The dollhouse, p.29
The Dollhouse, page 29
Stanhope’s eyes grew large and then he burst out laughing. “Olivia? This is about Olivia?” Peter lunged toward him but Nick held him back. Edward began to laugh. Laughed until he was holding his sides and tears were streaming down his cheeks.
When he finally regained himself, Stanhope said, “I’d like to consult with my attorney. And a cup of coffee would be wonderful.”
They were done. Detective Rodriguez slammed the car door.
It took every ounce of control Peter had to stop himself from shoving Nick to the ground so he could get to Stanhope and beat the truth out of the bastard.
The shocking baritone horn of an emergency vehicle bleated through the hushed tones of the scene around Edward’s house. Peter almost ignored it. Then he realized it wasn’t another police car—rather the deeper blare of one or more fire engine approaching. Not here, but nearby.
And on the other side of the window, Edward flinched.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN
December 25, 2006
“I feel like I’m saying this a lot today, but: Something is not right. He was surprised when you called him on Olivia. As if he expected something else. What else? What did he think we’d pulled him for?” Peter paced back and forth, his eyes on the monster on the other side of the interview room glass. Edward Stanhope appeared to be absolutely unconcerned.
“The fact we got him for Olivia is amusing to him, but why? Is it because for him, it’s an old crime? Because he knows we can’t find her and pin him for it? Or because he knows something we don’t, something bigger and badder that will make Olivia seem like small fish?” Nick studied Edward.
“I don’t know. But I can’t stand here doing nothing.” Peter said. He stood at the curb and tried to take it in, tried to pinpoint what was bothering him. It was hard to focus with all the people here, and a house on the street behind was apparently on fire... thick gray smoke clouded the sky and the sounds of big machines pumping water created a low hum behind the human noises at his scene.
“What’s with the fire?” Nick asked one of the guys from Crime Scene.
“One of our guys spotted smoke and called it in. House is either for sale or otherwise unattended; don’t know if someone would have noticed it, this time of day, if we weren’t already here so lucky break.”
Nick thanked him and followed Peter up the walk toward the orange house.
Peter stopped and repeated almost under his breath, “Don’t know if someone would have noticed... “
This was a middle-class neighborhood, populated by working folks who went to jobs between 8 and 5. Could be a few stay-at-home-mom types, but they would be running errands, or napping while they had the chance.
Peter rushed through the house, slammed to a stop at the door to the back yard. He felt wild, a bit out of control. Nick glanced down at a cop exploring the shrubbery around the house and asked absently, “Find anything?”
“Not yet. This place seems clean as a whistle.”
This place... this place...
The words hit Peter and Nick at the same time. Peter raced down the back stairs, Nick on his heels, across the nicely kept yard, toward the back of the property... no one here yet, why would they be? The privacy fence was typical and unimpressive. Peter started pressing fence panels, not entirely sure why... he could hear the voices of fire personnel on the other side, the honks, and gurgles of machinery. He could smell both water and smoke. He almost got popped in the shin when one of the boards gave to the pressure of his hand and swung outward... bringing three of its brothers with it.
They slipped through the passageway and found themselves looking at the yard of the house behind.
The abandoned house.
The house that was on fire.
The house that probably would have burned to the ground if not for a fluke.
The house, the house, the house...
“Hey!” One of the firemen had spotted them. “Move on, guys. This is not a lookee loo event.”
Nick flashed his credentials. “Nick Winston. Have you been inside?”
“Lt. Josh Raynor. Not really. According to the neighbors it’s owned by a family estate and should be empty. Why is the FBI investigating a fire?”
“We’re not. Crime scene back there,” Peter nodded behind them. “You find anyone? Is there a girl inside?”
“A girl?” The lieutenant lurched toward the house. “Our initial exam found nothing on the first floor but we haven’t looked farther. We’re fighting now to keep the main floor from collapsing.”
Peter asked. “Is the fire contained? How’s the smoke? If someone were in that house, is there a chance they’re still alive?”
“Jesus. Well, yeah, I suppose. If they were in the basement they’d have a chance. The fire seems to have started on the main floor, and fire burns up. Smoke also travels up. But—” As he spoke a large cracking sound ripped through all the other noises and the house shifted in on itself. “Holy hell! It’s collapsing.”
“Someone purposely weakened the structure.” Nick considered. He put an arm out in a subtle attempt to block Peter, silently advising him not to do anything stupid.
“Why the hell would someone do that?” Josh moved with him toward the house, already grabbing his radio. “We may have life, we may have life. Law enforcement believes there may be a girl, possibly in the basement.”
Bodies encased in heavy layers of protective gear began moving with the grace of ballerinas, charging the small house with various pieces of equipment. There were shouts of dismay when another wall began to give.
If there was life inside, it probably wouldn’t last long.
Peter shoved past firefighters toward the back door.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED FIFTEEN
December 25, 2006
The fire was contained.
