Chapter 29: : Chapter 29

Sloan came home from work to find both her father’s and Nash’s trucks in front of the house. By the time she parked, Mop and Tic had raced around from the back to greet her.

“What is this, a party?”

She heard the voices, so with the dogs walked around the house.

And found the patio she’d planned staked out, mason’s lines run. Sometime while she’d dealt with an unrepentant poacher, a couple of confused hikers, a group of campers with a collapsed tent, they’d excavated, laid and leveled the gravel, added the layer of decomposed granite over it, and raked it smooth. Working together, they finished up tamping that layer down.

“Where’s your work order?” Sloan demanded.

“Dads don’t need no steenking work orders.” Dean shoved up his cap. “You outlined your patio space with pink paint.”

“Coral.”

“Close enough. We’re doing a dry-set. You wanted flagstone.” He gestured toward the piles of stone as Nash kept tamping. “Works with the house. Jonah’s handling a trail hike today, Theo and Robo, on another job. I had some time, so I dragged this guy into it.”

“I’m getting a lesson,” Nash said over the hard hum of the plate compactor.

“Quick study, too. We can start laying the stone tomorrow. I’m going to let the edges meander a bit. It—”

“Goes with the house,” Sloan finished. “I didn’t expect this.”

“That’s why it’s called a surprise.” Dean gestured to Nash. “And he needed the lesson. Looks like you got it, Nash. Let’s check the level.” Dean glanced back at Sloan. “Sure could use some cold drinks.”

“I guess that’s the least I can do.”

She went in, gave the dogs biscuits before heading to the closet to stow her weapon.

After grabbing a trio of Cokes—making a mental note to pick up more—she took them outside.

Where Nash and her father laid a second stone.

“You said tomorrow.”

Dean took the Coke she offered.

“And this one says how we’ve still got plenty of daylight, and he’d like to see how this part’s done.”

“Start at one end.” Sloan handed Nash the second Coke. “Vary size and shape and color. A natural look. You don’t want uniform for this. Level each stone. Don’t want any to rock or end up tripping you.”

Exaggerating the move, Dean puffed out his chest. “That’s my girl teaching you.”

“That’s just the right gap between those two,” Sloan observed. “You know, I may not fill in with gravel. I’m thinking potting soil and Irish moss or chamomile.”

“See that?”

Nash nodded at Dean. “Yeah. Your dad just said that’s what you should do.”

“Because it goes with the house.” With her Coke, she walked over to the group of flagstone, examined, considered. Then setting the Coke down, hefted one.

“This one next.”

In the woods, Sam peered through field glasses.

“We’re right on the time she gets home usually, babe. Giving or taking like a half hour. And yeah, she takes off the gun when she gets here.”

“That’s what we needed to know.”

She took the glasses from him and studied Sloan and the two men with her.

“The dogs worry me some,” she admitted as they ran around, sniffed the air, sniffed each other. “But we didn’t see a sign of one when we came around yesterday. We don’t want to deal with dogs.”

“I sure don’t want to hurt a dog, but they aren’t little ones we can set loose miles away like we did with that woman in Hazelton. So if we have to…”

He looked through the glasses again. “I’m betting they go with the men. We’d’ve seen them in the yard yesterday or heard them in the house when we looked in.”

“We don’t want to deal with the men either.”

“The way they’re going at it, they’ll have that slab of stone done. It ain’t much of a space to cover.”

He lowered the glasses, rubbed a hand on her arm. “You know I’m ready when you say, babe. You gotta remember we have to go back to work next week. We can’t take more time off.”

“You’re right. We’re as ready as we can be. Wednesday night. I feel that’s the time to take the first. We’re going to practice, doll. Practice the timing and all the rest.”

She took the glasses back for one last look.

“Look at her out there. Thinking nobody sees what she is. She’s going to find out different. She’s going to find out different real soon.”

Even, Clara thought, if ending the demon bitch’s life ended her own.

