Were the two names some sort of code? Again she recalled Ben’s comment about being some sort of undercover cop.
She checked the call log. Eight calls, all from Judas. She wondered if Judas was Mr Hawaiian Shirt, the man who had driven Ben and the suited man to Belham in the BMW. She suspected he hadn’t been caught by the police. The news hadn’t reported anything. She had checked the TV and radio.
She removed the battery. No way to track the mobile signal now.
A heavy rain broke out, drilling the streets and parked cars. She started running.
When she reached Ashmont, she looked at the building directly across the street from the Reynolds home. Most windows were dark but she spotted several glowing with light. She didn’t see any shadows moving behind the glass.
Now a final glance around the street. All clear. She fished Ben’s fancy Tiffany key ring from her pocket as she moved up the front steps and opened the aluminium door.
She tried the first key. It didn’t unlock either deadbolt. She tried the next one and the next as the rain slapped her head and shoulders, water dripping over the brim of her hat.
Come on. One of these keys has to –
The first deadbolt clicked back. She tried the same key in the second one and heard it unlock.
The key didn’t work on the doorknob, but the one next to it did.
Jamie unzipped her jacket and stepped inside the tiny foyer. The hot air trapped between the closed windows reminded her of her grandmother’s house: a small, neat home with air smelling of steamed Brussels sprouts, air that no matter what the time of year smelled of sickness and death.
No one came running. From her pocket she removed a facecloth and quickly wiped down the areas she had touched with her bare hands. Then she put on a pair of latex gloves, eased the door shut and locked it. Time to make a quick survey of the house.
Jamie removed the Glock, comforted by the feel of it in her hand, and moved up the worn burgundy runner to the first floor.
Hands down, the Reynolds woman had the world’s ugliest bathroom. Pink ceramic tiles ran halfway up the walls and covered the floor; there was a shower stall of cracked grout black from mould; the rusted vanity had a mirror covered with water spots.
The empty bedroom down the hall had bare white walls with scratches and nail holes that hadn’t been patched. Cobwebs in the corners. Dull-blue carpeting worn thin, burn marks from dropped cigarettes. She checked the tiny closet. Empty.
Six quick steps across the hall and she stepped into a second bedroom. Same white walls, same shitty carpet. No closet. She headed downstairs.
The kitchen had been decorated back in the late sixties or early seventies by someone who was clearly colour blind. The chocolate-brown wallpaper, faded in spots from the sun, clashed oh-so-beautifully with the mustard-coloured cupboards and the orange-and-black chequered linoleum floor. The rips and tears in the wallpaper had been mended with glue, and the squares of scuffed linoleum that had started to bubble and peel had been nailed or tacked down.
Attached to the kitchen was a small, square-shaped living room full of boxes sitting on emerald-green carpeting – some open, some still taped shut. A brown three-seater sofa and a matching loveseat and chair had been pushed into the corner of the room.
The storm had not let up; the sound of the rain drilling against the windows and roof echoed throughout the room. She found the phone, a small black cordless model with a digital answering machine, sitting on top of three stacked boxes leaning against a dark yellow wall between two windows.
The ANSWER button was turned off. She pressed the PLAY button. A mechanical voice said ‘no new messages’. She kept her finger on the button. Beep and then a voice exploded from the speaker: ‘Kevin, Carla Dempsey from down the way.’ Extra-thick Boston accent, the deep and husky voice cured from a lifetime’s addiction to Marlboros that probably started right after the woman popped from the womb. ‘I saw you packin’ up and everything and swung by to give you my condolences about your ma but the door was locked. That woman was a sweetheart, God rest her soul. Take care.’
A slight pause and then the machine added, ‘Tuesday, two thirty-three p.m.’
Beep.
No more messages. She walked back into the kitchen.
Marking pens, rolls of packing tape and bubble-wrap sat on a circular maple table. The worktops and cupboards were bare. The mahogany-stained door in the back of the kitchen opened to a dark stairwell leading to the basement. It took her a moment to find the light switch.
The cellar was cool and damp and smelled of mildew and something else… something rotten. The basement was also surprisingly large, lit by a single bulb hanging above the washer and dryer. The flooring around the stairs was concrete but the back half, the part past the stairs, was dirt. A shovel rested against a handful of small cardboard liquor boxes stacked on the floor in front of the dusty pieces of an old oak bedroom set.
Facing her was an unbelievably tall antique armoire with a red lacquered finish and gold-leaf accents. The clawed feet had sunk into the dirt and the armoire leaned slightly to the left. The top part of the armoire, carved into wings, nearly touched the ceiling. Behind the armoire, Jamie found a half-unearthed grave full of bones.
19
Jamie’s eyes shifted away from the grave to a cardboard liquor box. Her scalp tightened and a prickling sensation shot its way across her damp skin as she stared at a collection of human bones stained brown from their long time buried in the soil. Several of the longer bones had been snapped in half so they’d fit inside the box.
Among the bones were two human skulls. One with long hair was wrapped inside a plastic bag.
The upstairs door opened. Heavy footsteps thumped across the floorboards directly above her head. The door shut and another pair of footsteps followed.
Two people. Two people were inside the house and one of them was walking across the kitchen – the basement door was open, the light on.
She couldn’t hide behind the armoire. There was a foot-long space between the floor and the bottom of the armoire. When they came downstairs – and they would, they would – they’d see her sneakers and the cuffs of her jeans. Find a place to hide, then take them by surprise. But where?
She swung her attention to the opposite corner. An ancient black oil tank and hot-water heater sat in the shadows. It would have been a perfect hiding spot, had the two tanks not been sitting six inches away from the wall. No way to get behind them. No space behind the washer or dryer. She looked at the furniture stacked next to the armoire.
A chest-of-drawers, long and wide, sitting flush against the floor. Hide behind there, lie flat and wait.
Standing behind the chest, she grabbed one edge, hoping to God the drawers weren’t weighted down with stuff. The chest lifted with ease off the floor and without a sound. Carefully she dragged it a few inches across the dirt. There. Now it would conceal her.
‘Ben, you down there?’
The male voice sounded like a marble-mouthed Kermit the Frog. This voice, Jamie was sure, didn’t belong to the man who had called to Ben from the bottom of her stairs.
Jamie lay on her back with her knees bent, the backs of her sneakers pressed up against her rump. The Glock, gripped in both hands, rested between her knees. She stared at the cobwebs strung between the copper pipes and wooden floorboards, listening to the heavy footsteps descending the stairs. Now they were moving across the basement. They stopped somewhere near the armoire.