It was hard to tell what had been here before. The floors of what appeared to be the living and dining rooms were caving in on the basement. There was minimal furniture—a sofa, a couple of small tables, all very old, not fancy. It felt—random. Nothing like the orange house, and not what you’d expect to find in a lived-in home in this neighborhood, which made sense since the house was supposedly abandoned. The few furnishings hung to the edges of the solid floor, adding an additional layer of hazard to those working below. Fire personnel were cabling and attaching and yelling and shouting as they tried to stabilize the structure enough to make a full investigation and find anyone who might have survived.
If survival of this hell was possible.
Peter stood where he was told to stand, and waited as patiently as he could bear, but he was so clenched inside he was afraid his organs would explode. He wanted to be down there, looking, but the fire chief refused. It was too unstable and he wasn’t properly trained or dressed. They would search and bring back whatever they found.
He kept reminding himself to breathe. In, out. Ignore the sickly sweet smell of the air. Stay focused and present until you can do some good. Until you can see Olivia. She’ll need you. And Jesus... you’ll be able to call Ben. Tell him you found his sister. Finally.
A shout of surprise and dismay and then excitement. Voices crackled through the radio attached to the fireman next to him. He couldn’t quite make it out, but the fireman sent him to an area that had been set up to receive any bodies. EMTs paced, as impatient as he to get busy.
He held his breath as a giant firefighter appeared from the guts of the house, a tiny body cradled gently in his arms. Confusion scrambled Peter’s brain and he could only stare. This wasn’t Olivia. Not Olivia.
The fireman passed the tiny child to the waiting EMTs and Nick felt his legs weaken under him, guilt and disappointment clenching his fists. No wonder Stanhope had laughed at them. He knew they wouldn’t find Olivia. They were too late.
But who was this? The child was black with soot, no more than two or three, a little girl, he saw now, clutching a stuffed dog. His brain was itching, burning, trying to get him to connect something but...
Behind his back, another fireman came out, this time carrying a young man whose body was stiff with rigor. “This one is gone but there may be another—”
Peter was up on his feet and spun, pushing past the startled firefighter. This one? There may be another? He rushed past objecting hands and picked his way down through the rubble, careful not to slide on the wet muck under his feet. He followed the sound of voices into the mouth of the hell house, the hole that had been the basement, shoved past a crew of men holding axes. They’d had to carefully create an opening in a wall to access. He could see the room. The square room built of concrete brick, with a stack of bunk beds on one wall and a single cot on another. Had people lived here? Had these children spent their days and nights in this prison cell
“There’s another body—wait, there are two!” Nick shouted to him as Peter stepped in.
Clinging together, on the lower bunk. They were so filthy with soot, Peter couldn’t make out features or hair color or ages, but the one most easily visible was likely female because she was wearing a skirt. Nick charged in and reached for her. He lifted her limp body into his arms and looked down at her face, shock and awe and horror jarring his nerves. His thumb brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, and to his amazement, blue eyes opened, and she stared at him, silent and expressionless. Her voice was coarse from smoke and, probably, crying, when she finally said, “Are you heaven?”
Nick handed the young girl to a firefighter but watched them go, watched her staring at him, watched her take a deep breath, and close her eyes again. “We have a live one!” one of the fire personnel shouted into his radio. “We’re bringing her up!”
Peter was bent over the other body on the bed, wailing. He lifted her into his arms and carried her out of this inferno, this hell, this evil, evil place.
His daughter had been found
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN
December 26, 2006
Nick stayed with Angel, since she had no one else. The police and doctors that swarmed her were making things worse. Angel wasn’t at all interested in closing her eyes and was even less interested in accepting any drugs that might take away her control. Her angry refusals had turned all heads toward her room, but in the end, modern medicine and strong nurses had knocked her into a rebellious sleep.
Now Angel lay in a rigidly still state amidst the bland hospital bedding. One arm was up above her head in an unnatural bend that looked extremely uncomfortable. The other was tucked tightly against her chest in a defensive position as if she were clutching a football and running for a touchdown. She had somehow wrapped the blankets and sheets around her so that no one could touch her without moving them—and presumably waking her.
Nick hated, despised, resented that Angel was alone. Where were the caring hands to comfort and soothe? Who was going to sit at her bedside and guard her so she could sleep without drugs? Who would hold her hand when she woke from a nightmare, screaming? Who would be her safe place when she needed to breakdown?
A government-issued social worker was the knee-jerk option. Shine was dead. Junior was in prison. The mother’s best friend had briefly considered stepping up but came to the conclusion she wasn’t emotionally or financially prepared. There were no other interested parties. No one that wouldn’t be on payroll to invest in this girl’s sanity, her future.
Nick slipped into the chair beside the bed and studied her. Butter-pale blonde hair fell in chunky waves around her face, over her shoulders, down her back. Before all of this, she would be a pretty young thing. Bud had been as blonde as a California surfer. They had the same eyes; bright, intense blue rimmed with flecks of brown and green, like a constellation. Nick had never seen eyes like theirs before. Even in death Bud’s had been notable.