As the sun set, Sloan walked over her pretty new patio. “I think the moss. The little white chamomile flowers are tempting, but I’m seeing the moss. It’s just right.”

She gave Dean a big hug and kiss. “Thank you. This is a wonderful surprise.”

“You’ve got enough left to start a walkway out front. Nash knows what he’s doing now.”

“I’m going to keep that in mind.” Turning, she wrapped round Nash, kissed him. “Thanks for learning the lesson.”

“Well.” Dean stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m taking my dog and my tamper and heading home.”

“I’ll give you a hand loading that up.”

“I’ve got Tic. Come on, Tic. I’ll see what I can throw together for dinner because I’m starving,” said Sloan.

Nash rolled the tamper around to Dean’s truck, then up the ramp into the bed while Mop jumped in the cab.

Dean shut the bed door, leaned against it.

“You know, I’m aware you and my girl aren’t playing gin rummy.”

“Your girl is a fascinating woman.”

“And nobody’s fool.”

“That’s for damn sure.”

“I don’t see you as one either. So. Don’t screw it up.”

“You could say I’m learning a lesson on how to be a part of something.”

“Son.” He gave Nash a slap on the back. “That’s one lesson that never ends.”

Dean hopped in the truck, sent Nash a salute, and backed out of the drive.

When Nash came in through the mudroom, Tic was chowing down on his dinner.

Sloan stood at her miserable counter slicing up a chicken breast. “I’m doing a quick chicken stir-fry because starving. I’m having wine. There’s one beer left. I’ve got it on the list for tomorrow.”

He went with his heart—another lesson learned. He crossed to her, took the knife, and set it aside. Then he drew her in, letting his heart lead as he kissed her.

“I love you.”

She let out a breath, then stroked a hand down the stubble on his cheek. “That’s nice to hear. I love you, too.”

“I’m getting used to saying it. It takes some practice.”

“Practice all you want, because hearing it’s never going to get old. Did something happen?”

“I fell in love with you. I’m getting used to it.” He rested his forehead to hers a moment. “Okay. Let me wash up and I’ll help you chop something.”

On Wednesday night, Terry Brown and his crew closed and cleaned the kitchen. For a hump day, they’d been busy, and he credited his dinner special of spiced tilapia sticks for some of it.

He dearly loved to cook. He enjoyed experimenting with new recipes, new flavors and combinations. Just as he loved navigating the heat and chaos of the kitchen.

By his standards, every square inch of that kitchen had to shine clean before he walked out the door.

He felt the same about the kitchen at home, and since he did the bulk of the cooking, Hallie did the bulk of the cleaning.

And grumbled at him whenever he ended up cleaning behind her.

He couldn’t help it.

While he had no desire to own or run his own restaurant, he did dream of the day he and Hallie bought a house with a real chef’s kitchen.

She wanted a place with room for a garden and a little greenhouse, and he stood right with her on that.

Oh yeah, fresh herbs and veg? All about it.

They saved for it every paycheck.

But the wedding—only three weeks and three days away!—and the honeymoon in the Bahamas came first.

He wouldn’t have a day off until Monday, and would do a double on Sunday, but he didn’t mind.

Come May he’d have two weeks in the tropics with his lady. His bride.

His wife.

He often thought if a man got hit by lightning and lived to tell about it, and didn’t live life as full as he could, that man was just stupid.

Terry Brown’s mama hadn’t raised a stupid child.

As he did every night, Terry went over his checklist.

“All right! Great job tonight. Boone, that Cajun sauce? Just perfect. Margo, the raspberry chocolate mousse? Inspired. Now I’m going home to my lady.”

Like most nights, several went out the back with him, some to walk home if they lived close enough, others like him to drive. They filled the night air with chatter, a little bitching, some laughs.

He let out a long sigh as he got in his car. A good night, he thought again. And Hallie would be waiting for him.

They’d go over the RSVPs that were coming in for the wedding, maybe play a little more with the seating arrangements. And after he’d peeled off his day, maybe snuggle up together and make sweet love.

