Forty-Four

The young warden had a crew cut and introduced himself as Danny Bullier. Peyton didn’t recognize him. Bullier explained that he’d recently been assigned to Aroostook County.

“I heard there was some poachers in the area,” Bullier explained. “I walked back here around ten-thirty tonight and saw lights on in the cabin.”

Hewitt checked his watch. “It’s four-ten. Can you take us to the cabin?”

Bullier nodded and started walking. “Colonel Steuben herself called me and said that I was to give you my full cooperation. I’m all in. But may I ask a question?”

“Sure,” Hewitt said. He was carrying an M4 carbine.

“Is this related to the dead guy they found out here?”

“Hard to know,” Hewitt said. “We’re dealing with an armed woman who kidnapped a teenager. The boy got out of there somehow when she had fallen asleep. She may have woken up and taken off in a green Ford Escape. I’m hoping she’s in there and sleeping, and we can take her without incident.”

They were moving in pairs, and Peyton was beside Hammond. Her .40 was drawn, the safety off, but her finger rested outside the trigger guard as she walked.

“Mike,” she said, “Sherry might be more dangerous than we think.”

Before Hewitt could reply, Bullier said, “The cabin is up here. It’s in the middle of that field. How do you want to do this?”

Hewitt stopped walking. “Peyton, are you up for this?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

Hewitt, apparently catching himself, shook his head.

She waited, but he gave no answer. Had he asked because she was the only female present? Or because she had a relationship with the suspect? She wouldn’t like his answer, regardless.

“What do you need, Mike?”

“I’m going to ask you to lead. You know her.”

“Got it,” she said. The cabin was a hundred yards away.

Hewitt motion to Bullier. “You circle around and take the back. Frank, you take one of the sides. I’ll cover Peyton as she approaches the front door.”

They moved out. The ink-colored sky had turned gray. In a few weeks, even with Fred gone and Freddy in jail, this land might still produce potato blossoms—tiny white flower buds, as far as the eye could see, that preceded the spuds themselves. The frosted fields would be a stark emotional contrast to all that had taken place here.

But the annual potato blossom was for later. Her eyes were on the cabin. The windows on each side of the front door were dark. There appeared to be no movement from within. She heard her own footfalls scuffing the dirt; her breath, coming and going, like sandpaper on wood. Her pulse seemed to pound against the skin near her temples.

Three steps led up a small stoop to the front door. There were railings on each side.

Thirty yards from the cabin, she burst into a sprint, stopping under the window to the right of the door, her back against the building, her left hand clasping her right wrist, the .40 at the ready. She listened and heard nothing.

She looked at Hewitt. He was on his stomach; the M4 lay before him on a bi-pod stand. He was sweeping the rifle back and forth across the cabin, using the scope to look for any movement.

Peyton looked at Hewitt and nodded.

He returned the gesture.

Then she took a deep breath, pushed out the air, and moved swiftly and silently up the three steps and crouched below the window in the center of the front door.

She looked at Hewitt again.

He shook his head: still no movement from within.

Peyton stood slowly, forcing herself to the right of the door, in the small space between the door frame and the window. She glanced at Hewitt. Still nothing.

She leaned to look in the window. The cabin was dark. No movement.

Then she heard something that immediately reminded her of Suzanne Fontaine’s story.

Peyton leaned away from the window and said into the mic pinned to her shirt collar, “She’s in there. I can hear her.”

“Copy that,” Jackman said. “Can you get a visual?”

“No. It’s dark inside.”

“But you know it’s her?” Hewitt said.

“I’m positive.”

“With no visual?”

“Yes. She’s crying. I can hear her. I’m going to try to talk her out.”

“She’s got a handgun,” Hewitt said. “Matt didn’t know what kind. It sounded small from his description.”

“I’m sure it’s big enough,” Peyton said. “Is the back door covered?”

“Copy that,” Bullier said.

Peyton crouched down and pressed herself against the wall to the right of the door. As if beyond her control, her mind did the last thing she wanted it to do: it ran to Tommy. She’d had one near-death experience already this week. Now here she was, asked by Hewitt to lead the extraction of an armed woman with very little to lose.

Holding the semi-automatic pistol with her right hand, she reached across her body with her left and knocked gently on the center of the door—several feet from where she crouched in case Sherry fired at the sound. Then she leaned back and exhaled, awaiting Sherry’s reaction.

“Go away!” Sherry rasped from inside. Her voice sounded hoarse and thick.

“Sherry, it’s Peyton. Leave your gun where you are and come out.”

“It’s not that simple, Peyton!”

“It’s over, Sherry. You need to come out.”

“I’ve really done it this time. I’ve really—” She burst into sobs.

“Sherry, it’s going to be okay. It’s time to come out.”

“Are there police out there?”

“There are officers, yes. They want to help you. Please come out now, Sherry.”

“No. I need to talk to you. Only you, Peyton.”

“I’m listening, Sherry.”

“No. Come inside.”

