Two Days Gone (Ryan DeMarco Mystery #1)(87)

Huston peeled the tape off DeMarco’s lips but left one end attached to his cheek.

“Don’t take my service weapon, please,” DeMarco said.

“I’m sorry. I need it.”

“Thomas, c’mon. I’m too old to be demoted again.”

“I have no choice,” Huston said. He started to press the tape in place again.

“Wait, wait, wait. In the compartment for the jack on the side of the trunk. Take that weapon instead. It’s unregistered.”

Huston popped open the trunk again. With the service weapon now aimed at Inman and keeping him cowered to the side, Huston recovered the other handgun. Then he slammed shut the trunk.

“Thank you,” he said and pressed the tape over DeMarco’s mouth. “I’ll leave your service weapon on the shelf for you. Out of reach for now.”

He smiled one more time. Then he climbed into the car and drove away.





Sixty


Through the barn’s open door, the early morning mist was cool and as gray as a shadow. For the first few moments after Huston’s departure, DeMarco did nothing but inhale the morning in one deep breath after another. He was clearheaded and unhurt except for a dull throb at the base of his skull. It looks like you’re probably not going to die today, he thought and was a little disappointed in himself because of the shiver of pleasure the realization brought.

Even more pleasurable was the realization that Inman would die soon. DeMarco would do his best to prevent that because it was his duty to do so, but he knew he had small chance of success, and he considered his first priority keeping Huston alive despite the man’s obvious intent to subvert that duty.

DeMarco stood close to the wall and surveyed the possibilities. No nails within reach that he might employ as a scraping tool against the duct tape and nylon rope. But he soon discovered that if he moved as far from the wall as the rope allowed, held the rope taut, and rotated his hands downward, he could, with small, quick movements, saw the edge of the tape against the rope. Three minutes later, the tape around his wrists broke free. Now he could peel the tape off his mouth and pick at the knot on the rope. The latter was not easy with his upper arms down to the elbow taped to his body, but by bending forward, he could raise the knot to his mouth now, pull on it blindly with his teeth, lower it to check on his progress, then repeat the process until the knot finally gave way.

No longer tethered to the wall, he shuffled to the corner of the tool shelf, lifted the machete from its hook, and very carefully held the cutting edge against the layers of tape circling his chest. The tape split easily against the sharpness of the blade. With his arms free, he quickly unshackled his ankles.

He knew he should call in for backup, get an alert out on his car. But if he did that, he would have to report that Huston was armed. Any police officers encountered would be inclined to disarm him by whatever means necessary. And how would Huston react to that?

DeMarco felt certain he could track his friend down without such a confrontation. “You better be certain,” he told himself. “Because either way, you’re going to pay for this.” He recovered his service weapon and headed for the house.

In his living room he grabbed his cell phone off the floor, scrolled through the list of recently dialed numbers, found the one he needed, and hit the dial button. The clock on the DVR read 4:54.

He was grateful to hear Rosemary O’Patchen’s sleepy voice answer. “It’s Sergeant DeMarco,” he told her, “and I’m sorry to call you so early but I need your help, Rosemary, I really do.”

“What can I do?” she said.

“I need to know if there’s a place at the lake that has some special significance for Thomas. Some place private and secluded that he knows very well.”

“There is, yes. Is that where he is now?”

“It may be. I’m not sure. But I have reason to believe that I can find him there. How do I get to it?”

“It’s on the north shore,” she said.

“In Canada?”

“Excuse me?”

“The north shore of Lake Erie is in Canada, right?”

“Oh,” she said, and he heard the disappointment in her voice. “Then no, I’m sorry. I don’t know of any place along Lake Erie that was special to him. I mean, the kids loved the beaches; they usually went to Beach 7. But there’s nothing private or secluded about it.”

“I’m confused,” DeMarco told her. “What lake are you talking about?”

“Lake Wilhelm. Where we all went camping every summer.”

“Of course,” he said. “I should have thought of that first. This camping place is private?”

“Very private. In fact, each time we went there, he insisted we follow a slightly different path to the campsite. So we didn’t leave a permanent trail.”

“I need to know how to get there, Rosemary.”

“The easiest way is to go north on 19.”

“How far north?”

“About halfway between Sheakleyville and Black Run.”

“Okay, that’s good. But here’s the thing, Rosemary. GPS is useless for this. Can you give me landmarks? Tell me exactly where to make my turns?”

“Let me think for a minute,” she said.

He waited.