NOS4A2(126)

“You’re tapping Lou’s cell phone?” Feeling a little stupid even as she said it.

“Of course we are. For all we know, he had a part in this. For all we know, you did. You told Margaret Leigh that you tried to make your story believable but that we weren’t buying it. You’re right. I don’t buy it. I never did.”

Vic wondered if she could throw herself at Tabitha Hutter, slam her back over the dresser, get the Glock away from her. But the smart-aleck bitch probably knew special FBI kung fu, and anyway, what good would it do? What would Vic do then?

“Last chance, Vic. I want you to understand. I am going to have to arrest you on suspicion of involvement—”

“In what? An assault on myself?”

“We don’t know who bruised you up. For all we know, it was your son, trying to fight you off.”

So. There it was. Vic was interested to find she felt no surprise at all. But then maybe the real surprise was only that they had not reached this point sooner.

“I do not want to believe that you played a role in your son’s disappearance. But you know someone who can provide you with information about his well-being. You’ve withheld facts. Your explanation of events sounds like a textbook paranoid delusion. This is your last opportunity to clear things up, if you can. Think before you speak. Because after I’m done with you, I’m going to start on Lou. He’s been withholding evidence as well, I am sure of it. No dad spends ten hours straight trying to fix a motorcycle the day after his son has been kidnapped. I ask him questions he doesn’t want to answer, he starts the engine to drown me out. Like a teenager turning up the music so he doesn’t have to listen when Mom says it’s time to clean his room.”

“What do you mean . . . he started the engine?” Vic asked. “He started the Triumph?”

Hutter produced a long, slow, weary exhalation. Her head sank; her shoulders sagged. There was, finally, something besides professional calm in her face. There was, at last, a look of exhaustion and maybe, also, defeat.

“Okay,” Hutter breathed. “Vic. I’m sorry. I am. I hoped we could—”

“Can I ask you something?”

Hutter looked at her.

“The hammer. You had me look at fifty different hammers. You seemed surprised by the one I picked, the one I said Manx used on me. Why?”

Vic saw something in Hutter’s eyes—the briefest flicker of uncertainty.

“It’s called a bone mallet,” Hutter said. “They’re used in autopsies.”

“Was one missing from the morgue in Colorado where they were holding Charlie Manx’s body?”

Hutter didn’t reply to that one, but her tongue darted out and touched her upper lip, glossing it—the closest thing to a nervous gesture Vic had ever seen out of her. In and of itself, that was a kind of answer.

“Every word I have told you is true,” Vic said. “If I left anything out, then it was only because I knew you wouldn’t accept those parts of the story. You would write them off as delusional, and no one would blame you.”

“We have to go now, Vic. I’ll have to handcuff you. If you want, though, we can put a sweater over your lap and you can hide your hands beneath them. No one has to see. You’ll sit up front in my car with me. No one will think it’s a big deal when we go.”

“What about Lou?”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow you to speak with him right now. He’ll be in a car behind us.”

“Can’t you let him sleep? He isn’t well, and he was up for twenty-four hours straight.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not my job to worry about Lou’s well-being. It’s my job to worry about your son’s well-being. Stand up, please.” She pushed back the right flap of her tweed jacket, and Vic saw she wore handcuffs on her belt.

The door to the right of the dresser swung back, and Lou stumbled out of the bathroom, tugging on his fly. His eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion.

“I’m awake. What’s up? What’s the story, Vic?”

“Officer!” Hutter called as Lou took a step forward.

His mass occupied a third of the room, and when he moved into the center of it, he was between Vic and Hutter. Vic came to her feet and stepped around him, to the open bathroom door.

“I have to go,” Vic said.

“So go,” Lou said, and planted himself between her and Tabitha Hutter.

“Officer!” Hutter shouted again.

Vic crossed through the bathroom and into her bedroom. She shut the door behind her. There was no lock, so she grabbed the armoire and dragged it squealing across the pine boards to block the bathroom door. She turned the bolt on the door to the hall. Two more steps carried her to the window that looked into the backyard.

She pulled the shade, unlocked the window.

Men shouted in the hall.

She heard Lou raising his voice, his tone indignant.

“Dude, what’s your beef? Let’s all settle the hell down, why don’t we?” Lou said.

“Officer!” Hutter shouted for a third time, but now she added, “Holster your firearm!”

Vic raised the window, put her foot against the screen, and pushed. The whole screen popped out of the frame and flopped into the yard. She followed it, sitting on the windowsill with her legs hanging out, then dropping five feet onto the grass.