Cold Fire, page 5
Wrapped in several layers of clothing, sheltered inside a stone-built building out of the wind’s reach she shouldn’t have to worry about hypothermia, and yet it was an absolute threat. Her shoes and trousers were soaked, her feet so cold they were painful, and she had carried in an accumulation of snow on her coat and hats. She shook off the coating of snow and stamped her feet. In the mausoleum the sounds were unnatural and a shiver of dread rode through her again. She looked for somewhere best to rest. She wouldn’t avail herself of any of the raised crypts, so she went instead to the back of the room and found a plinth: once it might have been used to display wreaths and other floral tributes but was now bare. It was raised up enough to make sitting more comfortable than directly on the floor. She pushed her back to the wall and allowed it to assist her as she sank down on to her backside. A fire would have been very welcome, but she had no way of building one. One way she could warm up was by consuming food and, hopefully, the coffee she’d left in a thermos was still warm enough to reach her core.
‘Shit!’
Rather than lug them to town with her she’d left her provisions in the car.
Thankfully she’d had the presence of mind – even in her haste to dress against the weather – to fetch her purse, which she’d shoved deep into a pocket of the outer coat. Inside the purse were what little cash she had and also a cell phone she’d lifted off the table in a café when its owner was distracted. How had she ever believed she had a hope of escaping her dogged hunters when she made such reckless mistakes and become stranded in a blizzard? She had yet to use the cell phone and was concerned that by now it might have been reported stolen and the service canceled. She must reach out for help.
Without a plug-in cable to keep the cellphone charged, she’d turned it off to conserve what power was in the battery. It was a relief when the screen lit up and cast cold blue light around her. Its owner hadn’t protected its contents with a security pin number. The screen saver was of a trio of laughing children, and though they looked unlike her previous charges, it was still enough to send a spear of guilt through her.
She had to dig through her memory for a number; as was the case with most people, her personal cell had been filled with dozens of contacts whose numbers she didn’t need to memorize when she could call them at the press of a single button. The same could be said for even those closest to her. She had no hope of dredging up a number she’d once input into her phone, so instead she decided to go old school and phoned a landline instead: this number had been instilled in her memory since childhood.
EIGHT
‘Unexpectedly she rang our parents’ telephone number,’ Detective Ratcliffe relayed to Tess, ‘so I was able to speak with her for a few seconds before warning her to hang up.’
‘You’re afraid that your parents’ phone has been bugged? I can’t imagine it—’
‘I should explain. Our mom and dad don’t live here anymore, they moved to Florida for the better weather. I kind of took over the family home at their bequest, so in effect, I also inherited their old landline. These days I rarely get anything other than marketing and scam calls on it, but have kept it in operation for if my parents ring home.’
‘I see, and there’s a possibility that your calls are being monitored?’
Po and Pinky were inside, attempting to figure out who their enemy could be, so Tess had taken her cell phone outside to hear better. She sat on the swinging seat Po had installed on the front porch, a place she could often be found when mulling over problems. The snow sifted beyond the overhanging porch roof, settling on the crushed shells on the drive. Po’s Mustang already wore white caps on its hood, roof and trunk. Tess pulled a knitted shawl over her thighs.
‘It sounds paranoid, but I’d say it’s a probability rather than a possibility.’
‘Is bugging a person’s phone something you’ve ever done as a detective?’
‘No, but that isn’t to say it has never happened. You used to be a cop, Tess, you know what law enforcement is capable of.’
‘Bugging phones and hacking computers and such is for Hollywood and the FBI, not for a county sheriff’s department in sleepy old Maine.’
‘I’d guess that Boston PD has more resources than your sheriff’s office and my police department ten times over. I might have been overly cautious, but it wasn’t a chance I was willing to take, for Jo’s sake. I noted the number she was ringing from, told her I’d call back from a secure line, but unfortunately when I found a working payphone I was unable to contact her again. A recorded message announced she couldn’t take my call; I assume her cell’s battery probably died. I’ll have to wait until she charges it again, or makes contact by other means.’
