Once they were safely behind the barn Mitch pointed Des in the direction of those two state troopers in the driveway and gave her a quick shove. Then he and Molly dove back into the thorny thicket beyond the chicken wire fence and started their slow, hard journey back to Big Sister.
He could hear Des call out her name to the troopers. Hear them bark in response. Then came the urgent voices into walkie-talkies. Soon somebody with a bullhorn was ordering Clay Mundy and Hector Villanueva to come out with their hands up. Mitch and Molly had made it as far as the woods when all hell broke loose. A lot of shooting. An insane amount of shooting. So much that it sounded to Mitch’s ears like the bloody finale of Bonnie and Clyde.
The shooting was still going on back there when he and Molly cleared the woods and, hand-in-hand, dashed their way across the meadow for home.
CHAPTER 17
The gloves game off once they found out she’d managed to free herself from the root cellar. With Des safely out of harm’s way they gave Clay and Hector one last chance to come out with their hands up. Repeated it three times through a bullhorn, loud and clear. Clay and Hector refused to comply.
And then the shooting started.
No one was certain which of the two suspects was responsible for firing those first shots. Although Des thought she had a pretty fair idea. Didn’t really matter though. The important thing was that the opening salvo absolutely, positively came from the house. The SWAT teams returned fire. Had no choice. Then they stormed the Procter cottage with overwhelming force. Clay Mundy and Hector Villanueva were given every opportunity to surrender. They would not.
When it was over, both men were pronounced dead at the scene from multiple gunshot wounds. There were no casualties suffered by any sworn personnel at the scene.
An internal State Police investigation into the raid on Sour Cherry Lane was launched the following morning. But there was very little heat behind the after-action inquiry. No bereaved loved ones coming forward to express outrage over Clay and Hector’s violent deaths. No friends or business associates demanding answers. No one asking why they’d chosen to shoot it out like they had.
If anyone has asked her, Des would have told them: Clay had simply made good on his promise. He’d vowed to her that he would never, ever spend a single night in jail for as long as he lived. That night on Sour Cherry Lane, he made sure of it.
Grisky’s team found the stash of ice down in the root cellar. Some 187 pounds of crystal meth buried in one-gallon plastic freezer bags under fresh dirt not four feet from where Des had lain bound and gagged. Also another twenty pounds of heroin. This information was not made public. The joint task force wasn’t giving up on its quest to crush the Vargas drug cartel just because Clay and Hector were gone. Operation Burrito King lived on. So there was no mention in the media about the raid having anything to do with illegal drugs. Instead, the coverage focused entirely on the so-called “Triangle of Death”-Richard Procter, his estranged wife, Carolyn, and her lover, Clay Mundy. The official story line coming from the Major Crime Squad’s homicide investigators was that Clay had knifed the professor in a fight over Carolyn. Hector had helped Clay dispose of the body. And when the state police closed in on them the desperate pair had set off a crisis by taking Dorset’s resident trooper hostage.
For now, an FBI agent would remain stationed in the woods just in case someone associated with Clay and Hector moseyed along and tried to dig up their stash.
Brandon had been standing out in the middle of the lane looking utterly distraught when Des came staggering through the rain toward him, a big, strong trooper helping her along. Brandon ran to her and hugged her tight, kissing her, kissing her. And then here came Soave and Yolie, beaming with delight. All of them wanted to know how she got out. Des’s ears were ringing. And her memory of the previous few minutes was a feverish stew of fantasy and reality. But somehow, she gave them what Mitch had fed her to say. That she’d managed to work the ropes loose. Found wire cutters and a pry bar down there. Jimmied open an air vent. Grabbed the nearest trooper. End of story.
It didn’t fly for long, because when they searched the root cellar in the morning they found that her ropes had been cut with a knife, not loosened. And the vent cover pried open from the outside, not within. But for now no one showed any interest in pressing Des over this apparent discrepancy.
“It’s all over.”
That’s what a relieved Brandon kept saying to her as the Jewett sisters were getting her settled in the back of the ambulance. The media people were shouting questions her way. She wasn’t answering them. Wasn’t up for any questions.
“It’s all over.”
He said it as they were being whisked away to the Shoreline Clinic together, his arm wrapped around her, making her feel safe and loved. He said it as she sat there on the examining table, an eleven-year-old doctor shining a bright light in her eyes and asking her to look up, down and sideways. The doctor told her what she already knew-that she had a concussion and needed it to take it slow for a few days.
“She’ll take it slow,” Brandon promised.
Otherwise, Des was fine. Shockingly so. Her blood pressure was a textbook 126 over 78, her resting pulse rate a steady 74. Des knew why. Hell, yes, she knew-because Mitch had come through for her. Risked his life to save hers. He cared. He still cared… “You can’t turn it on and off like a faucet.”… As simple as that.
And hello, more than a tiny bit complicated. Not exactly helpful to discover that it was Mitch, not Brandon, who’d been in her heart as she lay there in that root cellar waiting to die. Des had already had her chance with Mitch and blown it. And now he’d given his own heart to someone else, according to Bella. A British dance critic-slash-bitch named Cecily. So it was too late for a do-over. Which Des accepted. Had to accept. Because it was what it was. Besides, Brandon was by her side right now being so supportive and sweet. She belonged with Brandon. And she was going to make it work with Brandon. She was determined to make it work.
“We are taking the phone off the hook when we get home,” he told her as the doctor was patching up her head wound. “You are going to sleep in tomorrow. And I am bringing you breakfast in bed.”
She smiled at him, stroking his cheek gently. “Careful, baby, I could get used to being spoiled.”
“Get used to it. Your man wants you to.”
Brandon made good on his promise, too. He let her sleep sinfully late. And he really did serve her breakfast in bed-orange juice, bacon, eggs and toast. Brandon had never been the greatest of cooks. But she forced down every greasy, lukewarm bite, yumming enthusiastically as he hovered over her, plumping her pillows. She still had herself an awful headache, as well as that persistent ringing in her ears. But she felt sinfully decadent as she lay there sipping her second cup of coffee. And was genuinely touched by the way Brandon was fussing over her. He kept the local newspapers away from her. She wasn’t ready for them. Instead, she leafed her way through the New York Times and Boston Globe, barely noticing the headlines. Nothing was taking place in the outside world that seemed to matter to her.
Until, that is, one particular item in the Globe caught her eye. And held it.
As he left for work Brandon made her promise that she’d take it easy today. Des promised him she would. She was real convincing, too.
But once he was out the door Des switched into action mode. Dialed 411 for Moodus. Had herself a good, long talk with someone who she’d been wanting to speak with for a couple of days. Then she climbed into a fresh uniform, got in her cruiser and started back to Sour Cherry Lane with her head spinning. And not because of any damned concussion.
The thunderstorms of last night had passed over. The day was clear and bright, with puffy white clouds and a cool, fresh breeze blowing off of the Sound. Des rolled down her windows and savored it, knowing there wouldn’t be many more days like this before the sweltering humidity of summer settled in.