We made a U-turn at the junction at the end of the road, came back up the street, and nosed our car into a tree-shaded spot across from where Renfrew had parked his blue BMW next to a black Honda minivan.
It couldn't be a coincidence.
That had to be the van used to abduct Madison Tyler and Paola Ricci.
Chapter 112
I RAN THE VAN'S PLATES on the car computer. I was thinking ahead to a search warrant, impounding the van, fanning a flame of hope that a speck of Paola Ricci's blood could be found inside a seam in the van's upholstery – real evidence to link the Renfrews to the abduction of Paola Ricci and Madison Tyler.
During the next hour, two perimeters were set up: The inner perimeter encircled the gabled house. The outer perimeter sealed off a two-block area around it.
There'd been no activity from the house, making me wonder what was going on inside. Was Renfrew packing? Destroying records?
It was almost four in the afternoon when five black SUVs rolled up the road. They parked on the sidewalk, perpendicular to the front of the gabled house.
Dave Stanford walked up to my car window. He handed me a bullhorn. His ponytail had been clipped to FBI standards, and the humor in his blue eyes was gone. Dave wasn't working undercover anymore.
He said, "We're calling the shots, Lindsay. But since Renfrew knows you, try getting him to come out of the house."
Conklin turned the key in the ignition and we rolled out, crossing the street, coming to a stop in front of the Renfrew driveway. We were blocking in both the van and the BMW.
I took the bullhorn and stood behind my open car door. I called out, "Paul Renfrew, this is Sergeant Boxer. We have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of homicide. Please come out slowly with your hands in the air."
My voice boomed out over the quiet suburban block. Birds took flight, drowning out the flutter of the chopper blades.
Conklin said, "Movement on the second floor."
Every muscle in my body tensed. My eyes flicked across the face of the house. I saw nothing, but my skin prickled. I could feel a gun pointed at me.
I lifted the bullhorn again – pressed the button.
"Mr. Renfrew, this is your last and best chance. There's enough artillery aimed at your house to reduce it to rubble. Don't make us use it."
The front door cracked open. Renfrew appeared in the shadows. He called out, "I'm coming out. Don't shoot! Please, don't shoot!"
I cut a look to my left to see how the FBI response team was reacting. A dozen or more M16 rifles were still aimed at the front door. I knew that on a roof somewhere, maybe a hundred feet away, a sniper had a Remington Model 700 with a high-powered scope trained on Renfrew's forehead.
"Step outside where we can see you," I called to the man in the doorway. "Good decision, Mr. Renfrew," I said. "Now, turn around and back up toward the sound of my voice."
Renfrew was standing under the pediment that defined the entryway to the house. Thirty feet of clipped green lawn stretched between us.
"I can't do that," Renfrew said in a weak, almost pleading voice. "If I go out there, she'll shoot me."
Chapter 113
RENFREW LOOKED FRIGHTENED, and he had reason to be. If he made a wrong move, his life expectancy was something under two seconds.
But he wasn't afraid of us.
"Who wants to shoot you?" I called out.
"My wife, Laura. She's upstairs with a semiautomatic. I can't get her to come out. I think she's going to try to stop me from surrendering."
This was a bad turn. If we wanted to learn what happened to Madison Tyler, we had to keep Paul Renfrew alive.
"Do exactly what I tell you!" I shouted. "Take off your jacket and toss it away from you… Okay. Good. Now turn out your pants pockets."
The mic on my radio was open so that everyone on our channel could hear me.
"Unbuckle your belt, Mr. Renfrew. And drop your trousers."
Renfrew shot me a look, but he obeyed. The pants went down, his shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs.
"Now turn around slowly. Three hundred sixty degrees. Hold up your shirt so I can see your waist," I said as he struggled to comply. "Okay, you can pull up your pants."
He hurried to do so.
"Now I want you to hoist up your pants legs all the way to your knees."
"Nice legs for a guy," Conklin said to me over the roof of the car. "Now let's get him outta here."
I nodded, thinking that if the wife charged downstairs, she could blow Renfrew away through the open door.
I told Renfrew to release his pants legs, come out, and hug the wall of the house.
"If you do what I say, she can't get a bead on you," I said. "Keep both hands on the walls. Make your way around the south corner of the house. Then lie down. Interlace your hands behind your neck."
When Renfrew was on the ground, a black Suburban rolled up onto the lawn. Two FBI agents jumped out and cuffed him, patted him down.
They were folding him into the backseat of their vehicle when I heard glass breaking from the second floor of the gabled house. Oh, shit.
A woman's face appeared at the window.
She had a gun in her hand, and it was pressed against the temple of a little girl whose expression was frozen into a slack-mouthed stare.
The little girl was Madison Tyler.
The woman who held her captive was Tina Langer, aka Laura Renfrew, and she looked like a killer. Her face was furrowed with anger, but I didn't see a trace of fear.
She called out through the window, "The end of the game is the most interesting part, isn't it, Sergeant Boxer? I want safe passage. Oh, I mean safe passage for me and Madison. That helicopter is a good place to start. Someone better give the pilot a ring. Get him to land on the lawn. Do it now. Right now.
"Oh, by the way… if anyone makes a move toward me, I'll shoot this little -"
I saw the black hole appear in her forehead before I heard the echoing crack of the Remington's report from the rooftop across the street.
Madison screamed as the woman calling herself Laura Renfrew stood framed in the window.
She released the little girl as she fell.
Chapter 114
WAS MADISON TYLER ALL RIGHT? That's all I was thinking as Conklin and I burst into the front bedroom, second floor. We didn't see the girl anywhere, though.
"Madison?" I called out, my voice high.
A single unmade bed was against the wall adjacent to the door. An open suitcase was on the bed, with girls' clothing tossed inside.
"Where are you, honey?" Rich Conklin called out as we approached the closet. "We're the police."
We reached the closet at the same time. "Madison, it's okay, sweetie," I said, turning the knob. "Nobody's going to hurt you."
I opened the door, saw a pile of clothing on the floor of the closet, moving in time with someone's breathing.
I stooped down, still afraid of what I might see. "Maddy," I said, "my name is Lindsay and I'm a policewoman. I'm here to take you home."
I nudged aside the pile of clothing on the closet floor until I finally saw the little girl. She was whimpering softly, hugging herself, rocking with her eyes closed.
Oh, God, thank you. It was Madison.
"It's okay, sweetheart," I said, my voice quavering. "Everything is going to be okay."
Madison opened her eyes, and I reached out my arms to her. She flung herself against me, and I held her tightly, putting my cheek to her hair.
I unclipped my cell phone and dialed a number I'd committed to memory. My hands were shaking so hard I had to try the number again.
My call was answered on the second ring.
"Mrs. Tyler, this is Lindsay Boxer. I'm with Inspector Conklin, and we have Madison." I put the phone up to Madison's face, and I whispered, "Say something to your mom."