A Blood Thing Page 30

  That red piece of yarn running from the photo of the Kane family house to the note containing the GPS coordinates of the location where he had intended to bury Tyler’s body . . . that had to be changed. And that blue yarn, that was wrong now, too. And that list of bullet points, that had to be moved.

  His hands were shaking again.

  He leaned forward and pulled the thumbtack holding one end of the red yarn. When he removed it, the other end slipped from the tack securing it to the wall.

  Damn it.

  He tried to tack that other end in place again, but a photograph of Molly Kane walking across the University of Vermont campus slipped from under a piece of tape and began to fall. Pickman shot his hand out to stop it but missed, accidentally tearing two pieces of paper and a length of purple yarn from the wall. He watched the yarn drop and the photo and papers flutter to the floor.

  Damn it all.

  This section of the mosaic was a mess now. And the one next to it . . . that was wrong now, too. There should be yellow yarn from the picture of Andrew’s house to . . . wait, should it go to the prison or the courthouse? He suddenly couldn’t remember.

  And was the photo of Henry supposed to be there next to the list of phone numbers? Sure, that made sense before, but with things as they were now . . .

  Nothing looked right to him any longer.

  He could feel his pulse in his head.

  Too many things were different. They had to be changed. He had to adjust them. He had to fix it all. He couldn’t stand for anything to be wrong.

  But as he worked, his hands shook. His fingers were clumsy. He tore one photograph by accident and had to tape it back together. For everything he tacked or taped into place, something else fell. When he tried to put those items back, he couldn’t remember where they were supposed to be.

  This red yarn doesn’t go here. In fact, it doesn’t even belong any longer. He tore it from the wall.

  And this picture? He suddenly couldn’t even remember adding it in the first place. He crumpled it into a ball and tossed it behind him.

  That list? It goes there . . . no, wait . . . there. No . . .

  He ripped it in two.

  He grabbed two fistfuls of colorful yarn and gave them a sharp yank, sending thumbtacks flying.

  With fingers like claws, he swiped at the photos . . .

  and the lists . . .

  and the news clippings . . .

  and the sticky notes . . .

  and the summaries . . .

  until nothing was left on the wall but torn corners of paper held by tape, and thumbtacks securing nothing.

  He dropped into his desk chair and let his head fall to his chest. As he did, his eye fell on a torn photograph on the floor, one he’d copied off the Internet. There were only two goals left to accomplish. Gabriel Torrance was working on one. The person in that photograph was the other. It could still be done.

  He closed his eyes and thought . . .

  . . . and realized that if he acted before Tyler Kane was captured by the police, he could accomplish this penultimate objective. He had to move quickly, though, because Tyler would certainly be caught, and before too much time passed. He wasn’t smart enough to remain at large for long. And when he was captured, he would, of course, spout a thoroughly unbelievable and self-serving story about a mysterious killer dressed all in white who’d killed Julie Davenport tonight, and even killed Sally Graham weeks ago. Meanwhile, Tyler’s hands were covered in Davenport’s blood, and his prints were all over the house. Moreover, he’d packed a bag, cut off his ankle monitor, and gone on the run, something an innocent man would be unlikely to do. No one would believe his story but for his siblings, and it was far, far too late for them to credibly corroborate his story. They’d all come off as liars.

  But nonetheless, the plan required that Tyler remain at large long enough for Pickman to complete this nearly final task.

  So it would be a race against time. Suddenly, to his surprise, he found the uncertainty he was facing just a little bit thrilling. A little exciting.

  With renewed drive, he turned to his computer, opened his email program, then composed a message titled, “It ends tonight.” When the email was ready, he jabbed the “Send” button, then sprang from the chair and quickly packed everything he would need into his large duffel bag. He left his bible on his desk and hustled out of his war room, ready for the final assault.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Henry was making good time getting to the home of Grady Austin, Kevin’s father. On the way, he finally revealed to Egan most of what he’d been holding back—not everything, of course, no way, but damn near most of it: the black cell phone, the threats, Tyler being framed for Sally Graham’s murder, the pardon of Gabriel Torrance, the circumstances leading up to Henry taking the bag of evidence from the parking lot behind the nail salon, and the pardon of Kyle Lewis. He left out Molly’s part in the negotiation of Torrance’s release, though. He didn’t see the need to drag her into the story.

