I wasn’t sure what to do first. I glanced around. The room was an empty bedroom. The whole house was vacant-no medical supplies would be in the bathrooms or elsewhere.
I tried to remember my first-aid lessons.
Air. Everyone needed air. Worried that the duct tape gag might make it hard for him to breathe, I decided I should remove it. I turned the flashlight off and set it down, not needing it with the light coming in through the windows. Using both hands, one to hold his skin, the other to grasp an end of the tape-and wincing on his behalf-I slowly pulled it away from his skin and off his mouth. That made him moan again, but his eyes didn’t open.
Bleeding. I should try to stop the bleeding.
I carefully moved his head onto my lap, grabbed a pack of tissues from my purse, and held one of them to the cut on his brow. I gently searched through his hair for the wound on his head-I found a gash at the back and pressed the rest of the tissues to it. They quickly became soaked, as did my hands, my pants suit, and my blouse. I took off my jacket and tried using it to apply pressure.
I attempted to free his hands, which were taped behind him at his wrists, but that nearly caused me to drop his head on the floor, so I gave that up.
Maybe I should just go to a neighbor’s house to get help, I thought. I looked down at my blouse. Would anyone in this snooty neighborhood open the door if they looked through a peephole and saw a blood-covered stranger standing on the front porch? I doubted it, but maybe I could shout to them to call an ambulance.
As I worried over this decision, the closet door behind me flung open and a man in a ski mask rushed toward me. Before I could do anything other than look up at him in a dumbfounded way, he had covered my mouth and nose with a cloth soaked in something with a sweet medicinal scent. His other hand grabbed the back of my head and pressed me forward into the cloth. I tried clawing at his hands, which were gloved, but the pressure only increased. I quickly grew dizzy and felt slightly ill. The room was spinning wildly-spinning away my ability to think clearly. I felt an odd sensation of floating, even as I struggled in discomfort. Fear stayed with me-a cold, raw terror that wasn’t softened by my confusion. Within seconds, I felt myself hovering on the brink of passing out, tried to use the fear to fight against that. Now I was going to be sick after all, I thought. I became dimly aware of a second pair of gloved hands pulling mine away from the hand that pressed the cloth.
I did not float into darkness. I plummeted.
44
O’CONNOR CAUGHT HIMSELF MUTTERING UNDER HIS BREATH AND STOPPED. Was he turning into such an old man that he couldn’t understand what young people were like when they were in the throes of love? Or lust, at any rate.
Kelly hadn’t come back to the paper this afternoon after her meeting with Max Ducane. He didn’t mind Max-for all the grief O’Connor gave her about him, he liked the young man. But he had hoped she would take her responsibilities at the paper seriously enough to return in time to contribute something before deadline.
He had covered for her with H.G. and the others, told them she was pursuing leads and he wasn’t sure if she’d make it back. He said-and this much was true-that she had given him plenty of material for today’s story already. H.G. seemed to buy it, but O’Connor wasn’t confident of being able to keep up the charade more than this once.
It was a shame. She’d have to be taken off the story. He found he was deeply disappointed. He enjoyed working with her. She sparked something in him, made him work harder.
He was working hard tonight. He sighed and went back to writing the story of the rooms found today on the farm. It wasn’t much of a story in and of itself, but it made O’Connor feel surer about Mitch Yeager’s involvement. The Yeagers were the biggest bootleggers in Las Piernas, whether they had been convicted of it or not. And if Griffin Baer was involved with bootlegging, chances were good he was involved with Mitch Yeager.
Lefebvre also told O’Connor-on the condition that he held the information from publication-that they had found some shell casings in the trunk of the Buick, and other evidence (which he wouldn’t talk about at all) that might help them find the killer. He wouldn’t name the caliber, which made O’Connor suspect the caliber itself would give him a lot of information about the gun. Lefebvre had taken an interest in Irene’s theories about that night in1958. Lefebvre had been impressed, which made O’Connor feel a certain pride in her.
It had lasted until she failed to return to the newsroom.
O’Connor finally filed the story. He was putting his coat on when Stephen Gerard stopped by his desk.
“I thought you would have gone home long ago,” O’Connor said.
Gerard held out a stack of photos. “Give those to Kelly, would you?”
“What are they?” O’Connor said, taking them.
“The plates on that car that has been following her.”
O’Connor looked up sharply. “What?”
“The black Beemer. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” O’Connor said slowly. “Yes, I have.”
“Maybe one of your friends at the DMV can run those for you.”
“Who said I have friends at the DMV?”
Gerard shrugged and started to walk off.
“Wait!” O’Connor called.
Gerard turned back to him.
“When did you take these?” O’Connor asked.
“Today. Out at the construction site.”
O’Connor let him go, but he sat staring at the photos for a moment, an uneasy feeling coming over him. The phone on his desk rang, startling him. “O’Connor,” he answered.
“Mr. O’Connor? This is Mary Kelly, Irene’s aunt. We met the other day.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, his worries taking a new direction. “Is Patrick- is Patrick all right?”
“Patrick? Oh, he’s fine-sleeping at the moment, which is why I thought I’d call now. Forgive me for disturbing you, but I wondered-you see, it’s so unlike Irene not to warn me if she’ll be late, and-”
“She’s not home?”
“No-that’s why I’m calling you. What time did she leave the paper?”
“She went out with Mr. Ducane this afternoon,” O’Connor said. “I haven’t seen her back here since.”
There was a long silence, then she called him a series of names he was surprised she knew. “I thought you were keeping an eye on her!” she ended.
“I defy anyone to keep an eye on your grandniece,” he said. “But I’m worried, too. I’ll look for her, and I’ll keep you posted.”
She thanked him, apologized for losing her temper, and hung up.
O’Connor quickly looked through his notes and found the address for the house that had once belonged to Griffin Baer. He started to leave, hesitated, then went back to his desk and called Lefebvre.
45
M ITCH YEAGER STOOD UP FROM THE DINNER TABLE.
Ian and Eric exchanged a glance, then realized that Uncle Mitch had seen the exchange, and was smiling. It was not a good kind of smile.
“Eric, Ian, in my study,” Mitch said. To the rest of his family, he said, “You’ll excuse us. We have a little business to discuss.”
“But, Daddy!” his daughter protested. “You promised you would help me with my homework.”
Eric felt hope rise.
Mitch smiled at her. “And I will, sugar, I will. This won’t take long.”
His brief moment of optimism crushed, Eric followed his uncle into the study, as Ian lagged behind.
When they had taken seats across from him, Mitch asked, “Tell me all of it, and tell it to me right now.”
“All of what?” Eric asked.
Mitch threw a glass paperweight at him. Eric ducked just in time. The paperweight shattered behind him.
Mitch looked at Ian.
Within minutes, Ian divulged everything. He started out nervously, then warmed with the enthusiasm he felt for the project. Ian discussed what he believed to be the more brilliant aspects of the plan, including the place where they had hidden their hostages. “So you see, Uncle Mitch, Warren will have to come back.”