‘By your actions I’ve the feeling that you’re less and less convinced of her guilt and more inclined to help her evade capture,’ Tess probed.
‘Before she hung up she asked me to help her. It doesn’t matter what lies are being spread about her, she’s my kid sister and it’s my job to protect her. Besides, you’ve seen the latest developments over in West Roxbury, right? The more I’ve heard what Jo’s supposed to have done, the less plausible it sounds. Two more unidentified male corpses … for Christ’s sake, does killing them sound like the actions of a kiddies’ nanny?’
‘It doesn’t take a trained assassin to pick up a rock and smack somebody over the head,’ Tess said. ‘But, no, I’m in agreement with you; this does not sound like the actions of a nanny. At first when the story involved the murder of the children, then, yeah, maybe, but then the mother was added to the equation, and now two more grown men? To begin with, Jo has been a handy scapegoat for the real killer, but surely the charade can’t be kept up now.’
‘I don’t know about that, even some of my colleagues still think her capable.’ Ratcliffe snorted in self-deprecation. ‘They say if she’s half as tough as I am, and desperate to escape, then she can probably kick the ass of anyone that gets in her way. I don’t consider myself tough, it’s the fact I carry a badge and a gun that I’ve managed to get by; Jo doesn’t have the benefit of either.’
‘Sometimes the most unassuming can be the most surprising.’
‘Yeah, especially if we are talking about Tess Grey. You’ve proven you’re a bad ass, Tess, but beyond some scratching and hair pulling, I don’t think Jo’s ever been in a real fight. You on the other hand …’
‘I’ve usually had help from Po,’ Tess insisted. ‘One of the few times I didn’t I almost had my hand chopped off by a drugged-up guy who would probably blow away on a stiff breeze. Please understand, I’m not trying to make a case that your sister’s a murderer, but we can’t fully discount it either. What if she had an accomplice?’
‘No, I don’t buy it. She’s no angel, but that doesn’t make her a devil. Jo’s incapable of the crimes she’s been accused of, and I’m more certain of that every passing second.’
‘Good. It will make helping her less difficult if we’re convinced of her innocence.’
‘I’m convinced, what about you, Tess?’
‘I’m getting there. As long as Joanne gives me no reason to change my mind, then all’s well.’
‘I’m happy to hear it.’ Again Ratcliffe snorted, but this time it was at her reticence to fully trust Tess before. ‘We actually shared more than I admitted to earlier before we ended our call. Are you confident that your cell is secure, Tess?’
‘I’m as confident as I can be.’
‘Jo’s in an even worse predicament than before. Has the blizzard hit you yet? It has where she is and she’s gotten herself stranded. If I could, I’d fetch her myself, but you’re much nearer to her, Tess. Is it safe for you to go and collect her?’
‘Safe traveling in this whiteout? I’d say no, but Po might be of a different opinion. He mostly does our driving these days, and even the harshest weather doesn’t seem to faze him.’ As if to prove that it was the dominant force, not Po, the storm grew wilder, with hearty gusts of wind bending the creaking treetops, and the snow falling in flakes as large as silver dollars. ‘However, I can’t promise to go without first speaking with him. He has problems of his own to contend with right now.’
‘He has? In relation to …?’
‘We’re unsure. But before you ask, it can’t be connected to Joanne’s case, because this stuff Po’s dealing with started before you contacted me.’
‘Right,’ said Ratcliffe. It sounded as if she hadn’t space in her head to waste on thoughts of anything else but getting her sister back safely. Tess understood. There was nothing more important to the detective than Joanne’s safety.
‘Are you going to tell me where she is?’ Tess prompted.
NINE
‘Another dead end,’ said Bruce Harper as he slipped into the passenger seat. The car sank a few inches on its suspension. He was a huge man, thicker about the waist than his barrel chest, and sporting the scarred eyebrows and malformed nose of an unsuccessful boxer. His eyes were the color of glacial melt over slate, just a touch darker hued than his thin hair.
