Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(114)

“Quiet!”

“Fuck you!”

Suddenly, Andrew wasn’t sitting across from me. Suddenly, he loomed over me, his face inches from mine, the fury in his eyes threatening to drill me to the floor. I wanted him to be crazy. I wanted to see a rabid light shining in his gaze. Instead, the determination in his face frightened me to the core.

“You will believe. You will visit the interplanes, you will open your mind and open your heart. Or you and everyone in this house will die. Are you paying attention yet, Danielle? Are you listening to me?”

Wordlessly, I nodded. His blue eyes were burning, burning, burning. He was on fire with something. Faith, I thought. Mad faith.

When he spoke next, his words were clipped and direct. “I’ve hidden a gun in this house. It contains four bullets. I know where it is, and the person who killed your family knows where it is. Now we’re going to have a race. Whoever finds the gun first gets to use it. To be fair about it, I’ll give you a ten-minute head start. You may waste time searching for a phone, if you’d like. The phone service has been disconnected, just as the electricity has been terminated. Also, this house was set up by Evan’s mother to contain him twenty-four/seven. The locks are key-in, key-out, and there’s only one key that works.” Andrew lifted a chain around his neck, to reveal the single key.

“Finally, before you resort to smashing windows or other such nonsense, understand that you’ll be deserting Evan; his mother, Victoria; and his father, Michael, who did me the favor of showing up at the hospital. When the ten minutes are up, I will shoot them. I doubt you can break a window, race to the neighbors’, and summon help before ten minutes expire, particularly as your hands will be tied for the duration of our little race. Continue your policy of denial and people will die. Face your past, open your heart, and you have a fighting chance. You’ve driven me to this, Danielle. But I’m trying to be fair about things.”

“You want … you expect me to find my father’s soul on the spiritual interplanes and ask him about the hidden gun? I’m supposed to … talk to him?”

Andrew tilted his head. “What do you fear most, Danielle? That he won’t offer to save you? Or that he will?”

“You’re insane.”

“An explanation that enables you to continue your policy of denial. Let me give you a hint: Who saved you that night, Danielle?”

“Sheriff Wayne.”

“How did he get there? You never left your room and your house was located miles from the nearest neighbor. Who heard the gunfire? Who called nine-one-one?”

I stared at him blankly, not getting it.

Andrew sighed, shook his head at me, then rose to his feet. “You focus too much on the corporal world, Danielle. You hate yourself for not saving your family’s lives. I want you to fight for their souls. You don’t know the truth of that night. You refuse to see what you can’t accept. And in doing so, you’ve damned them all, especially my father.”

“Your father?” I asked incredulously.

“The respectable Sheriff Wayne. An old soul trapped in the abyss. That’s the true hell, Danielle. That’s what all of us should wisely fear.”

Andrew glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes. You can confront your past, or you can lose your future. You can save my father’s soul, or I will use all four bullets. I’ll start with the mother. That’s how these things are generally done. Then Evan. Then his father. I’ll save you for last, the order you know best. Tell me, Danielle, how many families are you prepared to lose?”

Andrew disappeared into the gloom of the hallway. I sat frozen, too stunned to move. Then I heard a new sound, from the room next to mine.

“Mommy?” Evan whispered, his voice tinny with fear. “Mommy?”

Andrew was insane, I thought, and we were all going to die.





| CHAPTER

FORTY-ONE





Phil was a brilliant man. Via cell phone, D.D. gave him the update on Andrew Lightfoot, who appeared to have abducted Danielle and Evan. They needed Andrew’s last name and background info, fast.

Phil answered by cross-referencing Lightfoot’s address with the state licensing board for financial traders. Given that Lightfoot used to be an investment banker, it stood to reason that he kept his license up, if only to manage his own assets.

Sure enough, the database spit back the name Andrew Ficke, son of Wayne and Sheila Ficke. Sheila had an address in Newburyport, not far from her son. Wayne, a former sheriff, had died two years ago.

D.D. called Sheila, told the bewildered woman that her son was currently assisting the BPD with an urgent investigation and they needed to locate him immediately. A list of known addresses, please?

Turned out Andrew owned a seaside home, a yacht, and a co-op in New York. If souls really got to choose their experiences, D.D. was coming back as a New Age healer.

She doubted Andrew would run all the way to New York with an abducted woman. Seaside home too obvious. Yacht more interesting; lots of privacy out at sea. D.D. would notify local uniforms to watch the docks, and the Coast Guard to monitor the harbor.

“Sorry to call so late,” D.D. told the woman, not wanting her to be alarmed and attempt to contact Andrew. “We’re all set now. Thanks again.”

“What’s the case?” Sheila asked.