  For his part, Egan looked skeptical as hell, but he also seemed to realize that Henry’s behavior, and that of the governor, seemed to support the story. Still, he wasn’t yet anywhere close to believing it.

  They had almost reached Austin’s house when Andrew called with the tragic news that Julie was dead and Tyler was gone. Both were like mule kicks to Henry’s chest.

  Damn it. That son of a bitch.

  Julie was so young . . . and always so good to Tyler . . .

  And Tyler? Missing? His little brother out there, by himself, trying to stay—

  “We have to find him before the cops do, Henry,” Andrew said, cutting through his tangle of thoughts. “He might do something desperate, make the wrong move, which could be dangerous for him with the cops thinking they’re dealing with a double murderer.”

  Henry desperately wanted to change course and look for his little brother, but he couldn’t. Not now.

  “I’m following a lead,” Henry said. “I could be wrong, Andy, but I may know who’s behind all of this. If I’m right, hopefully we can end this before Tyler gets hurt. I’ll call you soon.”

  He slipped his phone back into his pocket and, reluctantly, told Egan about Tyler’s disappearance.

  “He was in the house alone with this Julie Davenport?” Egan said. “Now the woman is dead, and Tyler is gone?”

  “I know how it sounds, Egan, but it fits with everything I told you. The anonymous voice on the phone is behind all this. The question now is whether that voice belongs to Grady Austin.”

  Henry could see that, in Egan’s mind, there were plenty more questions, but he kept them to himself.

  Five minutes later, they arrived at Grady Austin’s house, a small ranch squatting on a lawn that, even in the dim moonlight, Henry could see was more dandelion than grass. A battered old Chevy Malibu sat parked in an uneven, cracked driveway. Despite it being close to midnight, there were lights on somewhere in the house; their glow was visible through the windows of the dark rooms at the front. The fact that Austin lived alone—if Egan was correct about that—likely meant either that he had left lights burning when he’d gone out to commit mayhem, or he was still home. The latter possibility, if it turned out to be the case, would be problematic for Henry’s theory. But if it was the former, perhaps they would find something that would lead them to Austin, wherever he was, and stop him from doing any more harm. They might even find evidence that would clear Tyler, though the blackmailer had said he’d destroyed the video. Still, they might get lucky.

  Of course, for that to happen they’d have to figure a way to get inside and look around that wouldn’t betray their having done so; otherwise, they would risk seeing everything that would be found in a later search being thrown out as illegally obtained without a search warrant. Henry worried that Egan would balk at illegal entry. Then again, the guy wasn’t above taking bribes, so maybe it wouldn’t be too tough a sell.

  “I have to report in,” Egan said. “Tell the
m where I am.”

  When Egan was finished, Henry reached under his seat, removed a metal box, and unlocked it with a key on his key ring. Inside was an unregistered .45 he’d taken off a guy he’d busted years ago. Henry had thought the gun might come in handy one day, and the guy, being a convicted felon, had been more than happy to trade the weapon for Henry’s willingness to pretend the ex-con hadn’t been carrying it, which would have added time to whatever sentence he was facing for the car theft. Henry had a very small collection of guns he’d acquired in the same manner over the years. When he’d started in Internal Affairs, he’d decided he should probably get rid of them, but for some reason, he’d never quite gotten around to it.

  “No way, Kane,” Egan said when he saw the gun.

  “If Grady Austin is what I think he is, you’re gonna want the guy who’s watching your back to be armed.”

  Egan sighed in resignation and got out of the car.