The driver of the car, a freckled woman who insisted her name was pronounced Sh’von and not See-oh-barn, pinched her mouth at the news. She’d heard similar from him at the dozen or so other gas stations and diners they’d checked already. Harper knocked snow off his hair with leather-gloved fingers, allowing it to fall in the footwell of the car as he squinted across at her.
‘You think we’re wasting time, Siobhan?’
‘Like I said already, Harper, I trust your instinct. You’ll get a hit, just you wait and see.’
‘Told you, this ain’t about instinct, and no sixth sense either, just plain ol’ logic and detective work.’
‘I hear you.’
‘You should. I’ve proven my method works on past hunts.’
‘That you have, Harper, that you have.’
He brought up a map on his smart phone.
The police in New Hampshire were following up on a possible sighting of Joanne Mason at a crummy roadside motel a few miles shy of Portsmouth and the state border. Supposedly she’d fled the scene in such haste that she literally dumped her room key on the road outside; had she returned it to the site manager she wouldn’t have raised any suspicion, but once her rashness had been highlighted, the manager – a would-be armchair sleuth – had gotten to wonder and had pulled up CCTV footage of her on first arrival. Comparing the images on his computer to those depicting the wanted Angel of Death, he’d jumped at getting his hands on the reward that’d been offered for information leading to her arrest. He guessed that Portsmouth PD was currently sharing images with the local FBI office, determining through the feds’ facial recognition software if the disguised woman was Joanne Mason or not. They were welcome wasting their time, Bruce Harper decided, because if she hadn’t fled the motel only to hole up again nearby she’d have probably kept on driving. From what he’d learned about those on the run, those panicking tried putting distance and often a barrier between them and their pursuers. Once across the Piscataqua River Joanne would’ve been in Maine, but still within spitting distance of Portsmouth – too close – so had probably kept on fleeing, watching New Hampshire diminish in her rearview mirror. In her shoes, he thought he wouldn’t stop before reaching Canada, and perhaps not even then.
While the cops in Boston, and now in Portsmouth, pecked after old crumbs, Harper decided that he’d catch her only if he was hot on the trail. He’d crossed into Maine and foregone any of the major towns and cities she could have gone to, instead plotting several routes she could’ve taken north. Again, figuratively squeezing his size twelve’s into the fugitive’s shoes, he had determined how she’d plotted on crossing the border unchallenged. Somebody more resourceful than a glorified babysitter might find any dozens of passages into Canada, but he’d bet she would stick to the roads and hope that whatever bogus identity she’d assumed held up. There were five or six official ports of entry into the country on the north and eastern borders of Maine, with others to the west if Joanne took a hard left and headed for Quebec province. On her current trajectory, though, it was more plausible that she’d strike out for New Brunswick, using roads other than interstate highways where there was more possibility of being pulled over by the state police. After checking on a map, he thought she would choose between three crossings: those at Houlton, Vanceboro and Calais/St Stephen – he discounted the crossing at Lubec as it would take her on to Campobello Island and no further, unless she decided to row a boat up the Bay of Fundy.
‘Let’s try that way,’ he announced after studying the map. He aimed a finger at the map and Siobhan had to lean across to see his instruction.
‘You want me to take Route Two?’ she checked.
He grunted affirmative.
Already they’d progressed beyond Portland, Augusta and Bangor. By now, most hunters would’ve given up and turned back, but that wasn’t in Harper’s playbook. He often sneered at Siobhan’s assertion that he was ‘a goddamn human bloodhound’, and wouldn’t admit aloud to her that often he was simply very lucky. If a hunch struck him, he wasn’t the type to ignore it: maybe he was being guided by some divine power from above, his very own eye in the sky. Yeah, right! He followed logic and clues, not only gut feeling, and found that as a trinity they served him well.
‘Can’t see her trying for the Calais to St Stephen crossing … towns are too built up,’ he said. ‘I think she’ll try somewhere with less traffic.’
