“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Oh no? You think you’re safer out here, on your own? All these fuckin people dying, bodies floating up. Yeah, I know what’s going on. I know all about it.”
He took another step, and she tensed, feeling fear, then heard a familiar rumble behind her and looked around. Connor’s truck turned off the main drag and came rolling up. He put his window down as he drove up alongside them, and he stared between Bobbi and Jamie. “Hey,” he said. “How you doing, guys?”
* * *
The phone rang and Mike jumped for it.
“Detective Overton’s office.”
“Um, hi… Looking for Mike Nelson with the state police?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Nelson, this is Hank Garris. My son Alex told me that… this is about Trevor?”
“He’s your adopted son, is that correct?” Mike glanced at Lena.
Garris answered, “Yes.”
“Can you tell me what Trevor’s name was when you adopted him?”
“Is there some way I can verify…?”
Lena was leaning close, listening in, and she reached for the phone. “Mr. Garris, this is Detective Lena Overton with the Lake Haven Police department.” She gave her shield number and said, “This is my number you’ve called. Here’s Investigator Nelson again.”
Mike took the phone back and Hank Garris still sounded cautious. “What is this about?”
“Mr. Garris, we’re investigating the death of a woman in Lake Haven. Trevor worked with her at the Department of Social Services. We’re just checking into all staff, getting their backgrounds.”
At last Hank sounded relieved. “Well, he was John Durie when we adopted.”
Mike felt the skin tingle around his ears, grabbed a pen from her desk, and scribbled on a nearby notepad: It’s him.
Lena left the desk, hurrying to the door.
Mike asked Hank Garris, “He was ten years old?”
“Eleven. He was in foster care for about a year before we adopted him. The whole thing takes a while.”
“Did he have… Were there problems with Trevor?”
A hesitation. “Just what you would expect. It was hard for him at first, but he fit in after a while, he adapted. I mean he did, you know, what teenaged boys do. He had moods. He closed himself in his room and listened to music, that kind of thing.”
“You have other kids?”
“Two boys. Twins – Alex and Toby. Toby attends Hobart and William Smith, Alex is going to Fordham, they’re home for a short time this summer. Is that everything you need then?”
“Did Trevor ever see anyone? A professional?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“My information is that Trevor had some trauma as a child. Poisoning.”
Garris paused again, then said, “He’d been looked at. Pediatric neurologists, things like that. He had a psychiatrist for a while. But he was, I don’t know… We wanted him to have as normal a childhood as possible. He struggled with his classes, but he was smart. Sometimes he… I don’t know what you’d call it. They said “fugues,” but to me it was just like he’d blank out for a few seconds.”
The way the man was now unspooling, Mike thought, he’d been expecting something like this. Lena came back into the room, gave a nod, then went after her gun and holster, put them on. She’d put the word out on Trevor.
Mike asked Hank Garris, “Have you had any contact with him recently?”
“We saw him a couple months ago. My wife and I took a trip up.”
“How did he seem?”
“He was his usual self. Kind of withdrawn. Look, mister…”
“Mike Nelson. Mike.”
Garris sounded strained, his voice small. “Mike, what happened? Do you suspect Trevor of something? I think if I’m going to answer any more questions I’m going to need to do it formally, with a lawyer present.”
“Sure,” Mike said.
Then Hank Garris let out a sob that went through Mike’s bones.
* * *
Bobbi’s pager tweeted again; someone had placed a call to the hotline, notifying the state register via anonymous tip that Roy Richardson was yelling at his kids and hitting them.
Bobbi thought it was probably his own mother, Anita.
She walked back up the street to where she’d been standing with Jamie, but Jamie was gone. Connor had parked and was just nearing the bar entrance on foot. “He left soon as you got paged. Walked into that back parking area. I drove in, but he was gone. What do you want to do?”
“I can’t believe it, but I gotta go.”
He nodded, looked around. “You want me to try to find him?”
“No. I’m going to be meeting a policeman on this call. I’ll tell him Jamie was here.”
After a silence, she said, “Thanks for showing up.”
“Yeah, sure. You gonna be long?”
“I don’t know. I hope not.”
Connor stepped off the curb. “Alright. Well – I’ll go home. I’ll wait for you there.”
She closed the gap between them, said, “I’m sorry I ruined your night.”
“No. Not at all.”
“You’ll be okay to drive and everything?”
“I’ve had three over the last couple hours, plus drank water. I’m good to go.”
She felt embarrassed, behaving like his mother or something. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” But he knew.
“Let’s just see what happens, okay? My mind can get ahead of me.”
He was trying to hide a smile, she could tell, but then it cracked and he reached for her, grabbed her, and pulled her to him. “Be careful out there.”
“There’s going to be a patrol officer meeting me,” she said.
“I know, I heard you. Be careful anyway. Call me later, soon as you’re done.”
“I will.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, she was turning up the long driveway to Anita Richardson’s house. The patrol officer from Lake Haven was already there, but that was it. Anita’s rusted Ford Escort was either not there or off in the dark somewhere out of sight. Maybe along with the Jeep Cherokee that Carrie had been borrowing from her sister, which wasn’t in the driveway either.
Bobbi parked beside the police car, left her keys in the ignition. When the dirt in the air settled, she saw the patrol officer had gotten out and walked up along the other side of her Honda.
She knew him from the morning Harriet was found, and later at Lennox Palmer’s house: Officer Mullins. A nice man with laugh lines around his eyes. She shook his hand.
“Did you just get here?” Bobbi asked.
“Yeah. Two minutes ago. Looks like everybody left…?”
“I don’t hear the kids. I mean, it’s late, but the hotline said they were up. I don’t get it. Let’s see if anyone is home.”
Mullins put up a hand. “Hang on. I got a call just a few minutes ago. We’re looking for someone. Let me just go check the—” There was a loud crack in the air, and Mullins jumped.
He fumbled for his gun, looking at the house, and Bobbi looked there too, too stunned to speak. On the upper floor, a window was open, something sticking out.
Another report, and Mullins’ head jerked back and he dropped to the ground.
* * *
Bobbi froze, confused. It took her thoughts a moment to catch up to what she already felt in her gut: Mullins was just shot.
She ran around the car, saw him on the ground, unmoving. His eyes were open and he stared up at the sky. There was a hole in his forehead the size of a cherry pit, oozing blood.
Thumping sounds from the house. Like someone descending stairs. Bobbi glanced at the upstairs window: still partly open, but nothing there, just curtains shifting in the breeze.
Nothing made any sense.
Her instincts overrode her objecting, rational mind: Get back in the car, there is a shooter in the house. Mullins is dead. Get in the car, drive away, call 911.
The front door to the house banged open. A man came out holding a rifle, then pointed it at her. Bobbi scrambled away from Mullins and hid behind the car, her heart beating so hard she thought she was going to have an attack. She struggled to dig out her phone, hearing the footsteps of the man crunch along the gravel driveway.
She knew who he was.
Big guy, young face, but with a receding hairline. Someone she saw around the office.
He worked on her computer.
* * *