He was a little tired, he couldn’t deny it. But once he got home, cuddled up with Hallie? That wouldn’t be a problem.

He could’ve driven the winding, rolling roads the six and a half miles home on autopilot. And that ten minutes or so always helped him shed the stress and excitement of a restaurant kitchen.

He’d driven half that when he saw the van, and his headlights washed over a woman looking helpless who waved her arms.

He pulled over. If his mother hadn’t raised a stupid child, she hadn’t raised an inconsiderate one either.

“Oh, thank you!” Clara, hands on her cheeks, walked to his car as he got out. “I can’t think what happened. It just sputtered and died on me. I barely had time to pull to the shoulder. And I’m so careless on top. My phone battery’s dead as a doornail.”

“Could you be out of gas?”

“I don’t— Oh my goodness. Maybe.” She put a hand to her face again, and behind it, her eyes flicked left. “I’ll check. I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t come along.”

As she stepped back, Terry heard a footfall behind him.

He turned as Sam jumped forward, and swung out. His fist struck Sam’s cheek with enough force to jerk Sam’s head back. As Terry moved in to strike another blow, Clara rushed in, kicked hard at the back of Terry’s knee to buckle it.

Cursing, Sam jammed the syringe into Terry’s neck. “Motherfucker!”

“Get him in! Get him in! I see headlights coming.”

Terry struggled, weakly, but struggled enough it took them both to drag him in. Sam jumped in behind him.

“Drive, babe! Drive!”

As Sam pulled the door shut, Clara scrambled behind the wheel and punched it.

They were barely a wink of taillights when the oncoming headlights reached Terry’s car, slowed. Then stopped.

“Doll! He hit you so hard. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Sucker punched me is what he did. He’s out now. Sorry about the motherfucker.”

“I swear I nearly said that myself, I was that scared. This is her doing, doll. I feel it. She whispered right in his ear so he knew you were coming up behind him. Gave him enough strength to hurt you.

“We’ll make her sorry for it.”

Boone didn’t drive this way most nights, but he’d started seeing a woman who’d told him to come on over after work. Since they’d closed down a little later than usual on a weeknight, he’d lingered in the parking lot, texted her to be sure it was still on.

Her reply had given him a real boost.

I’ve got the beer cold and the music low.

Though he knew they were there, he’d checked his wallet for the two condoms he’d slipped in.

He’d driven away with the music and his mood high.

With under two miles to go, he spotted Terry’s car.

“Well, shit.” No way he could just drive past and leave his boss, and his friend, stranded.

He pulled behind the car, and as he got out, shouted.

“What the hell, Terry. I got a hot date waiting, and…”

He opened the door. He didn’t see Terry, but saw the keys in the ignition, saw Terry’s phone in its hands-free holder.

“What the fuck?”

Thinking maybe Terry needed a quick pit stop, he called out his name. With no response, he went back to his car for a flashlight, shined it into the trees.

“Come on, man, where are you?”

Though he knew Terry wouldn’t walk off leaving his keys and phone, he shined the flashlight down the dark road.

As worry began to crawl in his belly, he got out his own phone and called Hallie.

In the dream, Sloan walked away from the gas pumps toward the mini-mart. And as she walked, dread began to spread in her belly. Overhead, a storm that hadn’t been there swirled, blocking out the moon and stars and blowing a bitter cold wind.

She wanted to turn back, to drag Joel into the truck, to drive away, away from the lights of the mini-mart, out of the storm.

But she couldn’t. Even as the dread spread, pinched, clawed, she couldn’t stop herself from walking forward, from opening the glass door and stepping into that hard light.

The counterman radiated terror. In the dream, she heard his thoughts:

Help me. Please, help me.

And the man facing him turned. Raised the gun. And fired it.

As the bullets struck her, as pain tore through her, as she fell, she heard music.

She lay a moment, shocked, bleeding, watching the storm build overhead.

