The Moores Are Missing Read online

  Chapter 30

  I now know the longest unit of time. It’s not an hour, a day, a week, or a year; it’s not twenty, it’s not half a century. This unit can’t be measured on a clock or a calendar, only on a small cheap microwave oven in a cramped bungalow in the Canadian wilderness.

  The can of shaving cream is fully animated, its bottom clattering against the molded plastic floor, the whole thing revolving like a spool of thread spinning on top of a sewing machine—but no; not like anything mechanical, more like a living, writhing creature, a small feral beast working itself up into a violent frenzy of self-defense. The whirring of the built-in cooling fan climbs to a whine. Rattle, rattle, spin, shriiiiieeeeek—

  Whoom!

  The heavy glass in the door bursts outward, driven by a volume of flame, throwing shards the size of cake knives and shreds of red-and-white-striped aluminum in a spray perpendicular to where we’re standing, the Moores, Sharon, and I at one end of the room, Chief Howard at the other, the revolver in his hand now, pointing toward the back door. The flames outdistance the projectiles, far enough to scorch the knotty pine panels on the opposite wall.

  All of which is a psychedelic flash of images, impressing themselves on our minds as Kevin tears open the door, thumbing the key tab with his other hand, and we pile through. Behind us, a sharp crackling, the fire gnawing at pine and fabric; and above that another explosion, loud enough to deaden the report that comes square on its heels; or did the lighter bang come first? One is the deep bellow of a large-bore shotgun, the other the sharper sound of a revolver; the lumberjack’s big-game weapon versus Cam Howard’s sidearm, an uneven match if ever I heard one.

  Not over yet.

  Something snaps in the open air, sounding like a cap pistol in the echo of the descending three notes of the initial blast, the roar, and the bang; but something buzzes past my right ear and thunks the curved cedar siding next to the door we’ve just come through, Sharon and I gripping each other’s arms like lifelines. Before me, a door is slid partially open, belonging to a minivan parked in front of the bungalow. The Moores are already inside. I reach for the door.

  “Where’s the fire?”

  We turn in unison. In the glow from the burning building, Dale Mercer’s blocky, gray-clad form stands beside the van, a living barricade. At hip level he holds a shiny pistol with a barrel extension—Howard called it a suppressor—pointed straight at us. Reflected flame seems to dance in both eyes.

  Someone cries out, using my voice. In the same instant, I hit his arm as hard as I can, and he drops the gun with a clank. Mercer stumbles backward, fumbling his weapon.

  Sharon and I pile on top of others in the back, but before I can sort out who the bodies belong to, the door closes on the calf of my leg, bouncing off as the car lurches across the lot. A blur of gray sweeps past the corner of my eye; Mercer, scrambling out of the way. I don’t feel the pain in my leg until we plow over a speed bump—if that’s what it is—and careen into tar-blackness. Ahead is the rural road, walled in and canopied by trees blocking out light from all sides and above.

  Crack!

  Something strikes the back window, where the receding light from the inn glitters on a crystalline web; a bullet has struck it at an angle, glancing off without puncturing.

  We’re a country block away before the four of us in the back begin to untangle our limbs and find the floor with our feet. The dome light springs on, blinding us.

  “Is anybody hurt?” Kevin, anxious, dividing his concentration between the back and the road ahead. Margo’s face is a mask of anxiety over the back of the passenger’s seat.

  Cartoonishly, Josh, Gabby, Sharon, and I pat ourselves all over, searching for holes. We look from one face to another, and despite the tragedy and horror of the night, we burst into hysterical laughter.

  By pure chance, scrambling in panic, the Moores and their guests have managed to come to rest in the classic position of a family and friends bound on a weekend outing: Dad behind the wheel, Mom beside him, the kids crowded in with the couple they’ve invited along.

  Chapter 31

  Two months later, the governor makes a special trip to Willow Grove to present Police Chief Cameron Howard with a medal of valor for his actions in Saskatchewan. Commander Lewis of the State Police wheels the guest of honor across the stage of Gabby Moore’s high school to accept the decoration. Howard’s face, burned in the bungalow fire, is still partially bandaged, and he’s had hip surgery after taking a blast from a shotgun fired by one Emmanuel Flood, a known dealer in meth and harder drugs on both sides of the border, and a former resident, now deceased, of Calgary, Alberta. The chief appears self-conscious in his dress uniform, dark brown with brass snaps and the inevitable clip-on necktie. But he can’t hide his relief that he’s finally out of the hospital.

  In his speech introducing the governor, Commander Lewis announces that former United States Marshal Dale Edward Mercer has been apprehended in Toronto, Ontario, while attempting to board a plane for Central America. Canadian authorities report that he’s agreed not to fight extradition if the American prosecutor lets him plead to a lesser charge of first-degree manslaughter, and to testify against Jeremy Adder.

  “He’s getting off easy,” Sharon whispers.

  “Maybe not,” I murmur back, “if what Cam says is true about what happens to cops in prison.”

  At the reception in the multipurpose room, Kevin excuses himself to shake hands with Tiffany Thurgood and her partner, Dorothy, who played such an important role in finding the Moores. Howard, looking embarrassed, sits in the center of a shifting knot of well-wishers; the only constants are his diminutive blond wife and their preteen twin boys. Kevin returns, and Sharon and I wait with him and Margo for the crowd to thin out before adding our congratulations. Josh and Gabby are chattering away with fellow teenagers by the refreshment table.

  “To friends.” Kevin raises a plastic glass filled with something nonalcoholic, as per school rules.

  Sharon and I lift ours more reluctantly. “You more than us,” I say. “We brought the wolf to your door.”

  “And an end to our flight,” Margo adds, sipping. “If you hadn’t, we’d still be running.”

  “I’m glad for that,” says Sharon. “I can’t stop thinking about poor Randy MacBride. If we’d told him the truth—”

  Kevin interrupts. “You didn’t know who you could trust. This way, you flushed Mercer out into the open. None of us knew he was there, except Cam, and he was on his own. We might all have been slaughtered.”

  “Enough of that.” Margo beams at Sharon. “Where are you making this character take you on your honeymoon?”

  “British Columbia, can you believe it?”

  Kevin’s brow wrinkles. “Prospecting for gold?”

  “No need. I already hit pay dirt.” I wind my arm around Sharon’s waist.

  He smiles. “Still feeling the years, old-timer?”

  I return the expression. “Who you calling old?” Then the smile fades. “I’m taking on extra work, by the way. I intend to pay back that loan on time.”

  His face doesn’t change. “No hurry. Adder will never miss it.”

  And he winks.

  The Housewife

  James Patterson

  with Sam Hawken

  Prologue

  She’d done it before, but every time it was different enough that it thrilled all over again.

  For the night her name was Mari. Not like Mary, because Mary was dull. No, it was a drawn-out ah and felt like a warm breath. The man she was supposed to meet tonight had asked for someone special, and of the options he chose Mari. Mari with the mystery name. He had to know it was a lie, but there was the barest possibility it might be true, and that was part of the game.

  In the back of the limousine Mari heard nothing but the low tone of the engine. The city streets, the lights, and people of the midweek night, were locked out behind smoky glass and she was hidden from them in turn. She was alone with her thoughts
of what came next. Even the partition between the driver and passenger compartment was firmly closed.

  Mari made herself a drink. It was her third so far. She didn’t need it, but she liked the sensation of pushing the edge of too much, as if she were floating past those muted lights and people. She relaxed and put her feet up on the long rear seat, looking down at her bare legs, bed-tanned against the dark upholstery.

  The dress she wore was a black, silk-lined J. Mendel, the skirt cut above the knees. Dark eyelet lace made subtle floral patterns around her shoulders and formed delicate sleeves. The dress cost two thousand dollars, and she would make half that tonight alone. Her closets at home were full of dresses like this, in white and cerulean blue and more. She had auburn hair that cast down to the lace of her dress in sculpted ringlets, and she chose the colors that made her hair catch fire to the eye. She was a striking woman, but she wasn’t as young as she used to be and her hair was all the more important now.

  Her phone trilled. Mari opened her tiny clutch purse to find it. She put it to her ear.

  “Are you almost there?” the man on the line asked before she said a thing.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then you’re still on time. He said he wouldn’t wait. One minute too long, and that’s it.”

  Mari kicked off her shoes and drew her feet up underneath her. Her skin was tingling. It was the drink and anticipation mixing in her veins. “You think he’d be angry if I was a little late?”

  “You want to test him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “If you disappoint him…” the man on the line said.

  Mari smiled and let the teasing into her voice. “Then you’ll be angry.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  The limousine slowed. Mari saw the familiar windows of the restaurant by the hotel. Her heartbeat picked up and her throat tightened. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Then I’ll be very angry.”

  She flushed. The limousine stopped. “I have to go.”

  Mari ended the call without letting him say good-bye. She gathered up her shoes quickly and got them on by the time the driver had her door open. She slid over and out, holding down the short hem of the dress to keep the doorman from seeing more than he should. It was brilliant here at the entrance to the Ambassador Hotel, all lights and brass. She flicked a lock of hair away from her face and went in without looking left or right.

  The man at the desk knew her by sight and didn’t stop her as she crossed the heavy rugs that lined the marble lobby. Mari went straight to the elevator and pressed the button for the tenth floor. When it stopped it made a gentle chime. She stepped out into an empty hallway lined with dark wood. The sound of her heels were absorbed by the carpeting.

  She found the room. She stood in front of it, seeing herself reflected in the brass number plate. When she breathed, she felt light-headed. The rest of her was warm and fluid, as if she were infused with something intoxicating. She knocked.

  The door came open. A man a little older than her husband stood revealed on the other side. His dark hair was streaked heavily with gray. His tie was undone, but still around his neck. He had his shoes off. Mari saw the amber drink in his hand, and the single, glossy cube of ice soaking.

  Nothing was said. He looked at her and she shivered. “Am I…late?” she asked.

  “No. Come in.”

  The room was large, richly appointed, and had a broad window open to a view of the electric city. The man passed a small table by the door and gestured with his drink. Mari saw the plain envelope left there on the polished cherry.

  He walked to the window, drank the last of his drink, and put the tumbler down. His gaze was flat. He had a sharp jawline and a swimmer’s body. Mari approached him. The heat in her body had risen to her head and she floated across the carpet. She reached up to put her arms around his neck. He caught her by the wrists, tightly enough that she gasped out loud.

  When they kissed, it was with urgency. He forced her arms to her sides before he let her go, drawing her by the waist against him. Mari felt the hunger coming away from him in surges. Then he was pushing her until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she sat sharply.

  His hands lifted her skirt to her waist. She was bare underneath, and the cool air of the room played over naked skin. He wanted her back to him and she obeyed. His pants hit the floor, the buckle thumping. She heard him breathing as her hair fell around her face. He held on to her, and she gripped the bed as breathing turned to gasps and then it was done.

  He stepped back and let her sit on the bed. She saw his face had gone pink, and a sheen of sweat showed on his forehead, pasting stray hairs to the skin. He breathed through his mouth.

  “Is that all you want?”

  The man straightened. He pushed his hair back into place. “No,” he told her.

  He undressed himself and then she helped him undress her. They crawled onto the bedspread. He had his tie in his fist. They kissed and she let him put her hands above her head. The tie slipped between the wooden slats of the headboard, then into place around her wrists before going taut. Their bodies were pressed together.

  “Is that all you want?” Mari whispered in his ear.

  “No,” the man said, and then they went on.

  Chapter 1

  On the morning Maggie Denning saw Holly Gibbs for the first and last time, she dressed her one-year-old twins, Lana and Becky, for the unseasonably cool May morning air. She strapped the girls into the seats of the double stroller, made sure a warm blanket draped over both children’s legs and feet, then put on her own jacket to go outside. It may still have been too cold for morning walks, but Maggie was tired of being indoors and the spring had been miserable for too long.

  She was at the door when she stopped at the thought of leaving something behind. She hurried upstairs to the master bedroom and went to her dresser. The top was bare. For a moment she was confused, and then she realized she was looking for a detective’s shield and identification that weren’t there anymore. After almost two years she forgot, and now she stood in the bedroom laughing at herself for thinking it was time to get back on the job.

  The girls waited patiently for her when she returned. “I almost took you two to work,” Maggie told them. “You want to do paperwork all day? No? Okay, then, let’s walk.”

  It was after ten in the morning, and the bedroom community of the Parish at Beverly Point had gone mostly quiet. The hustle came at the beginning and end of the day, when SUVs and expensive sedans plied the clean and orderly streets to and from work in nearby Castletown. For the housewives like Maggie who stayed behind, the neighborhood grew too still and on a chilly morning like this one the fieldstone faces of the sprawling, four-thousand-square-foot houses on her street seemed as gray as tombs. A security company sent a car to lazily patrol, but it was for appearances only. Maggie rarely saw it.

  Maggie didn’t listen to music while she walked, preferring the quiet chirping of her daughters as Lana and Becky babbled to each other in twin-talk. A few birds flickered through the leaves of trees struggling into life against the weather. The drone of the stroller’s rubber wheels was unchanging.

  She reached the end of her street and chose another at random. Her walks could take an hour or more, and range all over the development. The Parish covered a lot of ground, and even after having lived there eighteen months Maggie was not familiar with every house or every family. Something about that itched at the back of her brain, as though she should know and it was unacceptable not to.

  Somewhere a dog barked. The clouds lay heavy in the sky, threatening rain. The pavement was already dark from an overnight drizzle. Maggie’s attention wandered, and she barely heard the engine creeping up on her from behind until the car was right beside her.

  The Mercedes limousine was glossy, as if a fingerprint had never been left on it. The windows were impenetrably black. Maggie started when she saw it in the corner of her eye and she stopped as it cruised past, not s
peeding up nor slowing down. Its taillights were brilliant, and they flared as it reached the far corner of the block and turned, coming to a stop along the curb in front of a redbrick house with its porch light still burning.

  Maggie was within a few yards of the limo when the driver got out. He was clad in a gray uniform with a cap, and his face was set in stone. He barely glanced at Maggie when he rounded the limo’s tail to reach the curb. He opened the rear door and said nothing, staring straight ahead.

  The woman emerged. Maggie saw her hair first, striking and red, then the sooty black of her expensive dress. The woman stepped up on the curb and Maggie saw only the back of her head as she told the driver good-bye. The door was closed. The driver got back behind the wheel. The limousine pulled away. It was an efficient transaction, and now Maggie was alone with the woman and the girls and the quiet neighborhood.

  Bare arms and heels, a high skirt with a girlish flounce. A dress suitable for a party, but not for the chilly morning. The woman looked left and right, and only then noticed Maggie there. She jumped and put her hand to her chest. Maggie saw the woman had a red mark around her wrist. A binding mark. “Oh, my God, I didn’t even see you there,” the woman said. Her voice was slurry from drink and tiredness. She had the air of someone who’d been up all night. Her makeup was mussed. Maggie’s eyes flicked to the woman’s other wrist. It was marked, too.

  “We didn’t mean to startle you,” Maggie said. “We’re only passing through.”

  The woman was in her mid-forties, maybe four or five years younger than Maggie, who was nearly fifty. Her lipstick was smeared. She smiled broadly. “Babies! Oh, what cute ones! How old?”