I dropped the scissors on the bed. Victoria sat up, shaking out her hands. Then she cut my bindings, as well as the ones around her ankles.
We stood side by side, two women armed with one pair of scissors in a darkened master bedroom.
“Evan,” she said.
I heard him, still muttering gibberish down the hall. Then I glanced at the bedside clock. Three minutes left, give or take.
“Evan can’t help us,” I told her.
“He can’t help me,” Victoria agreed. Then, after a heartbeat of silence: “But I think he can help you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I remember a story Michael and I once saw on the news: Two men in ski masks had broken into an upscale Boston townhouse and killed the entire family before fleeing with a jewelry box. Evan was nine months old at the time. As a new mom, I was appalled by the violence, shaken by the ruthless unfairness of it.
Michael had turned to me during the commercial break. “Anything happens in our house,” he said, “you get Evan and get out. Don’t worry about me. Save Evan.”
So here I am, under siege in my own home, and the stranger I just met is going to find my son, while I search for Michael.
Time is ticking, and I don’t see where we have many options. Andrew wasn’t lying to Danielle-my house is a fortress, every detail designed to contain a troubled child.
The phones are dead, the electricity out. I have no idea what happened to my cell phone, and my laptop is downstairs in the family room. We’re isolated, and according to Danielle, Andrew has a gun.
He’ll start shooting soon, I know that, and I can’t leave Michael to be his first target. I need him. He may be a pretty suit these days, but Michael grew up hard. He can take a punch and deliver in kind. He might be a match for Andrew, at least more of a match than two women and an eight-year-old boy.
Danielle heads for Evan’s room. I scoot toward the staircase, scissors clenched like a weapon in my fist.
I can’t hear Andrew anymore. No voice booming down the hall. The silence is unnerving. What’s Andrew doing? Where is he hiding? What’s he plotting next?
My hands are trembling. I want to stop, huddle like a small animal caught in the open by a bird of prey.
I won’t do it. My house, my child, my ex-husband. I started this mess. I’ll finish it.
Here’s the home court advantage-I have spent years learning how to navigate these stairs so that I won’t wake Evan in the middle of the night. I know each squeaky step, each groaning floorboard. Unfortunately, my stab wound isn’t doing so well. I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding, and beneath the ache I feel an itchy burn. Infection, most likely. I grit my teeth, picture my family, and push forward.
I hit the bottom step and pause to get my bearings. Daybreak lightens the glass panes beside the door. I can just make out each corner of the foyer, the empty space behind the ficus tree, the yawning archway leading toward the kitchen. No Andrew. I slip away from the stairs, hugging the wall for support, heartbeat quickening.
I hear a groan from the living room. Michael. I want to rush to his side. I force myself to take small, measured steps, listening carefully. The silence terrifies me.
Then I hear rustling from down the hall. Maybe from the downstairs lavette, maybe the front study. I dart into the family room, ducking beside the entertainment center. From here, I can see the sofa. Michael is sprawled on the floor in front of it. His wrists and ankles are bound. His head is moving fitfully, as if he’s struggling to wake from a nightmare.
For one second, I’m tempted to leave him. He’s better off unconscious, not knowing what’s happening to his wife and child, never seeing the bullet coming.
A glow appears in the hallway. Flashlight, coming toward the living room, on course to pass directly by me.
I bolt, racing to the other side of the entertainment unit, where I cover myself with the curtains. One of Evan’s favorite hiding spaces.
“Danny boy,” Andrew is crooning as he appears in the living room. “Oh Danny boy.”
He stops, studying Michael’s prone body on the floor. When Michael doesn’t move, Andrew continues on to the foyer. “Time’s up,” he calls out. “Know where the gun is yet, Danielle? Because I do.”
Andrew starts to climb the stairs, carrying something down by his right leg. A knife, I realize. A very large butcher knife.
And he’s heading straight for my child.
I rush into the living room, collapse on my knees beside my husband, and quickly cut the zip ties. He moans again. I kiss him once. A foolish notion from a foolish woman still learning to let go. Then I slap him, hard.
“Dammit, Michael, wake up. Our son needs you.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“Victoria’s not here,” Greg reported ten minutes later, gasping slightly from his run around the hospital. Alex was three beats behind the MC and breathing harder.
“Nurse says Victoria must have left her room shortly after midnight,” he filled in. “They haven’t seen her since.”
“A woman who was stabbed disappeared from her room and they did nothing about it?”
“The nurse found the hospital gown on a chair, and noticed that the fresh set of clothes brought by Victoria’s ex-husband was gone. She assumed Victoria checked herself out against doctor’s orders. They put in a call to her ex, who I guess was handling everything, but they haven’t heard back from him yet.”
“Her ex was here?”
Alex nodded. “Michael dropped off some stuff, spoke with the doctors, yeah.”
D.D. scowled, turned instinctively back to the nearest bush, which was now filled with five hyperactive boys. Another MC-Ed-had come over to assist. It was possible that D.D. wasn’t prepared to handle three crazy boys. It was possible no one was prepared to handle these three boys.
“So Evan, his mother, Danielle, and Andrew have all disappeared from this hospital in the past two hours,” D.D. summarized. “Did you speak to the attendants who took Andrew to the emergency room?”
“Victor and Noam,” Greg said. “They said Lightfoot’s condition appeared to stabilize in the elevator. They got him to the ER, left him for just a second to file paperwork. When the nurse appeared with the first dose of medication, Lightfoot was gone. Hospital security was notified, but hasn’t spotted him.”
“Hospital security,” D.D. mused, then perked up. “Security cameras. We’re going to need access to them.”
Alex nodded, but glanced pointedly at his watch. Viewing security footage could be arranged, but would take hours to execute. And in the meantime…
“It’s a reenactment,” Alex told them. “Andrew’s going family by family, following some agenda only he understands. Assuming he’s abducted Evan and Evan’s mother, he will look to staging next.”
“The boat?” D.D. wondered. “Very private.”
“Not the right feel. It needs to be domestic.”
“His house?” That didn’t sound right to her. Lightfoot’s house was an architectural marvel, not a suburban daydream.
“Why not the Olivers’ house?” Greg suggested. “Evan and his mom live in Cambridge, no more than ten, fifteen minutes from here. Andrew would know where it is; he worked for them.”
“Shit. You and me,” D.D. said to Alex, “to Evan’s house. I’ll call for backup along the way.”
She and Alex took a step forward. Greg caught her shoulder.
“I want to go,” he started, then waved to the screaming kids behind him. “Obviously, I can’t. But you’ll find Danielle, right? You’ll keep her safe. Return her to us. She’s… she’s special to me.”
“Give me an hour or two,” D.D. said with forced optimism, “and hopefully you can tell her that yourself.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE