When flames had been visible in the front window and smoke had breached the interior, Shaw decided that whatever cover there was would have to be enough. “Go,” he whispered.
Shaw went last in case one of them panicked and froze. Hannah first. Then Parker. Once outside, they had crawled through the grass until they were well into the woods, where they now lay.
He saw the Transit, not far away — parked on a logging trail Shaw hadn’t known about. Could he use the van in any way? Twenty percent yes, eighty percent he’d be spotted. Not worth it.
Parker now whispered, “They... They were trying to burn us to death. Why?”
Shaw had no answer to that. The Twins had the opportunity to shoot the three of them, which would at least be merciful. Merritt probably hadn’t wished that level of excruciating pain on them, though he couldn’t be sure. He had undoubtedly tortured Parker’s lawyer to find out where they were headed before he killed the man. And he would have known about the torture of Frank Villaine.
“It was your home,” Hannah said, looking at his stoic face. “It’s gone.”
True. But the vehicle was now a thing of the past.
Never let sentiment affect your decisions...
Parker asked, “We wait for the fire department? We can’t call, but somebody probably saw the smoke.”
Hannah said, “They might not come. Remember we saw those farmers burning the fields.”
Shaw: “And when they don’t find our bodies, those two’ll start searching. We leave.” He glanced up a path that led through the dense green and brown and gray woods, crowned by dark oaks and dotted with pine, brilliant green in the places were the sun lay upon them.
Thinking of what the Marshall County deputy, Kristi Donahue, had told him about this part of the state, he asked, “How far is Millton?”
Parker considered. “Ten miles, I’d guess. North. Whichever way that is.”
Shaw pointed. “We’ll head there. Get to a phone. I think we can trust those police. They won’t have any connection to Ferrington PD. I have a friend, former FBI. I’ll call him too.”
Parker said, “The highway we were on? Route Eighty-four? It leads right there. We can follow that. Maybe we could get a ride. At least we can use somebody’s phone.”
It was Hannah who said what Shaw was thinking: “I think we have to stay in the woods. They’ll expect us to hitch.” She sighed and her lips were tight as she said, “And when he gets here they’ll have two cars to search for us.”
The singular third-person pronoun was uttered with a punch of disgust. Jon Merritt was no longer “Dad” to her.
68
No one was answering.
Sonja Nilsson — the former first lieutenant and decorated sniper born Beatrice Anne Gould — was walking from her rental car to Ferrington police headquarters on Abbott Street.
Colter Shaw wasn’t answering. And Frank Villaine wasn’t answering. Allison Parker had sent one email to her mother but was no longer responding to Ruth’s, Marty’s or Nilsson’s own.
The woman was so damn paranoid that she wouldn’t even tell her mother where she was.
At the front desk, Nilsson asked for Dunfry Kemp, and was told he was presently unavailable.
In her best military voice she said, “If you could tell him I’m head of security at Harmon Energy.”
Four minutes later she was being ushered into one of the most cluttered offices she’d ever seen. The huge officer — a bodybuilder, maybe — was more than a little rumpled himself. How long without sleep? She bet twenty, twenty-two hours. She had much experience with the condition herself and could assess it in others.
“Detective. Sonja Nilsson.”
“Wait. You’re the lady who was almost blown up.”
She had called the sunburned detective from the scene of the blast about the forensic analysis of the explosives. He’d reported they weren’t ready yet. But he’d send them when they were. He absolutely would.
ASAP...
“I’m not here about that. You’ve been working with Colter Shaw on the Allison Parker disappearance.”
“Yes, that’s right. We have been. Sure have.” His eyes went to a stack of folders, as if asking, where did those come from?
“Mr. Shaw’s found her.”
Relief edged into his face. “So all is good.”
“No, not good,” she said. “They’ve vanished again. They were in Marshall County but went north. The last we knew they were right near the border, so we think they’re in Everett now. I want to get some deputies involved, looking for them. Will you help me with that?”
Never say: I hope you can help. Never ask: Can you help? Always hit them with a direct question: Will you? No way to wiggle out. Either agree or refuse.
She could have phoned Kemp, of course, but Sonja Nilsson had learned an in-person visit by a six-foot blonde, built like the soldier that she’d been, fixing the subject with her piercing green eyes, usually got better results.
“Fact is... I’m pretty busy here.”
She just looked at him. This technique worked too.
Kemp’s expression finally limped to: I guess. He picked up the phone. He wasn’t disgruntled, she sensed, he wasn’t irritated or resentful. He was just damn tired.
Welcome to the club.
Was it good for you?
Thinking of Colter Shaw.
Thinking of the kiss.
She forced herself to put that memory aside. Not easy.
As he was bounced around, telephonically, from one office of the Everett County Sheriff’s Department to another, Nilsson looked around the office. How many cases was he juggling? Dozens, at least. She noted a memo about the Street Cleaner, a briefing from last year. Was the poor detective on that one too? After all this time, it fell into the category of cold case, the hardest to solve.
The detective turned back to her, hand over the mouthpiece of the landline. “I’ve got a Corporal Shepherd on the line.”
She held her hand out and took the phone. Nilsson identified herself and explained briefly about the situation: A former cop had been released from prison after a domestic battery and was pursuing his wife. Two men were helping him. There’s already one homicide. The wife and daughter and a couple of others with them have disappeared. “And we’re dark on coms.”
“Ah. I see.”
She’d used the military expression, thinking he might be a vet himself; many sheriff’s deputies were. His reaction suggested this was the case, and therefore more inclined to help her.
“The latest is they probably crossed into your county in the last few hours. Probably on Fifty-five or Eighty-four, maybe a smaller road. Any cameras up that way?”
“None of ours. Maybe a town or two have one for speeding. We’re not linked into that. Let me ask, Miss Nilsson, what’s Ferrington PD doing, or Trevor County? Or Marshall?”
“You know how it is, fugitives out of their jurisdiction. Not that motivated. And they’re slammed to start. Will you get it out and free up a car to search?”
“Give me the particulars.”
“You’re looking for a Winnebago camper, beige and brown. A silver Mercedes SUV and a gold Kia.” She gave him the tags for the first two. She had none for Allison’s rental. “The suspects’re in a white Ford Transit. No known tag number. And they’re armed.”
“This’s a kettle of fish,” he said, sighing. “I’ll send it out on the wire. Now, as for a cruiser, I can assign one, but we’re a big county. Can you narrow it down?”
“Hold on.”
There was a map of this quadrant of the state on Kemp’s wall, partially obscured by folders. To the detective she said, “I’m moving these.” She gave him the phone and then removed the folders and set them on the floor.