Tossed between two worlds, she fumbled for the phone on her nightstand.

“Yes, ah, yes. Sloan. This is Sloan.”

“Sergeant Cooper, sorry to wake you. Detective O’Hara.”

“Detective.” With a hand pressed to her burning chest, she sat up. Beside her, Nash switched on the light on his side of the bed.

She blinked against it, fighting her way out of the dream and into the now.

“There’s been another?” she asked.

“It looks that way. I can be at your place in about fifteen. I’d like to brief you in person.”

“Yes, of course. Do you need directions?”

“I’ve got them. Fifteen.”

She set the phone aside, rubbed at her eyes. “Detective O’Hara’s coming here. Someone else was taken. He’s … God, I’m slow. He said fifteen minutes. It’s someone in Heron’s Rest. I have to get dressed.”

“I’ll put coffee on, then I can head back to my place.”

“You don’t have to leave. If it is someone from here, word will be out tomorrow. Today,” she amended, as the clock said one-fifty. But if you want to get some sleep—”

“I’d say that’s off the table for a while.” He yanked on jeans. “You were dreaming. When the phone rang, I could tell you were back there.”

“Yeah.” She pulled on jeans of her own and decided a sweatshirt would do. “But that’s over. This isn’t.”

“I’ll make coffee.”

“Thanks.”

She took time to go across the hall, splash water on her face, run a brush through her hair. The eyes looking back at her in the mirror were haunted. By the dream, and by whatever was coming.

When she went out, Nash handed her coffee.

“You’re afraid you know them. Whoever’s missing.”

“Odds are. If I don’t, someone in my family probably does.”

Chilled, not only because April nights ran cool, she gulped down coffee before walking over to start a fire.

“Medical records,” she continued, “HIPAA. You can’t just Google Hey, who died and came back to life in Heron’s Rest.”

“You did. And this is too fucking close to home.”

“I won’t argue with that. But those taken weren’t trained, weren’t aware.”

Training and awareness hadn’t helped her on that night in November. But, she thought, that was over. This wasn’t.

She saw the wash of headlights. “That’s O’Hara.”

She opened the door as he got out of his car.

Stocky guy of about five-ten, boxer’s build. Around fifty. As he stepped onto the porch, she wondered if the broken nose had happened in the ring or on the job.

As he stepped into the light, ruddy complexion, sharp green eyes, he held out a hand.

“Sergeant.”

“Detective. It’s Sloan,” she added as they shook.

“Frank. Nice spot you have here.” His gaze flicked past her to Nash.

“Thanks. This is Nash Littlefield.”

“Okay. Fix-It Brothers. You did some work for my son and daughter-in-law.”

“Jack and Grace O’Hara? Redoing a catch-all room into a nursery. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. Looking forward to being a grandpa next summer. New business, right? You’re not from around here.”

“I am now, via New York. I can get you coffee, then step out.”

O’Hara studied him another moment. “She doesn’t mind you here, I don’t. I’d sure take the coffee. Strong and black.”

“Have a seat, Frank.” Sloan gestured to a chair near the fire.

“I’ll take that, too.” He sat, sighed once. “Terrance Brown.”

And Sloan shut her eyes.

“You know him?”

“Yes, he’s head chef at the Seabreeze—seafood restaurant on Main Street. I don’t know him very well. I know his girlfriend—fiancée—better. Hallie Reeder. We went to high school together. Ran track together. I’ve run into her a few times since I moved back.”

Nash brought out the coffee, then sat down beside Sloan on the sofa. “I met him, if it matters. We did some updates to the restrooms in the restaurant a few weeks ago. He brought us out some fish tacos. Asked if he could take a couple pictures of us working.”

“Sounds like what we’re learning about him. Likes to cook, likes to feed people, likes to take pictures. That’s how he got struck by lightning last June.”

“He— I didn’t know about that. I would’ve been in Annapolis.”

“Lightning hit the tree he was standing next to.”

