The Shadow Box(93)
Conor strode over, both afraid he would find Tom and afraid he wouldn’t: and he didn’t. He spotted a torn scrap of blue fabric snagged on a low branch and a blood-covered Rolex watch with the stainless-steel band broken. The watch was facedown in the mud, and Conor thought he saw letters etched into the back of the case.
Conor knew, as if his brother were right here to tell him, that the watch belonged to Tom’s attacker, that Tom had ripped it off his wrist in a violent struggle. The thought of his brother being strong enough to fight gave Conor a shot of hope.
He left the evidence in place and walked toward the door of the house. The SWAT officers were exiting the front door, which meant that they had cleared the premises and most likely found no one inside—no one alive, at least.
“Anyone in there?” Conor asked Trooper Rich Sibley, standing by the door.
“No, sir,” Sibley said. “Trooper Allen reviewed security camera footage, and it looks as if two vehicles left the garage twenty and twenty-five minutes ago. We don’t have a description of the suspects or the plates. And the camera filmed in black-and-white, so we don’t have vehicle colors.”
“What about Tom Reid?” Conor asked.
“No sign of him,” Sibley said. “He is top priority. Along with the children.”
“Thanks,” Conor said. He considered the possibilities that his brother had been abducted, along with Gwen and Charlie, or that he had escaped. He knew the troopers would have broadcast a bulletin over the state police radio. The dispatcher at the barracks would inform the CTIC—Connecticut Intelligence Center—which, in turn, would alert all law enforcement agencies in the state. Because it was an assumed kidnapping, the NCIC—National Crime Information Center, run by the FBI—would send a teletype notifying law enforcement nationwide.
Conor walked over to the Major Crime Squad van. Maria Stewart was the forensics chief in charge of this sector of the state. Conor had known her since he was just starting out as a young trooper and she was already making her mark as a forensic scientist. They had worked together on many cases. He found her inside the van, dressing in white coveralls and booties.
“Hey, Conor,” she said.
“Hi, Maria.”
“I just heard about Tom. What’s his condition?”
“No idea. He didn’t sound good on the phone. There’s a lot of blood loss, and he’s not here.”
“Every force in the state is on this, Conor. I promise.”
“Hey, Detective! EMTs! Over here!” a forensic tech called.
Conor raced across the drive and beat the ambulance personnel by a few seconds. A shallow gully stretched the length of a hedgerow, and Tom lay in it. A starburst of blood bloomed on his left shoulder, but his eyes were open, and he nodded when he saw Conor.
Conor jumped in beside him, took off his jacket, and pressed it into the wound.
“Tom? Stay with me, okay?”
“They had Charlie—and they took Gwen. The girl shot me. I was so close to getting the kids out of here,” Tom said.
It killed Conor to see his brother’s eyes fill with tears. Tom squeezed them tight, his mouth clamped shut as if holding the pain inside.
“Sir, let us take care of him,” one of the EMTs said.
“I’m staying with him,” Conor said.
“No. Go find Charlie and Gwen,” Tom said, slurring his words. “That’s what you do—get them, make sure they’re okay. The dog . . . they’ll want to see Maggie. It will make them feel better, just ask Jackie, she’ll tell you about Maggie . . .” Tom’s voice trailed off.
Leaving his brother’s side was the hardest thing Conor had ever done. He watched the emergency workers take vital signs, pack the wound, move Tom onto a stretcher.
Conor watched the EMTs load Tom into the Life Star helicopter, shut the doors, and take off. Conor swallowed past the lump in his throat. He stood still, looking up until the helicopter disappeared from view. Then he got into his car, hit the siren, and sped toward the highway, in the direction of Catamount Bluff.
50
CLAIRE
I took the steep path at the end of Hubbard’s Point Beach and zigzagged into the trees. I had lived in these woods during the days after my attack. I had salved my wounds and bathed in Long Island Sound. I had counted on the ghost of my father and the cries of the mountain lion to keep me safe. Protection came in many forms. My love of nature and my father, and their love for me, had made me strong and brave, and I had survived.
I passed the rocky cove where my part of the mystery had begun twenty-five years ago, that summer night when I found Ellen’s body. I could still see the gold of her bracelet glinting in the starlight.
Had Ellen worn that bracelet in Cancún? Had the Roman coin, dangling from the heavy links, captured the ocean’s bioluminescence, the sea fire, the night she had been a witness to Griffin raping Marnie Telford? Spencer’s description of that hour on the beach seared in my brain, and it gave me even more courage, strengthened my will to continue down the path to Catamount Bluff.
I emerged from the woods into the clearing—the open property that ran between the houses and the edge of the trees. I smelled honeysuckle and roses; all the gardens were in bloom. Instead of ducking for cover, I held my head high and strode toward my studio. Waves broke on the rocks, their sound mingling with that of a lawn mower working somewhere down the road.