Missing You(12)

Gerard did not bother to question the order. He started down the narrow path. Running away did not seem to be an option. Even if the man didn’t shoot him, where would he go? He could hide in the woods maybe. Hope to outrun him. But he had no idea which direction to head. He had no idea if he would be running toward a road or deeper into the wilderness.

It was, it seemed, a fool’s plan.

Plus, if these people wanted to kill him—he assumed that there was more than one since the brute had said “we”—they would have done so by now. So stay smart. Stay observant. Stay alive.

Find Vanessa.

Gerard knew his stride was approximately 81 centimeters. He counted the steps. When he reached two hundred steps, which added up to 162 meters, he saw a break in the path. There was a clearing not far away. Twelve steps later, Gerard was out of the thick woods. Up ahead, there was a white farmhouse. Gerard studied it from afar, noticing that the upstairs window shades were dark green. He looked for electrical wires leading toward the house. There were none.

Interesting.

A man stood on the porch of the farmhouse. He leaned casually against a porch post. His sleeves were rolled up, his arms crossed. He wore sunglasses and work boots. His hair was dirty-blond and long—shoulder length. When he spotted Gerard, the man beckoned for him to come inside. Then the man slipped through the door and out of sight.

Gerard started toward the farmhouse. Again he noticed the green shades. There was a barn to his right. The dog—yep, it was definitely a chocolate Lab—sat in front of it, patiently watching. Behind the dog, Gerard could see the corner of what looked like a gray buggy for a horse. Hmm. Gerard also spotted a windmill. That made sense. These were clues. He didn’t know what they added up to—or maybe he did and that just made the situation even more confusing—but for now, he just let the clues sink in.

He walked up the two porch steps and hesitated by the open door. He took a deep breath and stepped into the front foyer. The living room was to his left. The man with the long hair sat in a big chair. His sunglasses were off now. His eyes were brown and bloodshot. Tattoos covered his forearms. Gerard studied them, trying to form a mental photograph, hoping for a hint as to who the man might be. But the tattoos were simple designs. They told him nothing.

“My name is Titus.” There was a lilt in the man’s voice. Something silvery and soft and almost fragile. “Please sit down.”

Gerard moved into the room. The man named Titus pinned him down with his eyes. Gerard sat. Another man, what one might call a hippie, entered the room. He wore a colorful dashiki, a knit cap, and pink-tinted glasses. He sat at the desk in a corner and opened a MacBook Air. All MacBook Airs look alike, of course, which was why Gerard had put a small piece of black tape on the top of his.

The black tape was there.

Gerard frowned. “What’s going on? Where’s Vanessa—”

“Shh,” Titus said.

The sound sliced through the air like a reaper’s scythe.

Titus turned to the hippie with the laptop. The hippie nodded at him and said, “Ready.”

Gerard almost asked, “Ready for what?” but the sound of that shush still kept him silent.

Titus turned back to Gerard and smiled. It was the single most frightening sight Gerard Remington had ever seen.

“We have some questions for you, Gerard.”





Chapter 6


Fishkill Correctional Facility’s original name was the Matteawan State Hospitial for the Criminally Insane. That was in the 1890s. It remained, in one capacity or another, a state hospital for the mentally ill until the 1970s, when courts made it harder to arbitrarily commit those deemed insane. Now Fishkill was labeled a medium-security prison, though it had everything from minimum-security work-release prisoners to a maximum-security S Block.

Located in Beacon, New York, nestled somewhat picturesquely between the Hudson River and the Fishkill Ridge, the original brick building still greeted you upon arrival. With the razor wire and the disrepair, the place looked like an Ivy League campus by way of Auschwitz.

Kat used professional courtesy and her gold badge to get past most of the security. In the NYPD, cops on the street had a silver badge. Detectives had the gold. Her badge number, 8115, had belonged to her father.

An elderly nurse, dressed completely in white with a vintage nurse’s cap, stopped her at the hospital wing. Her makeup was garish—deep blue eye shadow, neon-red lipstick—and looked as though someone had melted crayons onto her face. She smiled too sweetly, the lipstick on her teeth. “Mr. Leburne has requested no visitors.”

Kat flashed the badge again. “I just want to see him”—she spotted a name tag reading SYLVIA STEINER, RN—“Nurse Steiner.”

Nurse Steiner grabbed the gold badge, took her time reading it, then looked up to study Kat’s face. Kat kept her expression neutral.

“I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“He killed my father.”

“I see. And you want to see him suffer?”

There was no judgment in Nurse Steiner’s voice. It was as if this would be the most natural thing in the world.

“Uh, no. I’m here to ask him some questions.”

Nurse Steiner took one more look at the badge and handed it back. “This way, my dear.”

The voice was melodic and angelic and downright creepy. Nurse Steiner led her into a room with four beds. Three were empty. In the fourth, the one in the far right corner, Monte Leburne lay with his eyes closed. In his day, Leburne had been a big, beefy bruiser of a man. If a crime involved a need for physical violence or intimidation, Monte Leburne had been the meathead to call. An ex-heavyweight boxer who’d definitely taken a few too many shots to the head, Leburne had used his fists (and more) in loan-sharking, extortion, turf wars, union busting, you name it. After a rival family gave him a particularly brutal beating, his mob bosses—who respected Leburne’s brand of loyalty because it was so akin to stupidity—had given him a gun and let him work the physically less demanding task of shooting their enemies.