  Quickly and quietly, they made their way through the weed-choked lawn, up to one of the dark windows, through which a little light from inside was bleeding out into the night. They took positions on either side, Henry on the left, Egan on the right. Slowly, they leaned over and looked into a dark, empty living room.

  “If he’s there, he’s toward the back,” Egan whispered. “Why don’t you go around and watch the rear of the house while I knock on the front door?”

  Henry was too quick. He walked up to the front door. “You go around back,” he said quietly. “Hurry, or you might miss him.”

  “Damn it, Kane.”

  It wouldn’t take long for Egan to run around the building, so before the man could argue, Henry rang the bell, then banged on the door and called, “Mr. Austin, it’s the police. Please open the door. We have officers at every exit.” Or we will if Egan moves his ass. Henry watched him sprint around the corner of the house.

  He waited. Nothing. He banged his fist on the door again.

  “Mr. Austin? It’s the police. If you don’t open this door in five seconds, we’re going to break it down.”

  That wasn’t true, of course, but Austin wouldn’t know that.

  He was about to bang on the door again when he heard movement on the other side. He quickly moved back to the window to watch Austin walk to the front door. A moment later, a light clicked on in the small foyer, and a moment after that a man appeared, walking toward the front door. Henry’s heart sank. Grady Austin wasn’t their blackmailer.

  Henry moved back to the front door as it was opening. Standing in the foyer, leaning on a cane on which Henry had seen him rely heavily during his trek through the house, was Grady Austin. When he saw Henry, his eyes registered mild surprise, followed by resignation. Henry was reminded of the way Alex Rafferty had greeted him at his door, as though he’d hoped the cops wouldn’t come knocking but wasn’t surprised when they did.

  Before Henry could utter a word, Austin said, “You weren’t supposed to find me, Lieutenant Kane. You weren’t supposed to connect any of this to me. But I knew you would eventually.” He sighed. “You might as well come in. Or should I just go with you?”

  A moment ago, on seeing Austin’s profound limp—which Henry was sure he didn’t have eight years ago—Henry had felt defeated, certain that they had the wrong guy. But now, maybe . . .

  “Egan,” he called loudly enough to be heard on the other side of the small house, “get back here and come inside.”

  He followed Austin into the house and left the door open for his temporary partner, whom he had coerced into helping—hell, whom he had arguably kidnapped. If by some miracle this all came out okay, he owed the man a beer.

  Austin led him through the foyer, down a dimly lit hall, and into a kitchen with avocado-colored appliances and a mustard-colored linoleum floor. As they sat at the table and waited for Egan to join them, Henry studied Austin, on whom he hadn’t laid eyes since the man’s son went to prison for Dave Bingham’s murder. Egan had said Austin was sixty-eight now, but he looked fifteen years older, his face deeply lined and the wispy, grizzled hair he had left poking out from his head in a variety of directions. He wasn’t quite rail-thin, but he wasn’t much thicker. With his limp, and how hard he had apparently aged, he looked broken.

  Which wasn’t surprising, considering that Henry had utterly destroyed the man’s life years ago.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  When Andrew arrived at the Kane family house, the place was a hive of activity. In the driveway was a van belonging to the Vermont State Police Crime Scene Search Team. On the street out front were two Manchester Police cruisers and a black sedan that most likely belonged to VSP detectives. Parked behind the sedan was Molly’s Land Rover.

  Rather than enter the driveway as he always did when coming here, Andrew parked his car behind one of the cruisers. The SUV containing the trooper assigned to his security detail tonight pulled up behind Andrew’s vehicle. Andrew walked over to the driver’s side of the SUV as the trooper at the wheel was starting to get out.

  “Just hang here, okay, Mike?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Andrew turned toward the house and wondered where Molly was. Had they let her inside? It seemed unlikely. It was a crime scene. He heard Molly call his name and turned to see her standing with a man holding a small notebook. A detective, no doubt. Andrew walked quickly over to them across the low-cut grass of the lawn.