“Out of the question!” It was Hewitt’s voice in the earpiece. “Not going to happen, Peyton. Keep her on the hook until you get her outside.”

“Peyton, I need to talk. I’m not thinking straight. My mother is my hero. She did the right thing.”

“What did she do?” Peyton had to keep her talking.

“You know about it. About her and Simon. She was going to make a break. She did the right thing. She wanted to live in Prague.”

“And your father found out?”

“I guess. I think I’ve really done it this time. Maybe my father did the right thing, too, in the end. Maybe that’s the only choice some-
times.”

“No. Sherry, you have two beautiful children. They love you. And they need you. Think about them. Nothing else right now. Put the gun down and come on out.”

“He’s not Chip’s son.”

“I know that. It doesn’t matter. It never will.”

“You don’t understand. It will matter. He’ll take Sam from me.”

“Sherry, it’s time for you to come out.”

“Come inside. Please. I need help.”

“Out of the question,” Hewitt said over her earpiece again.

“Do you have a gun, Peyton? I know you do. Leave it there on the steps and come in. I really think my father made the right choice.”

Peyton looked at Hewitt.

He shook his head vehemently.

“I can’t let her kill herself, Mike.” She set her gun down on the steps and reached for the doorknob.

“Close the door behind you,” Sherry said.

There were no lights on in the cabin’s interior, but the sun was rising now, and gray light shone in the windows. Peyton could see Sherry, garbed in a light-blue blouse, standing across the main room. The knees of her designer jeans were covered in dirt.

Sherry held what looked like a semi-automatic handgun, pointing at Peyton. Her hand trembled, and the weapon waved. Peyton wished Sherry’s index finger wasn’t on the trigger.

“Please sit down, Peyton,” Sherry said.

Then it was Hewitt’s voice: “I can’t hear her. Can anyone hear them?”

There was a short burst of static, and then nothing. She’d lost radio contact.

“Sit down on the chair,” Sherry said again.

Peyton walked very slowly to a wooden chair, the only piece of furniture in the room. The walls were bare. There was a single light-bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“He ran. I fell asleep. Can you fucking believe that? I can’t even keep a teenager. I don’t know how he got the duct tape off his wrists. But he was gone when I opened my eyes. I almost shot myself right then because, it’s like, I mean, even that … I can’t even keep him here without screwing that up. Now everything he wanted is gone. He came back to me. Part of me always thought he would. But the other part thought he never would, you know?”

“Are you talking about Kvido?”

“I tried to move on.” Sherry’s voice quivered. “I really did.”

Sherry was pacing slowly now. Her hair was unkempt and clearly hadn’t been washed in days. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the faint traces of mascara streaked the corners of her eyes.

“I mean, I even married Chip. But then he came back to me. Said he needed me, needed my help. And there was Sam. There had always been Sam.” She looked at Peyton. “Didn’t having Sam mean it was meant to be?”

“Sherry. Set the gun down. Let’s just talk.”

Sherry looked at her, head tilted.

“Just talk. I’m not leaving. I want to hear it all. I want to help.”

“You mean it. I can hear it in your voice.”

Peyton’s mind ran to Fontaine’s words again. This was still a case she was working, but was it also something more personal?

Sherry sat down on the floor across from Peyton. She hadn’t let go of the pistol, which did not look small—it looked like a Glock 9mm in the new light. If Hewitt had been looking for a window shot, Sherry had just taken it away from him. She was out of view from any windows. In fact, it was Peyton who was now in line with the cabin’s rear window. She hoped the day’s breaking light was enough for the men outside to be able to tell the difference between the women.

“Why did you take Matt?”

Sherry wasn’t looking at her. One knee was up and bent in front of her. Her other leg lay flat on the floor. She draped the 9mm over her knee.

Peyton wondered if she’d fired the 9mm before. How accurate was she? She also thought about Simon Pink, about a hypothesis she had developed.

“I had to take the boy. I had to protect us all, Peyton.”

“Who?”

“Kvido, Freddy, and me, too.”

“Because Matt knows who was in the cabin the night Simon Pink was shot, doesn’t he?”

Sherry looked up at her then. “That’s enough, Peyton.”

Peyton saw something in Sherry’s eyes that made her theory even more believable. And it made her want to circle away from the subject of the shooting and come back to it.

“Was your father abusive when you were a girl, Sherry?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Physically?”

“If you’re asking me if I was surprised to hear he hit my mother, the answer is no, I was not surprised.”

“He hit you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I never knew,” Peyton said. “Maybe I could—”

“What? Have helped me? Be real, Peyton. We were kids. I got over it.”

“Was there more?”

Sherry’s eyes narrowed then. “What exactly are you asking me? My father was a lot of things”—she looked away, as if gathering herself, and in a move Peyton knew was unconscious, Sherry’s head bobbed once up and down as she spoke—“but he wasn’t a pedophile, Peyton.”