‘Surely it’d be easier trying to blend in with a crowd than at a quieter crossing?’
‘Ordinarily that might be the case, but from the way she’s acted till now, she has avoided other people. She’s changed her appearance twice now that we know of, and has probably done so again: she’s afraid, paranoid about being recognized. In her mind, she probably thinks the fewer people see her the safer she is. You and I know that is not always the case, Siobhan.’
Sometimes, bored guards tended to be more particular once given something to do. Rather than a passing glance at her, Joanne would probably be questioned and studied at length, to determine why she’d chance traveling in this hellish weather.
Siobhan tugged Harper’s wrist, angling his phone towards her, studying the immediate route on the screen. ‘D’you have a sense of where it is she’s likely to go?’
‘If it was me, I’d try for the Orient crossing –’ he dabbed a finger at a spot at the very top of the map, before moving to the extreme right – ‘or right here at Vanceboro.’
Siobhan studied the map, tracing the road from the border back across country. If she got off the highway at Lincoln, then it was a fair assumption that Joanne had made for the crossing over the St Croix River at Vanceboro. ‘So if we stay on this road to Lincoln, then … that must be at least fifty miles, Harper.’
‘I’d say so. But there won’t be fifty gas stations on route. We can check them all in maybe an hour or two and then if we’ve learned nothing …’ Harper paused, considering his next move. ‘Nah, let’s not be negative. Something’s going to come up. I can feel it in my water.’
‘I thought you didn’t put any stock in that mumbo jumbo,’ Siobhan teased. ‘Men of your age just tend to pee more often in cold weather, that’s all.’
He scowled, but then his face lost its deepest ridges. He smiled. With his lopsided nose and thick lips, he was reminiscent of a big friendly ogre. Those that knew him for real wouldn’t be fooled: there wasn’t a friendly cell in his body. ‘Hit the road,’ he growled.
She drove, undaunted by the heavy snowfall.
There was good reason that Harper had paired with Siobhan Doyle for the hunt; it was for her driving abilities. Whether he found redheaded, green-eyed women attractive was neither here nor there.
None of the stops bore fruit, until they were beyond Lincoln, for which Harper found he was thankful. Now they were on a country road, rather than a highway or Interstate, it narrowed the choices of which crossing the fugitive was heading for to one: Vanceboro. Harper enjoyed it when his method was vindicated.
Siobhan had barely arrived at the gas pump before a middle-aged clerk hobbled out of the convenience store. First the man eyed the lowering sky, and then he eyed Siobhan a little time longer. He was unaware of Harper seated within her large SUV because of the tint on the windows and the amount of snowflakes swirling under the canopy over the pumps. Colored light from the store and roadside signage gave the snow a kaleidoscopic unreality.
‘It’s cash up-front, ma’am,’ he called. ‘You going far?’
‘Far enough for a refill of the tank,’ she replied.
‘This ain’t the weather for traveling,’ he told her.
‘I’ve got my snow tires on and the heater blows hot air, so I think I’ll be good. How much do you need?’ She took out her hip wallet and opened it to display several credit cards.
‘Like I said, it’s cash up-front.’
‘Don’t you charge?’
‘Normally I do, yeah, but not in this blizzard. Phone lines are down, so’s the Internet. If you want gas we’re gonna have to do it the old, reliable way.’
Siobhan shivered. Inside the SUV she had been immune to the storm. The wind cut sideways under the canopy, dotting her with huge flakes. She checked her wallet for bills. She could barely scare up twenty-three bucks and that little gas wouldn’t take them far enough. ‘Gimme a second, will ya.’
She returned to the SUV and appraised her passenger. ‘Do you have any cash with you, Harper?’
‘How much do you need?’
‘How much is a tank of gas these days?’
When you charged everything to your employer’s account you rarely took notice of the small things like the price per gallon of diesel. He dug a wad of bank bills out of his trouser pocket and peeled off a hundred bucks in twenties. ‘I want that back.’
