The Shadow Box(92)

Conor heard a loud smack, as if someone had just been hit, then both children sobbing.

“Is this really happening?” the woman asked. “Now we’re stuck with two brats? This was not in the plan!”

“Look, we’ve done our part,” the man said. “I proved myself to Dad. And so have you.”

“The difference is, I never needed to! My parents respect me. At least till now! Is my family supposed to keep these brats forever? Why did the boat have to explode? Fucking unforeseen nightmare—their damn mother should still be alive to take care of them.”

“What do we do now?” the man asked.

Since Ravenscrag was owned by Max Coffin, the woman had to be Emily, Alexander’s girlfriend.

“Proved myself to Dad,” the man had said a moment ago. What kind of dad made a kid prove himself by shooting someone? Griffin Chase, Conor thought, so if the woman was Emily, this must be Alexander.

“Let’s just get the kids inside and call for help,” the man said.

“Call the police?” the woman asked. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, call him—my dad will know what to do,” the man said.

Conor had already sent dispatch a text message to send police and an ambulance to Ravenscrag in Stonington. Tom could be dying. Conor sped onto the highway, listening to every word, every inflection of the voices on the phone. He pressed harder on the gas.

“Tom,” Gwen said, her voice shaking. “Tom needs to go to the hospital . . .”

“I cannot take this anymore,” the woman said.

Gwen started to scream, then Charlie did, the shrieks receding, as if they were being dragged away. Conor listened intently. He heard some scraping and fumbling, as if one of the two captors had stayed behind with Tom’s truck. He heard gurgling, as if his brother were choking on blood, trying to breathe.

“Shit,” the man said. “You’re still alive?”

Conor knew this was his chance.

“Listen to me, Mr. Chase,” Conor barked. “This is the state police. Do not hang up.”

“What the fuck?” the man asked.

“Alexander, I am going to give you some very careful instructions,” Conor said. “I know where you are, and I am on my way. So is an ambulance, so are local police, and Tom Reid had better be alive and on his way to the hospital when I get there.”

Silence.

“I hear him breathing right now,” Conor said. “If anything happens to him, the charge is murder. I don’t know who shot him—you or Emily. But he’s your responsibility right now. You got that? He dies, you’re his murderer.”

No answer.

“Did you hear me?” Conor asked. “You and Emily Coffin had better make sure those kids and my brother are safe. Understand?”

“Shit,” the man said. Conor heard the phone jostle, then disconnect.

Conor called dispatch to get precise directions to Ravenscrag. He was told it was just off Route 1, east of the borough, no street number, the drive flanked by two stone posts with ravens on top. She transmitted the GPS coordinates to his phone.

“Send every available unit,” Conor told her. “Get Life Star in the air right now. There’s at least one gunshot wound, adult male. Emily Coffin and one of the Chase sons are holding the two Benson children, Gwen and Charlie.” He swallowed hard. “The gunshot victim is my brother, Tom.”

“You got it, Detective Reid,” the dispatcher said. “We are all with you, every one of us.”

“Thanks,” Conor managed to say.

He sped toward Stonington. His mind was spinning, the shock of talking to Tom, hearing the shot, then hearing that horrific sound—how many times had Conor heard it in his life, at crime scenes, the death rattle of victims choking on their own blood? How much time did Tom have?

He tried to picture Tom—his older brother who had always been there for him, who had protected him when they were young, the ferociously tough Coast Guard Commander Thomas Reid—dying alone in his truck.

Conor stayed in the left lane, siren screaming, passing cars that pulled over to get out of his way, and when he hit a bottleneck at the Waterford junction of I-95 and I-395, he split the lanes in two and drove down the middle.

By the time he took the exit to Stonington Borough, he heard sirens and looked up to see the Life Star helicopter hovering overhead. Had it already picked up Tom, ready to fly to Yale New Haven, the closest level-1 trauma center?

No, it was landing now. Conor could barely breathe. He followed the chopper, heard the thwap-thwap of the rotors as he tore through the stone gates, up the hill toward the monstrosity of a house he’d seen in the photos of Dan Benson and at the sportsmen’s preserve.

The mansion’s turnaround was full of local and state police vehicles and two ambulances, lights still flashing. Personnel, including tactical units in riot gear, swarmed the front entrance. The helicopter was landing in an open section of lawn just south of the house. Tom’s truck was parked on the edge of the driveway, both driver’s-side doors open. Conor jumped out of his own car and ran to his brother’s.

The driver’s seat was a bucket of blood. It had seeped into the leather seat, coursed down the door side, puddled on the floor mat. Tom was not there. A trail of blood—not drops but thick, smeared swaths of it led from the driveway into a bayberry thicket—as if Tom had dragged himself into the bushes.