Peyton had learned it long ago; it was a staple of any interrogation: the unconscious head movement—whether a nod or a shake—that contradicts a suspect’s statement always offers the truth. And Sherry had nodded before she’d spoken.

Peyton knew the reaction had been involuntary. She also knew what the contradiction meant: the bastard Fred St. Pierre Sr. had molested Sherry.

“I mean, really, Peyton. My father is dead.”

“Your mother was preparing to leave him?”

“She came to see me in Prague, fell in love with the city. Then she met Simon. It’s a small world—Simon knew Kvido.”

There was a crackle in her earpiece.

“Peyton, what the hell is going on? Can you hear me, Peyton? We lost sight of her, and we can’t hear anything.”

“What is that?” Sherry said. “I heard something.” She was on her feet, coming toward Peyton. She stopped six feet away, standing now in the center of the room.

“Everything is fine,” Peyton said to both Mike Hewitt and Sherry. “Everything is fine.”

“Take out the ear bud and unclip the wire on your shirt collar,” Sherry said.

Peyton did so.

“Toss them over to me.”

Again, she did as she was told.

Sherry stepped on both devices, crushing them.

“No one needs to know what we’re talking about, Peyton.”

“What your father did, Sherry, that’s not your fault.”

It was a mistake, and Peyton knew it the moment Sherry’s face went from pale to red. Sherry’s eyes grew wide. Her shiny forehead creased.

“How dare you even suggest that I would blame myself for that! How dare you! He grounded me for trying to be normal. Remember? I kissed Jimmy Fry, and he found out and … You remember?”

“Yes. I remember. How could I forget? It was the beginning of the end for our friendship.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Sherry, we really need to go. They’re going to come in here and get you if we don’t. And if you don’t put the gun down, they’ll shoot you.”

“I can’t.”

She was still standing six feet away.

“Sherry, you need to put the gun down.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

Peyton knew she wasn’t going to turn her weapon over. “You took Matt Kingston to protect yourself,” Peyton said, “didn’t you?”

“I did it for all of us.”

“But only one person shot Simon Pink, Sherry.”

“What are you saying? Why would I do that? He loved my mother. He was going to make her happy.”

“Sherry, what does Kvido have on you?”

As she asked the question, she looked out the windows. Would the men outside be preparing for a shot? Was it light enough to take one? She hoped the assurance she tried to give Hewitt bought her some time with Sherry. If a shot was fired, it would come from Hewitt. No way he’d let anyone else take it, not with one of his agents inside. And she was glad for that; Hewitt would be careful.

“Sam,” Sherry said. “Sam is Kvido’s son. Chip knows Sam is from a prior relationship, but he doesn’t know I was ever with Kvido before now. Sometimes Kvido says I’m not raising him right, that Sam’s life is too easy. I think he wants to take Sam with him.”

“Take him where? Does Kvido threaten you with that?”

“But I took care of all that. I left Chip. Now I don’t have to worry about it. We can all be together.”

“What about your daughter, Marie?”

“She’ll be with us, too.”

“Chip will agree to this?”

Sherry took a step back, away from Peyton, as if the force of Peyton’s question had driven her back.

“You don’t understand, Peyton. Whatever I’ve been through pales in comparison to his life. It’s one of the reasons why he’s so good for me.” A faint smile crossed her lips. “I can’t feel bad for myself around him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He was homeless as a boy. His mother raised him alone. He saw what she went through, what she had to do …” She shook her head.

Peyton knew that Sherry had more information about Kvido to share, much more than Washington had on him. And nothing in the conversation had made her think Kvido wasn’t the one pulling the strings.

She had to keep her talking and hope like hell they wouldn’t take a shot.

“I doubt his mother endured anything worse than you, Sherry.”

“She had to prostitute herself after her husband was killed. It’s why he turned to Andela. It’s because of the CIA.”

“The CIA?”

“They killed his father.”

“Sherry, the CIA? In the Czech Republic? When?”

“It was Czechoslovakia then. Look it up. His father had the same name. He was organizing a union, and it would’ve cost the US export revenue.”

“So the CIA killed him?”

“I looked it up.” Sherry offered a patronizing smile then. “We’ve had this talk before, Peyton. You think the criminal-justice system in this country isn’t flawed. Are you telling me you don’t think the CIA ever assassinated someone?”

The more animated Sherry got, the more the 9mm waved back and forth. And Sherry hadn’t been trained to keep her index finger over the trigger guard. It rested firmly on the trigger.

“After his father was killed, they lived in alleys and shelters. His mother became a whore, Peyton. He blames the United States for that.”

Peyton was looking at Sherry when she heard the window on the front door shatter. But she wouldn’t remember that until later. What she would remember, what would replace the memory of Pete McPherson’s bloody boot when she closed her eyes, was the image of Sherry St. Pierre-Duvall’s skull caving in and tearing apart. And the look on Sherry’s face—eyes bursting wide, not in pain, but shock—for a split-second before her body fell to the cabin floor in a lifeless heap.