“Side flash,” Sloan said. “Not as fatal as a direct hit, but.”

“Ms. Reeder saw it happen, called nine-one-one as she ran out. Did CPR until the ambulance got there. They zapped him. He’d been gone four, maybe five minutes. No memory of the entire day, but otherwise? A lucky son of a bitch. Until tonight.”

“Where did they grab him? The restaurant parking lot?”

“No, and we can figure why. They closed the kitchen up about ten—that’s pretty routine midweek. The witness, that’s Boone Hastings.”

“I know him. I went to school with him. He started working at the Seabreeze when we were in high school.”

“He and most of the kitchen crew left, with Brown. That’s also routine.”

“So they couldn’t take him in the parking lot. They’d have studied the routine and knew that wasn’t viable. Where?”

“Fox Run Road, about three miles from town, on his way home. The witness had a date out that way. He chatted up with some of the other crew for a few minutes after Brown drove off. Then texted the date. His guess is he couldn’t have been more than five minutes behind Brown.”

O’Hara downed some coffee. “He stopped when he saw Brown’s car, figured he’d had a breakdown. But no Brown. Keys in the ignition, phone in the holder. He looked around, called out. Then he called the girlfriend. And she called the cops.”

“Like Celia Russell,” Sloan put in as O’Hara drank more coffee. “The side of a country road, not well traveled. A route occasionally taken. And fast,” she added. “With Boone only minutes behind, they moved very fast.”

“He thinks he saw taillights. He’s shaken, but he’s pretty sure he saw taillights when he slowed down to check out Brown’s car. Son of a bitch.” O’Hara muttered it, rubbed at his tired eyes.

“They had him staked out, no question. His house, the restaurant, anywhere else he went routinely. They take time,” Sloan added. “They plan it out. No signs of struggle? He couldn’t have fought long, not within that time frame.”

“Nothing. You have to figure they staged a breakdown, van off the shoulder, one of them flagging down.”

“A man who makes you fish tacos while you’re changing out sinks won’t drive by a breakdown.” Nash held up a hand. “Sorry.”

“No.” O’Hara nodded. “You’re not wrong. We’re leaning toward a woman to do the flagging down, only her visible.”

“He’d stop for someone having car trouble,” Sloan agreed. “But be less alert with a lone woman than with a couple, or a man. They probably repeated the routine they used with Celia Russell. But for all of them, they’d have to make the grab fast, keep the victim from fighting back, making noise.”

“People tend to shut up if you shove a gun in their face.”

“But do they?” Sloan shifted to Nash. “First instinct, shout, scream, throw your hands up. Beg, bargain, even struggle. They don’t have time for that.

“Janet Anderson, broad daylight,” she continued. “Grocery store parking lot, the day before Thanksgiving. Store’s bound to be busy with people just like her. Shit, I don’t have enough eggs. Damn it, I forgot the evaporated milk. It has to be quick and quiet.”

“We’re thinking they may use a fast-acting sedative. Oh, would you mind helping me—and jab. Before they can react, they’re in the van.”

“Which brings us back to medical personnel, past, present, retired, fired, or working every damn day,” Sloan finished.

“We’ve followed some leads that didn’t pan out. The best we have is the woman in the hotel lot when Tarrington was snatched. And a van that may or may not be white.

“I’ve been working this since February and Tarrington. You putting the bring-back-the-dead angle gave us a pattern. But every time we think we’ve got something hot, it goes cold.”

He polished off his coffee.

“They’re not frigging masterminds, and when we get them, they’re going to turn out to be loonies. But meanwhile, they’ve got Terry Brown.”

“I think they’re in West Virginia, or just this side of the border in Maryland or Pennsylvania.”

O’Hara studied her. “We’ve got focus there. How do you figure?”

“Major hospitals in Morgantown. Some of the victims went to others, but when you see the location patterns of the majority of the grabs, they’d feed into that area.”

“You should show him your wall.”

O’Hara’s brows quirked. “What wall?”

