There was every reason, Kendra thought. Between the weird phone call from Jane and now her own guilt feelings about being short with Margaret, she was feeling infinitely frustrated. “Don’t lecture me. I’m trying to cope, but between your conversations with the dog next door and now Jane’s dream, I’m feeling as if I’m in some bizarre nightmare myself. This is not how investigations should be conducted.”
“Yes, Kendra,” Margaret said solemnly.
Kendra shot her a suspicious glance. Dammit, it was clear the girl was trying not to smile. And why not, she thought suddenly. Kendra had sounded like one of the straight-and-narrow FBI agents who had driven her crazy with their insistence on their proper procedures and their blindness to what was so evident to her. She had always been considered different, too.
Different, but she couldn’t embrace this degree of difference.
“It’s okay, Kendra,” Margaret said gently. “I understand. I’ve thrown you off-balance. You’re probably angry at yourself, too. You’re having trouble figuring me into your world as you know it.” She smiled. “And you like me, which makes it harder.”
Kendra did like her. But she didn’t like her seeing that deeply into what she was feeling. “I don’t need you to understand me. You’re making me feel like that German shepherd you were chatting with. What’s her name? Kelly?”
“Carlie.” Margaret chuckled. “And I don’t chat. I told you that it’s only—” Her smile vanished. “Uh-oh.” She was looking toward the house, where she had just caught sight of the young police officer. “Trouble?”
“No,” Kendra said. “Don’t say anything. Let me handle it.”
“Whatever you say,” she murmured. “But he looks very nice and … malleable. I could probably—”
“No,” Kendra said firmly, as they stepped into the illumination of the outdoor lights. She smiled at Officer Rollins. “Margaret Douglas.” She gestured to Margaret. “She’s with me. We’re almost done here.”
The officer nodded. “ID, ma’am?”
“Sure.” Margaret reached into her pocket.
Don’t let her pull out Jane’s ID, Kendra prayed.
Margaret smiled as she handed the officer her passport. “That’s all I have. I’m new here in the U.S. The FBI brought me over here as a consultant.”
“How do you like it here?”
“Some parts are better than others. I love your Colorado.” Her smile widened. “I bet you do, too.”
He glanced down at her passport. “Greatest place in the world.” He handed it back to her. “Welcome to Goldfork.” He turned back to Kendra, his gaze going to the crowbar she had grabbed when she ran out of the shed. “Uh … anything I can help you with?”
“I’m not sure yet. If there is, I’ll call down to you.”
“You’re not going to—You’ll be careful not to disturb anything?”
“Forensics is through with the house, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. But a crowbar is … I guess you know what you’re doing.”
“I do know. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful not to do any permanent damage.”
The officer nodded uncertainly and stood watching as Kendra and Margaret entered through the back door.
Margaret practically ran to keep up with Kendra’s purposeful strides as they made their way across the living room. “He’s wondering what you’re going to do with that crowbar.”
“He certainly was,” Kendra said.
“So … what are you doing with the crowbar?”
“I suspect I’ll be tearing apart a piece of this house.”
“Oh, okay.” Margaret looked around. “Any piece in particular?”
“Yes.” Kendra led Margaret up the staircase and stopped at the landing. She pointed to four decorative wood panels that lined the wall’s lower eighteen inches. “One of those.”
“They’re beautiful. Why?”
“Because Doane recently made at least one of those using that lathe we just saw. The Feds think he may have hidden something here, but they haven’t been able to find it. It would be tough to find if he’d made a hidden panel into the wall, wouldn’t it?”
Margaret crouched in front of the four panels. “They’re all the same.”
“You mean they look the same. The way things look is only part of the story.” Kendra gently ran her fingers over the panels, then stopped when she reached the third one. She moved on to the fourth for a moment, then retreated back. “It’s this one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. The fresh varnish gives it a different texture. The others have hardened for years, but this one is slightly tacky.”
Margaret ran her fingers across the panels. “I can’t feel any difference.”
“Trust me, there is.” Kendra pushed on the various contours of the panel’s carved surface. “It seems a little medieval to think there may be a special catch that opens the secret panel, but Doane obviously had enough skill to pull it off.”
Margaret pressed on the panel. “It could be a combination of things.”
“You’re right. But I don’t want to spend all night here playing with this.”
“Which explains the crowbar.” Margaret smiled. “Would you mind if I took the first swing?”
Kendra studied her. Margaret seemed almost giddy with anticipation. “Uh, sure. Why?”
“Because you promised that nice police officer downstairs that you wouldn’t do any lasting damage with that crowbar. I didn’t promise anything.”
“I could be careful and not destroy it.”
“But that’s not what I want.” Margaret took the crowbar from Kendra’s hand. “I’ve learned what a terrible person Jim Doane must be. He took Eve, and he’s responsible for Jane’s being shot. And then there are all those children … There has to be justice. I want him punished. I want him to suffer.” She looked back at the panel. “And I know how hard he must have worked on this. It would be my pleasure to destroy it.”
“Have you heard of ‘It’s the art, not the artist’?”
“Of course. But I don’t believe it. Any art is an expression of the soul, and if the soul is ugly, I have no use for the art. No matter how beautiful it may appear.”
Kendra gazed at her for a long moment. Before she had only been aware of Margaret as the soft, glowing girl who seemed to radiate sunlight and humor. That was not this woman.
Tough. Very tough.
Kendra stood and gestured toward the wood panel. “In that case, knock yourself out.”
Margaret reared back with the crowbar and swung with all her might.
* * *
HE’D RATHER DIE THAN LIVE in this suburban nightmare, Blick thought.
He was parked down the street from Jim Doane’s home, and there had been an endless parade of minivans and SUVs, each packed with kids bathed in the glow of backseat video monitors. What kind of job would he have if he were one of those SUV-driving dads? Gun salesman? Construction foreman? Cop? All decidedly less lucrative than being a hit man. Yet he might have ended up in a place like this if he hadn’t met Kevin. Kevin had shown him how to live with power and independence. Kevin had taken him under his wing and given him the world to play with.
And they had killed him. Blick felt the tears sting his eyes as they always did when that sorrow and bitterness overcame him.
Forget it. He had a job to do. Though this job was not worthy of a man trained by Kevin. He felt like an overqualified errand boy at the moment. Doane could have called the kid next door to retrieve the package, for all the challenge this was going to present. There were no assault weapons, no attack dogs, no teams of federal agents swarming the place. Just one pathetic local cop passing the time on his mobile phone, probably catching up on Facebook or some moronic game.
Blick climbed out of the car and flipped the switch on the cigarette-pack-sized mobile jamming device tucked into his jacket pocket. He smiled at the cop as he approached the house. “Good evening, Officer.”
The officer glanced up from his phone. “May I help you?”
“I’m Gary Deacon, ATF.” He flashed a badge. “I was supposed to get here this morning, but I got held up. I’ll go inside for a quick look, then—”
“Wait.” The officer squinted at the badge. “Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms? You’re not on my list.”