“If Gavin was different, it’s only because Susan died,” Mary retorted. “That’s all it was. Grief. He lost his sister.”
“How were things between him and Chelsey?” Serena asked.
“Fine. He’s crazy about her. You’ve seen her picture. She’s beautiful. Why would he look anywhere else?”
“He hasn’t mentioned any problems?”
“All marriages have problems, but I don’t believe there was anything serious. We would have known if there was. When Gavin told us what happened, we could hear how devastated he was. That wasn’t an act. We know our son.”
Serena smiled. “I’m sure you do.”
Tim’s eyes narrowed. “Except you still think he was involved, don’t you?”
“I’m just trying to piece it all together. That’s what will help us find Chelsey.”
“Well, you can take this to the bank, Detective,” Tim went on. “Gavin had nothing to do with his wife’s abduction. He didn’t do it. Believe me, I know my boy. He would never hurt anyone.”
8
The man stood among the graves of a rural cemetery a few miles south of Superior, Wisconsin. Thick trees grew around him, giving him shelter and making him mostly invisible. The wet grass under his feet was strewn with red-and-yellow autumn leaves that had been swept down by days of wind and rain. His car was parked on a cemetery road half a mile behind him, well off the highway so it couldn’t be seen. In the quiet early afternoon, he was alone.
With his binoculars, he focused on the small house on the other side of the dirt road. It was a two-story house that hadn’t seen repairs in a long time. The red paint was faded and flecked away. Dirt and leaves matted the shingled roof. The rest of the lot had the same boneyard feel as the house, the lawn unmowed, farm equipment rusting in the weeds. A white 1990s-era Ford Taurus sat in front of a detached garage, and an old Winnebago camper was perched on blocks beside it.
He checked both directions. There was no traffic. A few trucks had passed on the intersecting highway while he was studying the house, but their loud engines gave him enough warning that he could take cover before they saw him. The nearest neighbor was several hundred yards away, far enough that they were unlikely to hear the noise of gunshots. Or if they did, they’d assume someone was taking care of a rabbit trespassing in a vegetable garden.
He reached into his jacket, removed the 9 mm Glock, and racked a cartridge into the chamber. His hands were covered in tight-fitting black nylon gloves.
His boots crunched through the brush as he broke from the cover of the trees that bordered the cemetery. He stopped at the edge of the dirt road and listened again for highway traffic. He heard nothing, but he wasted no time crossing the road and crouching out of sight by the side of the old Taurus. He checked the car doors, which were unlocked. Rising up just high enough to see over the hood, he examined the house again. One of the front windows was open, and he heard scratchy music playing loudly from inside.
Dean Martin sang “Money Burns a Hole in My Pocket.”
Ain’t that the truth, Dino.
He assessed the way in. The steps leading to the front porch looked warped and unsteady; they’d probably creak with the weight of his feet and broadcast his arrival. Best to use the back door instead. He circled behind the garage, where he was twenty or thirty feet from the house’s rear steps. One of the upstairs windows faced this way, so if someone was looking, they’d see him. It couldn’t be helped. He tucked the gun in his pocket and walked casually, a man with nothing to hide. When he got to the back door, he stopped to see if his arrival had prompted anyone to check the rear of the house. Nothing moved inside; no one had spotted him. He turned the knob, and the door opened. He slipped inside and found himself in a kitchen that smelled of burnt bacon. Dean Martin got even louder, that famous slur warbling from the other end of the house.
The hallway ahead was thick with dust and shadows. Near the doorway, he noticed a landline phone, and he removed the receiver, then put it on the floor. The phone hummed softly. He slid out the gun again and held it in front of him as he took a step toward the living room. The yellowed linoleum gave under his feet, making a noticeable creak as the floorboards shifted.
Over his head, he heard a rush of footsteps. He froze. Then a man’s voice shouted from upstairs. “Mom, turn the music down, will you? Jesus!”
The footsteps retreated from the stairs. In the living room at the end of the hallway, the music kept on, as loudly as before. The man with the gun approached the doorway and peered around the corner, and he spotted an old woman, asleep in a rocking chair by the window. She sat beside an old record player, from which Dino crooned at the top of his lungs. He waited to make sure the old woman’s eyes stayed closed, and then he crossed the room in a few quick steps. She didn’t hear him through her snoring. He took up position behind her.
He didn’t need the gun for her. It was better that way. He replaced the Glock in his pocket, then reached around to his backpack and slid out a coil of nylon rope from the lowest pouch. He extended a short length of the rope between his gloved hands and reached forward over the top of the chair. The woman’s head bobbed slightly as she slept, but her neck was exposed, wrinkled, and frail.
Dean started singing “Standing on the Corner.” The backup band played noisy brass.
The man lowered the rope.
When he crossed his hands and yanked the ends together, the woman awoke in a frenzy, unable to breathe or scream. The rocking chair jerked and twisted, scraping on the floor and lurching up and down. He held on tight through the struggle. Dean kept singing, cool as a well-shaken martini.
Then it was done.
He kept the rope in place long after the body stopped moving. When he finally let go, he didn’t bother removing the rope, which was bloody now where it had bitten through the skin of her throat. He reached over to the record player and turned up the volume until Dean began to make the house shake.
Next song: “Hey Brother, Pour the Wine.”
He edged away from the chair to a place in the living room where he couldn’t be seen from the hallway. He raised the gun and steadied his wrist with his other hand. He didn’t have to wait long. Seconds later, the same male voice bellowed again from upstairs.
“Did you hear me, Mom? For fuck’s sake, turn it down!”
The music blared on. Heavy, agitated footsteps thundered down the steps.
The man with the gun tensed, his finger curled around the trigger. Like a charging bull, a huge man flew through the doorway into the living room, his face red with anger, his muscles rippling. The man was shirtless and wore cargo shorts and no shoes. The momentum of his charge took him six feet past the doorway before he skidded to a stop. His eyes took in the sight of the dead woman in the chair and widened in shock. Then, sensing movement, he shifted his gaze and saw the man pointing the black barrel of the Glock at his chest.
Bullets erupted one after another.
The first bullet hit the big man but didn’t stop him. He stormed across the room, blood on his skin, his huge hands outstretched at the ends of his arms. The next bullet hit his chest again and slowed him. The third stopped him where he was, making him sway like a tree in the wind.
The man with the gun fired again, into the other man’s forehead this time, a perfectly centered shot below his crew cut and above his dark eyes. The big man’s knees crumpled, and he fell facedown, not moving.
He was definitely dead.
Still, the man with the gun didn’t take any chances. He put the hot, smoking barrel to the back of the man’s head and fired one last time.