“The wall of my as-yet-unfinished office standing in as a case board.”

“I wouldn’t mind a look.”

“Don’t judge,” she said as she rose. “There’s still a lot of work to be done in the house.”

“He’d be handy with that. You know what scared me most when my kids were kids? ‘Some assembly required.’”

He went with Sloan to the room off the kitchen and stood, hands in pockets, studying her makeshift case board.

“You’re putting in some time.”

“It won’t let go.”

“I hear that. We got a fancier one for the task force, but this does the same thing.”

Nash made them more coffee, then stayed out of the way while they talked.

“You’ve covered ground we’ve covered. From the looks of it, you covered some of it first.”

“And ended up in the same place. Nothing quite solid enough.”

“We’ve got three states involved, but they intersect right there.” He circled his fingers where Maryland, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia met. “Cumberland’s as far east as we’ve tracked them, Uniontown north, Morgantown west. But it’s concentrated, like you said, here.”

He tapped the hospital on the map. “They’re not masterminds,” he repeated. “And if they’re doctors, nurses, EMTs, medical support staff—and I’m with you there—this?” He tapped the hospital again. “This is the big one. Largest staff, patient influx.”

He puffed out his cheeks. “We’re looking, Sloan. Nobody’s rung the bell yet, but we’re looking.”

Shifting his weight, he looked at her. “They don’t hit back-to-back, but they’ve struck in your hometown now. And you fit the vic profile. You watch your back. I want to hear if you get a bad feeling about anything or anyone.”

“I’m watching it. There was a woman,” she began as she walked out of the small room with him. “I can’t claim bad feeling, but more a bothersome one. I’ve seen her around a couple times now, and can’t give you a good description because I could never get a clear view of her face.”

“What’s bothersome?”

“I know I’ve seen her before, but I can’t pin it because I can’t get that clear view. Can’t even give you a solid on her age. About five-four, one-fifty, white, mouse-brown hair. She’s with a man. Black, mid to late thirties, about five-ten, a hundred and sixty, black and brown. Hair in short twists. Body language says they’re a couple.

“I saw them last week, on Main, across from the Seabreeze, dinnertime. Then again on Saturday at the local nursery. Both times I couldn’t see her face, and it felt deliberate. Floppy pink hat, sunglasses, and she turned around too fast when I looked in her direction.”

“Across from the restaurant.”

“Yeah, and I ran into Hallie at the nursery. I didn’t see a white van either time, but it felt off.” She glanced back toward her wall. “It feels more off now.”

“You saw the man. Enough to work with a police artist?”

“Yeah. I think yes. We get a lot of tourists, Frank, you know that. Or people who have second homes in the area and come up for a few days here and there.”

“But it felt off to you.”

“It did.”

“I’m going to have a police artist work with you. You on tomorrow?”

“I am.”

“They’ll come to you. It may be nothing, but.”

Sloan nodded. “What if it isn’t?”

“I’ll be in touch. Thanks for the coffee.”

She walked him out, then turned to Nash. “I’m probably wasting his time and manpower on this woman.”

“He didn’t seem to think so. You’re good at this. I already knew that, but seeing you with O’Hara … You’re sure you don’t want to go back to that? The criminal investigation?”

“I still do some, and I’ve never worked anything like this. And this is—it’s just different for me. And yes, I’m sure. What I’m doing, where I do it, at least primarily? It rings the bell for me. I wouldn’t change it. I just need to see this one closed.”

“You’ll know, when it is, you had part of it.”

“And that’ll be enough. Let’s try to get some sleep. We’re both starting early tomorrow.”

She took his hand. “How about this? I’ll pick up pizza on my way home tomorrow, and we’ll sit out on my new patio, eat, and drink wine.”

“You don’t have any chairs out there.”

“Mom said she saw a couple that would work, and a table. I’m going to tell her to grab them for me. She’ll love doing that, so why not let her?”

“I’m going to have the dog tomorrow night.”

“He can’t have any wine.”