Vetsch turned and looked up at Tanner. “She’s gone, Briggs.”
“Who?”
“Susanna. She’s gone.”
2
The weather was cooperating, Risto was pleased to see. A good omen.
Given the target’s secluded location, they hadn’t dared risk surveilling it from the ground, having had to instead rely on copied maps, aerial photographs, and blueprints they’d obtained at the Wicomico County Courthouse. This would be their first true glimpse of the house. Now, as the boat glided toward shore, a fog began to settle over the water, obscuring all but the house’s yellow porch light, which seemed to float in the mist.
“Stop here,” Risto whispered.
At the wheel, Grebo eased back on the throttle. The electric trolling motor went silent. The other men waited, watching their leader, who stood staring into the fog. After thirty seconds, one of them whispered, “Risto?”
Risto held up his hand for silence, then cocked his head. The eerie bong of a navigation buoy echoed over the water. In the distance, a dog barked. Then silence. Tendrils of mist swirled over the water.
“Anchor,” Risto ordered. “Quietly.”
One of the men crept to the bow and gently lowered the anchor over the side. As it took hold, the current swung the stern around. Risto grabbed the rail to steady himself, then raised his binoculars, waiting for a gap in the fog. After a few moments, a breeze swept over the water and the fog parted momentarily.
There …
Surrounded by a low flagstone wall, the two-story Cape Cod was situated on five wooded acres at the tip of a peninsula fifteen miles from the center of the bay. The only access points were through the main gate on the landward side, and through a second gate at the head of a boat dock on the north side. On the south side were a swimming pool and a tennis court.
Risto could see light glowing through one of the second-floor dormer windows. As he watched, a man-shaped shadow passed before the curtains then disappeared from view. There you are, he thought. Safe and snug. Not for long.
“It must cost a million dollars,” whispered Boric, the youngest member of the team.
“One point nine,” Risto replied. He felt a fleeting pang of sadness for Boric. The necessities of war, Risto reminded himself. He laid a gentle hand on Boric’s shoulder. “Now be quiet, boy.”
Risto continued scanning with his binoculars until he spotted a lone guard patrolling the eastern wall. There would be three more, he knew. He kept scanning, picking them out one by one, until each guard was accounted for. He watched for another ten minutes, until certain each one’s route was unchanged.
He lowered his binoculars. He was surprised to feel his hands shaking. Calm yourself; you’ve planned well. He turned to the other men. “It’s time.”
Raymond Crohn dearly loved his dog Pumpkin — more so than he’d ever admit to his wife — but the Welsh Corgi could be a true pain. Not only did Pumpkin have a bladder the size of a lima bean, but she was maddeningly fussy about where she did her business. Potty breaks were never a simple matter of opening the door and letting her roam the yard. No, Pumpkin had to be walked. Pumpkin needed to be encouraged.
It was shortly before eleven P.M. when Crohn pulled on his coat, hooked the leash to Pumpkin’s collar, and stepped outside. If he hurried, he might make it back in time to catch the start of the news.
“Come on, Pumpkin,” Crohn called as he started down the driveway. Fog swirled across the road, clinging to the trees and ditches. The treetops swayed and creaked in the wind.
After fifty yards, Pumpkin stopped beside a fern and lifted her leg. “Good girl,” Crohn cooed. “Are we done?”
Pumpkin snorted and kept walking. After another hundred yards Crohn reached the flagstone wall that separated his property from that of his neighbors. Beyond the wall he could see the vague outline of the Cape Cod. Light glowed through one of the upstairs windows.
That’s odd, Crohn thought. He’d never known them to be late-night folks, but rather early risers. Must be catching a movie or something, he reasoned. I wonder what—
From over the wall Crohn heard a moan. Pumpkin stopped in mid-sniff, cocked her head, then let out a low growl and trotted behind Crohn’s legs.
A leaf skittered across the gravel and disappeared into the darkness. There were a few seconds of silence, then another moan. What in god’s name? Crohn thought. Legs trembling, he bent down and picked up a stick off the ground. He crept toward the wall.
“Who’s there?” he called. “Is someone there?”
The bushes rustled. Crohn froze. Pumpkin growled.
“Quiet, Pumpkin.”
Crohn’s heart pounded. He gulped air, took another step. Pumpkin tugged at her leash. Crohn pulled her back, took another step. He drew even with the wall and raised the stick. He peeked over.
“Oh, good God …”
A man lay sprawled beside the hedge. As though sensing Crohn’s presence, the man swiveled his head toward Crohn and rasped, “Help … get help.”
Crohn’s panicked call to 911 was routed to the nearest Wicomico County sheriff’s deputy, who was performing DWI stops outside Catchpenny twelve miles away. Eight minutes after receiving the call, Deputy Jay Meriweather pulled onto the gravel road bordering the flagstone wall. Headlights picked out a man frantically waving one arm as he tried to rein in a dog with the other. Meriweather stopped the car, radioed “on scene” to his dispatcher, then got out. “Sir, did you—”
“He’s there … on the other side of the wall.”
Meriweather glanced at the wall. His hand instinctively went to the butt of his gun. “Calm down, sir, and tell me what the problem is.”
“There’s a man there. He’s hurt. I didn’t … I couldn’t …”
“All right, sir, just stay put.”
Flashlight held before him, Meriweather stepped up to the wall and shined his light on the ground. As Crohn had described, the man lay on his left side in the grass. His face was covered in blood. An embroidered patch on the shoulder of his windbreaker read, “Rhodes Point Security.” Though Meriweather had seen only one gunshot wound before, the ragged hole over the man’s eye was unmistakable.
He grabbed his radio. “Dispatch, Victor Two-nine. I need backup and rescue at my location. Ten thirty-three!”
Meriweather’s call of “Officer needs emergency help” drew every available police unit, from fellow sheriff’s deputies, to nearby local cops, to a Maryland State Trooper on patrol nineteen miles away in Salem. Accidental discharges notwithstanding, gunshot victims were a rarity in this wealthy part of Maryland’s eastern shore.
Once the property was cordoned off and the security guard was bundled into an ambulance, Meriweather and five other cops divided into pairs, then climbed over the wall and began a search of the grounds.
Meriweather was approaching the pool patio when his radio crackled to life: “We’ve got a body — north side by the dock.”
Another calclass="underline" “Here, too. Main gate.”
“Make it four,” came another. “Sidewalk, by the front door.”
Jesus Christ, Meriweather thought. If there’s four out here, how many inside? “All units, find an entry point and stand by. Break: Dispatch, Victor Two-nine. Get me a supervisor out here. Break: All units, enter house.”