Time to go. Nick had to get back to the hotel, pack his gear, and get to DC. He made it to the door.
Angel panted in her sleep, and her legs flailed under the covers. Tears damped her eyelashes and cheeks.
Nick slid back into the chair.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
December 26, 2006
“Who are you?” The soft voice startled him awake and Nick nearly fell out of the chair. His right leg and arm were both screaming at him as blood rushed back.
“Huh—”
“Who are you?” Angel had pushed herself up in the hospital bed and was pressed into the pillows. It was dark outside. The clock read 3:36 a.m. He’d been here five hours.
“Nick.” His mouth was pasty. A knot of something was lodged in his throat. Disgusting.
She stared at him, telling him with those penetrating blue eyes that wasn’t enough information.
“Nick Winston. FBI.”
The edge of her mouth tipped up, just barely, and she said, “So not heaven.”
“So not.” He agreed. “How are you feeling?”
“Why are you sleeping in the room?”
He couldn’t explain to himself why he felt like he had to watch over her. “I sat down to think things through and next thing I know you’re asking who I am.”
“What things?”
“Lots of things. It’s been a busy few days.”
She stared at him, her head cocked slightly to one side. Finally, she said, “Thank you for finding us.”
He nodded.
“What happened to Bud?”
Nick frowned, trying to decide what she meant by the question, but Angel clarified for him, “What have they done with his body? Where will he go?”
“I’m not exactly sure but I’ll find out. Do you have a preference? Do you want him to go back to Indiana and be buried there?”
Her lower lip quivered almost imperceptibly... it was hard to tell under the crusted blood, leftover from biting. She said, “I want him cremated, I think. I want him to be with me always. How do I tell them that?”
“I’ll tell them. We’ll get it arranged.” Nick sat up straighter, ignoring his aching back. “I’m very sorry, Angel. Your brother was a hero.”
She nodded once. “What will happen to me now? I—I don’t have anyone to live with.”
“I don’t—”
“Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it now,” Angel busied her hands plucking at the blanket that covered her legs. “How is Olivia? She was hurt pretty bad.”
That was an understatement. “The doctors have spent lots of time with her, doing everything they can to help her. She’s going to be okay.”
“Good.” Silence. Then, “What about Grace? She okay?”
“She’s good. You’d never know—” Nick stopped, and wondered when the hell he’d become such an idiot. He was good at his job. He was great at his job. But here he was in the presence of a fourteen-year-old girl, and he was breaking rules and inserting his rather large foot in his mouth every other word.
“It’s okay. I’m glad she—I’m glad.” Angel nodded again, reassuring herself of something. “The doctors haven’t said much to me about... how I’m doing. They poked and took pictures and stuck needles in me and then shoved pills down my throat but no one has said—whether—I’ll be okay.” Her fingers grabbed larger pools of fabric, twisted and rubbed.
“I’m not a doctor so it would be better if one of them talked to you. I’m sorry you’re having to go through this.”
“I don’t care that you’re not a doctor.” Angel stared at him, cocked her head again, then said on a whoosh, “I feel safe with you. You won’t lie.”
Nick debated running for the door. He had no business getting this involved. He’d gotten too close with Peter and now here he was doing it again. Maybe he wasn’t such a great agent after all. No boundaries.
“They’re running tests to see if you have any STDs.”
“What’s that?”
“Sexually transmitted diseases.”
“Oh.” Angel shook her head. “I won’t.”
“And if you’re pregnant.”
Angel snorted. Nick caught a glimpse of what she might have been like if life had taken her a different way.
“That’s funny?”
“Alfred couldn’t really—um—get someone pregnant. He had issues.” She shrugged, smiled a small smile. “I guess he had lots of issues. But he never—did that—to me. That wasn’t what I was there for.”
Nick frowned. Angel obviously had no idea Olivia was pregnant. If Alfred wasn’t the father, then who? Bud?
Angel changed course abruptly. “Are you married?”
Nick tried to connect the change in direction, found nothing, shook his head.
“Why?” She persisted.
“Why what?”
“Aren’t you married? You’re handsome. And you must be smart to be in the FBI.”
Funny, Angel didn’t look anything like his sister Dru, who was always after him to settle down. “Um... I just... I spend too much time working.”
“That was good for us, I guess,” Angel said.
Nick smiled. “I’d love to take credit, but Olivia’s father is the one who broke this case.”
“Do you have a dog?” Angel almost looked excited by the possibility, and her face fell when he shook his head no. “Oh. I can’t wait to meet Hannah.”
“Hannah?”
“Olivia’s dog. She told me stories. I want to meet Hannah more than just about anything, since...” Her face fell again.
“Since?”
“I found out about Shine. Mom.” Angel’s voice cracked on the word ‘mom’ and Nick wanted to touch her but knew that was a bad idea.
“I’m so sorry, Angel.”
“Can you go now? I’m tired.”
Feeling helpless, Nick nodded and pushed out of the chair. “Will you call me if you need anything? Want to talk? Anything?” He laid his card on the table next to the bed. “I mean it.”
