Jesse leapt over to the box and popped the lid up. Within sat a jewelry box, a bouquet of dried flowers, folded lace, and a few articles of women’s clothing. The wedding portrait of Ellen Deaton, framed in simple black wood, lay atop the lace. Ellen had indeed been a striking beauty in her day, smiling brightly, the joyful smile of a woman with her entire life ahead of her.
Jesse flipped the frame, twisted the pins, and popped out the back. A Polaroid fell onto the lace. Jesse sucked in a quick breath. “Shit.” It was Ellen, but the woman in the Polaroid lay upon a gold-slate floor in a pool of blood. She stared up with wide blank eyes, her neck slit open. Her top had been torn away and the angry slashes and puncture wounds had turned her breasts into something unrecognizable.
Jesse spun away, leaving Dillard’s morbid shrine behind. “Linda,” he whispered, his heart racing. He’d known Linda was in trouble, but until that very moment he had not believed, had not allowed himself to truly believe that Dillard was capable of such savagery. Jesse tried to push the image from his mind.
He darted to the door leading into the house; it was unlocked and he slipped in. The kitchen light was on. Again he froze, his heart hammering in his chest. A skillet lay on the floor, a glass of milk spilled across the counter. He spotted the overturned chairs in the dining room, darted through the living room, down the hall, gun out and ready. The bedroom doors were open. He eased up, peering into one, then the next, searched every room and every closet, found no one.
He returned to the hall, spotted Linda’s clothes and Abigail’s toys, pushed up in front of the door. The flooring drew his eye and he realized why at once: The tiles were gold slate, just like in the Polaroid. Ellen had died right here, right where he was standing. That picture will hang Dillard. Send him away for a long time. Don’t you dare leave here without it.
Jesse gave the bathroom a fleeting glance, blinked, and looked again. He flipped on the light. Duct tape and a knife sat on the vanity. He gasped, grasping their meaning right away, but he also saw his own hat, his hairbrush, and the screwdriver from his truck. It took him a moment to understand that Dillard planned not only to kill Linda and Abigail, but to pin it on him. It was as though someone had punched him in the gut. Am I too late? He tried to push the thought from his mind, but his eyes kept returning to the duct tape and knife. “No! Oh, fuck no!” He stumbled out of the bathroom and into the living room. Where are they? He spied the door to the basement and his heart went cold. “Oh, God.” He leapt over to the door, threw the bolt, rushed down the steps, thinking of the picture of Ellen the whole way down, of the bloody ribbons of flesh across her chest. No. No. No.
He saw the freezer shoved up against the storm door and had his first shot of hope. He banged on the door. “Linda! Linda! Abigail!”
“Jesse?” He heard her then, it was Linda. “Jesse?”
He shoved the freezer out of the way, yanked the door handle. It was locked. He banged on the metal door. “Linda, it’s me! It’s Jesse!”
The latch turned, the door opened a crack, and Linda’s terrified face peeked out. He yanked the door open and threw his arms around her. She hugged him back, hard and tight. She began to sob.
Jesse saw Abigail, pressed back in the corner, her big eyes scared and unsure. Jesse let go of Linda. “Abi. Abi, honey. It’s all okay. All okay now.” Abigail burst into tears. Jesse scooped her up, held her tight, pressed his face into her hair, and closed his eyes, inhaling her scent. And for that moment, for that second, it was all he needed in the whole world.
DILLARD PULLED INTO his driveway, cut the lights, and killed the engine. He sat there a moment longer, rubbing the bridge of his nose. All he wanted to do was take another dose of Imitrex and curl up in bed for twelve hours, only way he’d found to get rid of a migraine. But that wasn’t gonna happen. Not with the sheriff nosing around Goodhope. He needed to take care of Linda and get back over to the General’s as soon as he could.
Dillard headed inside, stepping softly to avoid any jarring movements as he mounted the front porch and entered the house. He closed the door gently behind him, careful not to make any loud noise that would set off the flare between his eyes. He found his way into the bathroom, pulled the bottle of Imitrex out of the cabinet, and took two. He caught sight of the dark circles under his eyes, at the angry red grease burn along his temple, and doubled the recommended dosage.
He stared at the duct tape and knife. “Fuck, got a lot to do.” Now that he’d had a bit of time to think, Dillard realized he didn’t need a sledgehammer to get the girls out, just a few tools to unscrew the hinges and the steel door should pop right off. He left the bathroom, heading for the garage, made it two steps and stopped cold. He heard voices. Dillard peered into the living room and the air left him—the door to the basement stood wide-open. Footsteps, someone was coming up the stairs. His hand dropped to his pistol. He clicked his radio off and slipped back into the shadow of the hall.
Linda came up first, followed by Jesse carrying Abigail in one arm, a revolver held loosely in his right hand. Abigail clung tightly to Jesse’s neck, the top of her head pressed against his cheek.
Dillard let them walk past, then slipped up behind them, shoving his pistol into Jesse’s back. “Drop it, Jesse! Drop it right now!”
Linda let out a cry.
Jesse tensed and there came a second when Dillard thought sure the fool would try something. He didn’t, just froze and dropped his gun. It hit the carpet with a solid thud.
“All of you, over to the table. Keep your hands out.”
They did as ordered. Dillard tugged his gloves out of his jacket, slipped them on, stooped, and picked up Jesse’s gun, shoving it into his pocket.
Abigail began to cry.
“Dillard,” Linda said. “Oh, God, Dillard. Please think about—”
“Shut the fuck up, Linda.”
Dillard couldn’t believe his luck. He had all three of them, and even through his migraine, the perfectness hit him. He would shoot Jesse first, then use Jesse’s gun to kill the two girls. All he had to tell investigators was he’d come home and found Jesse standing over their dead bodies, then, when Jesse tried to shoot him, he fired first. He couldn’t have arranged it better if he’d planned the whole thing out. Every person who was connected to the General would be dead, there’d be no witnesses, no one left to tie him to the General in any way. Dillard smiled, couldn’t help it. Just needed a clean shot on Jesse; didn’t want to risk screwing everything up by accidentally hitting Abigail with a bullet from his gun, or splattering Jesse’s blood all over her. That would never get past forensics.
“Put her down,” Dillard said calmly.
“Dillard . . . dammit,” Jesse said, his voice tense and tight. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Put . . . her . . . down.”
Keeping his right hand up, Jesse let Abigail slide to the ground. “Go to Mommy,” Jesse whispered. Abigail ran to Linda. Linda pulled her around, shielding her.
“Keep those hands up,” Dillard snapped. Linda brought her hands back up, they were shaking.
“Jesse, turn around . . . nice and slow.” He intended to shoot Jesse from the front, to be sure it looked like self-defense. “Keep them hands up.”