  “I’m Andrew Kane,” he said to the man, extending his hand out of habit. The man shook it and introduced himself as Detective Ramsey. “Ramsey,” Andrew repeated. “You’re the detective who arrested Tyler, right?”

  “One of them, sir. And I hope you know I was just doing my job.”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Just like I have to do tonight,” Ramsey said.

  “Of course. Any sign of Tyler yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  Andrew’s heart sank. He had hoped that by the time he arrived here, they would have found Tyler and brought him in unharmed. Instead . . . who knew where the hell he was?

  “I’m sorry about all this, though,” Ramsey added. “About your brother. About . . . well, the things that happened here tonight. It can’t be easy for any of you.”

  He actually seemed sincere, which was unusual given that an event like this, one that seemed to cement his suspect’s guilt, was good news for the investigating detective, even though it was bad news for the suspect and his loved ones.

  “I was just asking Ms. Kane here a few questions. We’re about finished, and if you’re gonna be around for a little while, sir, I’d like to ask you some, too.”

  “That’d be fine.”

  “I just have to check in with my partner inside for a minute, if that’s all right.”

  Andrew nodded.

  Ramsey said to Molly, “Ms. Kane, I think that’s it for now. There will be more questions, of course. A lot more, I’m afraid. But not at the moment. Let me repeat what I told you just before your . . . uh, before the governor showed up, so you can both hear it together. If you think of anything that can help us find Tyler, let us know right away. It’s dangerous for him to be out there. Cops get anxious when a suspected murderer is running around.”

  Molly said, “He’s not—”

  Ramsey held up a hand, silencing her. “And if either of you hears from him, please tell him to turn himself in. No one wants to see him get hurt.”

  “No,” Molly said, “you just want to lock him away for the rest of his life.”

  “Thanks for your cooperation,” Ramsey said as he turned to walk away. He stopped, though, when Molly said, “Tyler’s innocent, Detective.”

  He took a moment before answering. “I don’t want to be rude, Ms. Kane, because despite what your brother Henry probably thinks of me, I know this is a tough time for you and your family, so I’ll just say that I respect your loyalty to Tyler.”

  He walked off toward the house, leaving Andrew alone with Molly. The second he was gone, Molly reached out a hand and rested it o
n Andrew’s shoulder, which spoke volumes about the toll this was taking on her. She looked vulnerable and fragile, something he wasn’t used to from her. Despite his paternalistic and usually misguided instinct to protect her, he’d long ago come to believe that she was the toughest of them all. Over the years, he had watched her care for Tyler more deeply than anyone ever had, including even, in Andrew’s estimation, their mother, who had loved them all dearly. But Molly’s bond with Tyler was special. She had been his twin and his best friend their entire lives, and after their mother passed away, she was a maternal figure to him, too. And now he was gone, and neither she nor Andrew knew where he was, or how scared he might be, or if he was safe for the moment wherever he was. To be honest, they couldn’t be sure he was even still alive, a fact Andrew refused to contemplate. He didn’t want to imagine, for even a moment, a world without his baby brother in it.

  He reached up, put his hand on top of Molly’s, and gave it a quick squeeze, then said, “Hang on,” before hurrying off after Ramsey.

  “Detective,” he called.

  Ramsey had almost made it to the front door. He stopped and turned.

  “Yes, Governor?”

  “You said something about my brother Henry not thinking much of you. But the truth is, he told me that he asked around about you, back when all of this started.”

  “I guess I’m not surprised.”

  “And he’d probably shoot me for telling you this, but he said that everyone told him the same thing about you: that you’re good at your job.” If Ramsey was surprised to hear that Henry had said that, he didn’t show it. “The word he kept hearing was solid.”

  “I appreciate your letting me know that, sir.”

  “Henry also told me the way he thinks it probably went down with the search warrant, the way you got Tyler to say just enough to get what you needed. And he understood it. As do I. Henry said he did it like that himself once or twice back in the day. And as a former prosecutor, I’ve defended the tactic a few times.”

  Ramsey didn’t seem to know what to say, so he just nodded, waiting for more.