“You used to dance?”
“I loved to dance. I loved dancing with my wife.”
That’s what the music was all about. Now it made sense. It had been something he had shared with Rachel. It had been packed away in boxes, which was where he’d wanted it to stay. That’s why he’d told me to pack everything away and leave it alone.
“She said yes for a reason, Harvey. She said yes because you gave her something, too.”
“Whatever I gave her, it could never approach the happiness she gave me. I love her because I asked her to dance and she said yes.”
16
IN MY EXPERIENCE, HOUSES WERE MOST EASILY BROKEN into through the basement windows, which were either unlatched or easy to make that way. The basement window for the house where Rachel was hiding was so low to the ground I had to lie on my belly in the dirt to check it out. The window was at ceiling height for the basement and had a simple latch lock that I could handle easily. I used my flashlight to look for the obvious signs of an alarm system. When I saw none, I put on my gloves, opened my tool case, and went to work.
Not surprisingly, Rachel had found a nice house to hide in. It was a large, white, brick-front ranch-style, sitting on almost an acre out in Acton. That it was built on a cul-de-sac made it even more secluded and private. Perfect for hiding, but it’s hard to hide from Felix. He had talked Gary Ruffielo into providing a current cell-phone number for Rachel. After working the problem all day, he had finally managed to track her through the use of that very useful GPS chip.
I finished with the latch, popped the window open, and gave thanks when no alarm sounded. If it was a silent alarm, I was in trouble. I cut the flimsy and rusted chains on each side that kept the window from flopping all the way to the wall. I gathered my stuff, turned on my belly, and wriggled in. When my feet hit the ground, I closed the window and did a sweep with my flashlight. It was dark and gloomy and haphazard down there, the way basements are. I saw nothing living or breathing of the human variety, but there was an old kitchen chair in the corner. I moved it to a position under the window in case I needed a springboard to a quick exit.
At the top of the stairs, I put my ear against the interior door, listened, and heard nothing. I heard more nothing when I popped the door open, which was a good thing. No alarm sounded as I stepped into the kitchen. No motion detectors were tripped, so I kept moving. There were no lights on, which made it very dark in the house, but I heard something, and it wasn’t just the daily hum of household machinery. It sounded like a shower running upstairs.
I cleared the downstairs as quickly as I could with a flashlight. The rooms were big and open, with few nooks, closets, and alcoves to hide in. But it took forever to get up to the second floor. The stairs creaked. I took each one in slow motion, checking for loose boards as I went. By the time I reached the top, my muscles felt as if they’d fused into one inflexible mass. The hallways were all dark up there, but, like the music in Harvey’s empty house, the sound of the shower running told me where to go: down to the room with the closed door.
Given that I had broken in, I had to decide about the Glock. It was one thing if it was Rachel behind the door. It was quite another if it was the law-abiding owner of the house, hiding out, perfectly justified in shooting the home invader. But what if it was Rachel with a gun? I didn’t know her. I didn’t know how she would react. I decided I needed to go in with my weapon front and center. I twisted the knob, flattened against the wall, and pushed the door open.
It was like a steam room in there, the steam billowing out from behind an interior door across the room. The light from behind the door provided the only illumination. It fell across the bed, where the sheets were twisted and the blanket mostly puddled around it. A rolling carry-on bag sat on the floor with its zippered flap lying open. Clothes were strewn about as if it had exploded. I stayed low and crept in, listening to make sure there was spraying and splashing and not just a steady hum. I got close enough to the bag to read the tag. Rachel Ruffielo of Quincy, Mass. It was good to know all the sneaking around hadn’t been for nothing.
I was careful to keep an eye on the bedroom door as I worked my way across the room. On the way, I checked under the bed. I checked the closet on the far wall. When I got close to the bathroom, I stopped.
I could feel my heartbeat in the tips of my fingers when I placed them on the damp door. I pushed. The hinges whined. The steam billowed out. My face got damp, and it was only as I was wheeling into the doorway that I realized there was now no interruption in the water’s flow, and unless she was standing perfectly still under the shower head, Rachel wasn’t in the shower at all.
She stepped forward, emerging from the thick steam like some kind of poltergeist.
“Don’t move,” she said, and I didn’t, because in her small hands, she held a 45-caliber revolver, and it was pointed straight at my right eye. Her.45 was bigger than my Glock, and her hands were shaking violently. There wasn’t much chance my gun would go off by accident, but I couldn’t say the same for hers, so I did as she asked.
“All right.” I had to make myself heard above the roar of the shower. “Let’s calm down here. No one has to get hurt. I didn’t come here to hurt you.”
“No? Let’s see, you track me down, you break into the house, you creep in here with a gun, and you didn’t come here to hurt me?”
I knew I should have had Harvey call her first, but I was afraid she’d bolt.
“I came to help.”
“With a gun?”
“You never know what you’ll find behind a closed door.”
She raised one shoulder to wipe away the copious amounts of perspiration dripping into her eyes, and the barrel of the.45 twitched. A defibrillator couldn’t have made my heart jump more.
“Be careful, please.” I put up my left hand, as if that would stop a bullet. “Let’s put the weapons down. We’ll do it at the same time.”
“No.” It wasn’t even up for consideration. “You first.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You’ve got no choice. You’re not gonna shoot me.”
“How do you know what I’ll do?”
“Because you’re Harvey’s partner, and I know Harvey.” The barest trace of a smile appeared. “But you don’t know me. ‘Maybe,’ you’re thinking, ‘she’s just desperate enough to do it. Maybe she doesn’t care if she lives or dies.’ Or maybe-” She pulled the hammer back. “Maybe this thing goes off accidentally.”
“Dammit, Rachel, be careful.” I pushed my hand farther forward. That would surely stop a bullet. “Do you know what that will do if it goes off?”
“Another good question. Do I even know how to use this?” Her smile broadened. She had slipped into something more comfortable-a Brooklyn accent. Either I had failed to notice it the other day, or it only came out in times of stress. She was also right. I had no idea what she was capable of. I did the high-stakes calculation again. I had a better chance of surviving if I put my gun down, even if she kept hers.
“All right. I’m putting it away.” I flipped the pistol around so it was aimed at the ceiling and engaged the safety.
“On the floor. Put it on the floor.”
“No.” I reached around and slipped it into my waist holster. “I’m putting it away so it’s not pointed at you. You do the same.”
“Put your hands up.”
“Rachel-”
“Put them up.” Her stress level was rising. It probably showed on her face, but I was watching the weapon, and all I could think about was the size of the hole a 45-caliber slug left in the targets at the shooting range, particularly from that close. I tried to keep my own nerves from showing as she moved to the shower and turned off the water. The silence was abrupt and welcome.