Should’ve just called Meredith to begin with, she thought. But it had been Hank’s idea for her to take the phones to Shannon Beckley, and back then there’d been no questions of guilt and no bullets in Carlos Ramirez’s brain. Or at least nobody had known about them.
Abby found a Sharpie and wrote the date and her name and Beckley case on the three plastic bags. Hardly a proper evidence folder, but better than a soggy shoe box.
She left her apartment and drove away from the mill toward Hank’s house, the bagged phones and chargers on the passenger seat. Usually she avoided the short stretch of turnpike that was the fastest route, but Hank had asked her to hurry, so tonight she took it. Driving was easier for her at night, regardless of traffic. She didn’t feel as crowded in the dark or as exposed. There was no horizon line, and your visual range in the mirrors was limited. The blackness obscured both where you’d been and where you were going. Somehow, that containment helped dull the anxiety brought on by visible obstacles ahead, and it eased the dread of traffic rising up behind.
It was only seven miles on the turnpike before she exited onto the county roads, and she made it without incident, no dry mouth or racing pulse. Traffic was light, but it probably helped that she was distracted too. She didn’t like the idea of sitting down with police on this. David Meredith was fine; Abby knew him a bit, and Hank knew him well. But homicide detectives from Boston? That was different. That brought back memories too. The detectives in California hadn’t been homicide cops, but they’d felt close enough.
Clean blood isn’t everything, Ms. Kaplan. We’re looking at that curve and that guardrail and trying to figure out how exactly you got airborne. And you’re a pretty good driver, we understand. Professional.
She turned off the county road and onto the teeth-rattling gravel that wound through the pines and bone-colored birches that surrounded Hank’s place. It was beautiful country, but isolated. The deep woods were never far from you in Maine. Abby was a native Mainer, but she wasn’t completely comfortable here at night. Her childhood home had had sidewalks and streetlights; this place, deserted except for snowmobile trails and tree stands, had always seemed foreign to her.
As she drove slowly through the ruts, a few untrimmed branches swiped her Chrysler, and even the high beams didn’t seem to cut the darkness. There was a single light on in Hank’s house, a glow from the kitchen. That was unusual, because Hank spent only as much time in the kitchen as it took him to microwave his dinner. He also didn’t use the blinds, but tonight they were closed.
In the narrow driveway, Hank’s Tahoe was parked behind a white Jeep. There was no room to pull up alongside or even turn around without driving onto the lawn. Abby parked behind the Tahoe, and she was about to kill the engine and get out when she felt the familiar warm buzz in her veins that had been her early-warning system for so many years, that rapid pulse of adrenaline-laced instinct that was triggered when you were doing a hundred and fifty miles per hour and saw the cars in front of you shift and knew that something was about to go wrong. That silent alarm had been Abby’s gift on the track. She’d been able to tell when things were going bad just a fraction of a second ahead of most.
They’re positioned wrong, she thought now.
Hank had said the police were coming, not that the police were already there. But the Jeep was sitting in front of the Tahoe. Unless Hank had come and gone in the twenty minutes since he’d called Abby, whoever was driving the Jeep had been here first.
She sat with the engine growling and the headlights on and stared at the cars and the house, and her hand drifted back to the gearshift. She almost put it in reverse. But what was she going to do, back out of here and call Hank from the road and say she was scared of the Jeep? Come on. She’d spent too much time thinking paranoid thoughts on the train after seeing Tara Beckley and hearing about Carlos Ramirez. Her mind was built for that now; the docs had told her this. Panic floated; panic drifted like dark smoke and found new places in the brain to call home.
Screw that. Be tough, Abby. Be who you always were.
She released the gearshift and killed the engine. While the headlights dimmed, she grabbed the three plastic bags of cell phones and chargers, and was reaching for the door when the strange fear rose again, and she found herself shoving the bag with the iPhones under the driver’s seat.
I’ll say I dropped it. When I know that things are legit, I’ll come back and get it.
No clean logic to the choice, just a response to that old pulse in the blood, to that fresh dark smoke drifting through her brain. People have died and someone wants those phones. You don’t just carry them through the door.
She got out of the car with the two bags in hand, the Chrysler parked behind the two SUVs, forming a mini-caravan in the narrow driveway. She looked at the Jeep’s plate — Massachusetts. Good. That was as promised. But where was David Meredith?
The rain had stopped but puddles littered the dirt driveway like land mines. Abby dodged them, crossed the yard, went up the front steps, and rapped her knuckles on the wall as she pulled open the screen door. Hank’s muted voice floated out from inside.
“Yeah, Abs. Come in.”
She pushed open the front door, stepped inside, looked toward the light, and saw Hank tied to a kitchen chair.
It was an old wooden straight-backed chair, and he was bound to it with thin green cord. His right arm was wrapped tight against his side, but his left arm was free, and he lifted it with his palm out, signaling for Abby to stop.
The gesture wasn’t required. Abby stood frozen in midstride, staring at the scene in front of her as the screen door slapped shut behind her with a bang.
“Close the other one too,” a soft voice from behind her said, and as Abby whirled toward the voice there was the distinctive metallic snap of a cocking revolver.
21
For a moment it was still and silent. The only light was coming from a battery lantern that threw an eerie, too-white glow over the kitchen and couldn’t penetrate the shadows in the rest of the house. Whoever was speaking was standing in the hallway, no more than a silhouette against the darkness.
A silhouette and a gun.
“Abby?” the figure in the hall said. “Close the door.”
Abby reached out and took the cold metal knob in her left hand and closed the door.
“Good,” the man in the hall said. “Now lock it.”
Abby moved faster to obey this instruction, turning the dead bolt and dropping her hand quickly to distract from the quarter turn she’d given the lock, enough to move the bolt but not enough to shoot it home. If she made it back to the door, it would open when she twisted the doorknob.
“Go into the kitchen,” the man in the darkness said, and Abby obeyed again, shuffling backward, moving off the wooden floor and onto the tile of the kitchen. She glanced at the kitchen counter, expecting to see the block of knives that always sat beneath a years-old calendar that showed Abby being showered with cheap champagne by her father and Hank and Hank’s then-girlfriend after Abby had become the youngest driver — and the first woman — to win at the Bald Mountain Speedway.