liked that.
“You care about my son,” he said. “And I appreciate that. I don’t think I’ll kill you. I will have to return in kind for the whack you gave me with the bat, but then we’re square. Fair is fair and all.”
“You sound like a child,” she said.
“I never grew up,” he agreed. He stopped at the front door, Mrs. Neal in front of him on the porch, and turned back to Jordan. “Hurry up, son. You waste any more time back there and I’ll have to rush with Mrs. Neal. That wouldn’t be good.”
Jordan was obedient. As he drew closer, Benjamin stood back against the open door and let him pass. He kept a hold of Mrs. Neal’s elbow and tapped the bat against the brick path as they walked around the house to the backyard.
“Why are we going back here?” Jordan asked.
“We need to put Mrs. Neal somewhere,” he returned. “I told her I wouldn’t kill her, and so I won’t, but I’m not going to let her loose either.” He led them across the back patio and into the grass. They came to a doghouse built like a log cabin. Benjamin tapped it with the bat. “What do you think, Jordan? A little too tight for our Mrs. Neal?”
“You can’t put her in the doghouse,” Jordan said. His voice had risen, and Benjamin liked that he was willing to fight for Mrs. Neal.
“Why not?” Benjamin bent and peered inside the open door. There was enough light from the moon that he knew what he was looking at, enough shadow that he couldn’t read their faces, but Jordan’s offense was clear in his voice. “Looks nice in there, but maybe a little cramped.” He pulled lightly on Mrs. Neal’s arm, and they advanced. A shed stood west, small at eight-by-ten feet and made of durable polyethylene. It had a chunky padlock on it. “What’s in there?”
He felt Jordan shrug. “Bikes and patio furniture.”
Benjamin nodded and looked down at Mrs. Neal. “Well, it looks like it’s the woodshed for you.” He felt resistance in her as he began walking toward the long, low trestle. It was made of sturdy plywood with a shingled roof. There were several doors that opened on swing hinges. “Your mother’s going to love this, Jordan. She plays a mean game of hide-and-seek.”
“You can’t put her in there,” Jordan protested. “It’s too cold out here. She’ll die.”
Benjamin expelled a heavy breath and looked down at Jordan.
“What should I do then, Jordan? Kill her now?” He felt anger bunch in his muscles and exerted pressure on the woman’s elbow, pushing his fingers between the bones at the joint, and was rewarded with her sharp gasp and the loosening of her knees. “But I promised her I wouldn’t.” He eased her down and looked over her head. “Take three giant steps back,” he said, and watched Jordan shuffle his feet and put inches between them. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could see that Jordan’s face was pensive. He chewed his lip. “Don’t worry, Jordan. Your mom will find her. She’s good at this kind of thing.”