Hayward parked one address away from his target and got out of the car. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket and grasped the pistol, leaving his trigger finger just outside the trigger guard.
He left the car unlocked for a quick getaway and walked toward the front porch with as much nonchalance as he could muster. The house was ancient and expansive. He rang the bell and heard labored footfalls from behind the door. The latch turned and the old door opened several inches. A pair of hard, dark eyes peeked out from a weathered face. Mustache, hairy nostrils, rotting teeth. The man said something that Hayward didn’t understand, but it didn’t matter. Hayward wasn’t there to chat. He forced his way into the house.
The old man turned and tottered toward a shotgun hanging on the wall.
“Stop,” Hayward commanded, displaying the handgun. The old man froze.
Hayward held his finger to his lips, indicating silence. “Wife?” he asked.
The old man shook his head.
Hayward motioned toward a chair and tied the old guy up using the man’s own belt and suspenders. He searched the rest of the house. It was large and musty, full of old books and old things and the smell of an old man who obviously lived alone.
Hayward returned to the entryway, reached into his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills, peeled away a fistful, and shoved them in the old man’s shirt pocket. “Grazie,” he said.
“No problem,” the old man replied in English. His Italian accent was noticeable but his pronunciation was clear and precise.
Hayward sat down and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said. “You speak English.”
“I used to teach English in the school in town.”
Hayward gestured with his hand, indicating the large house. “Hell of a place to afford on a teacher’s salary. What else did you do?”
A smile. “Invested.”
“Of course. What do you do now?”
“Nothing.”
“Nobody does nothing,” Hayward said.
“Everybody does nothing sometimes,” the man replied. “Why are you here?”
“Do you pay attention to the house next door?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Nobody lives there,” the man said. “Only occasionally do workers appears.”
“Appear.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Appear,” Hayward said. “Workers appear, not appears.”
“What does it matter?”
“You said you’re an English teacher. You should speak it correctly.”
The old man laughed. “My wife is dead five years. My children don’t visit. The young people have all left. Only the old people remain here. I haven’t heard English in years. What do you want?”
“When was the last time a worker appeared at the house next door?”
The old man shrugged. “Two days ago, maybe. Three of them.”
“What were they working on?”
“They hauled in two rolls of carpet.”
Bingo. Hayward rose to his feet. “When did they leave?”
Another shrug. “Same day.”
“All of them?”
“This is very strange,” the old man said. “If you want to know about the house next door, why don’t you ring the bell and ask?”
Hayward looked askance. “You said nobody lives there.”
The old man wore an expression like oops.
“So who lives there?”
Silence.
Hayward shoved more money into the old man’s shirt pocket. The man seemed uncomfortable.
“What’s your name?” Hayward asked.
“Giuseppe Turcoe.”
“Giuseppe, this is very important. Who lives next door?”
The old man nodded toward the cash stuffed in his shirt pocket. “I am sorry. I cannot take your money. And I cannot help you.”
That told Hayward everything he needed to know.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wrapping his arm around the old man’s neck. He used his other hand to apply pressure. Just enough . . . not too much. Giuseppe Turcoe’s skinny arms and legs flailed for a bit, then went slack.
Hayward laid him gently on the floor and felt his neck. The old man’s pulse was strong. He’d wake up with a headache, but no lasting damage. Hayward left the cash in the old man’s pocket.
He went downstairs to the basement. It smelled like a tomb. He turned on the light, looked around, stepped over piles of household junk accumulated over eons.
Then he saw what he was looking for. Storm doors, set at an angle, just like in the American Midwest. Apparently they got their fair share of nasty weather on Giuseppe’s little island.
Hayward worked the latch but it didn’t budge. It struck him that he would probably have a similar problem on the next set of doors he encountered, and those doors would be the ones that mattered most.
Quickly, he rummaged through Giuseppe’s belongings until he found a crowbar. He wedged the curled end beneath the latch and applied pressure. The wood groaned, creaked, then yielded.
Hayward pushed open the doors. Daylight and fresh air rushed in. The mansion next door was fewer than two dozen paces away. Its cellar doors faced Hayward, offset just a little away from the road.
She’s in there. At their mercy. What were they doing to her? He suddenly felt overwhelming urgency to get inside the house next door.
He surveyed the large wall. There were three windows, and he realized he’d be exposed for a few yards as he scampered toward the cellar doors. Should he wait for nightfall? Unequivocally yes, if he wanted to raise his odds of a successful one-man assault to something above zero. Then he thought of Katrin, battered and bloody and hanging on by a thread. He knew he didn’t have the luxury of waiting. She needed him right now.