All the Dark Places(89)

Joe wanders down the hall. In the meantime, I ring Mr. Harris, who abruptly verifies Mr. Westmore’s story while giving me an earful about the troublesome retaining wall.

When Joe returns, he motions for me to follow him out of earshot of the others.

“Anything?” I ask.

He whispers, “My agents on Mr. Ferris can’t find him. They’re outside his house, but he’s not home, and his vehicle is gone.”

“I’ll call Mrs. Ferris again.” I fish my phone out of my pocket.

Her voice is husky with tears. “I told you, Detective, I have no idea where Molly is—or my husband, for that matter.”

“Tell me about your husband.”

She draws a deep breath. “He and I have been having trouble lately.”

“How lately?”

“The last year or so.”

“Why? What’s been going on?”

“He’s been upset over some medical stuff. He’s changed.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

She sniffs. “He’s not dying or anything.”

“That’s good. How has that changed him?”

“He’s angry, irritable. Drinking too much.” She goes quiet. “He choked me,” she whispers.

“When?”

“Last summer. Just one time. Our son walked in, and he stopped. I told him if he touched me again, I’d kill him. And he hasn’t. But things haven’t been the same after that. I don’t know what to do. Leave, I guess. But the boys worship him.”

“Does your husband have anything against Mrs. Bradley?”

“No. I don’t think so.” But there’s a tremble in her voice. “I don’t know what to think anymore, Detective. I really don’t.”

“Uh huh. You sure you have no idea where he is? We just want to talk to him.” I glance up and meet Joe’s gaze.

“I don’t. I’d tell you if I did. As far as I know, he’s home.”

“Are you still at your parents’ house?”

“Yes. I had planned to come home tomorrow.”

“Are your parents there?”

“No. They left this morning for Florida. It’s just me and the boys.”

“Okay. Be sure to let us know if you hear from your husband.”

She says that she will.

Joe and I huddle as I tell him what I learned from Mrs. Ferris.

“He’s our man,” Joe says. “I’d bet on it.”

The kitchen is full of people and the dog, quietly tripping over one another. Afraid to speak as if it would shatter a spell. Sniffles, shoes brushing the floor are the only sounds. I break the silence and reassure Mrs. Bradley’s family and friends that we’ll keep them informed. Then Joe and I head out into the cold and drive back to the station. News vans nearly clog the road as we approach, and all the lights are on in the building. No one’s going home tonight.

*

There’s no news on Ferris and nothing on the search as the big wall clock in the squad room passes midnight. I pour myself a sludgy cup of breakroom coffee and head to my office.

At four a.m., sitting in my office chair, I’m startled out of a light doze. My phone, clenched in my hand, is ringing and vibrating. I nearly drop it in my hurry to answer.

“He’s here,” a woman whispers. “He’s got a gun.”

I recognize her voice, sit up straight, instantly awake, adrenaline spiking. “Mrs. Ferris? Where is the house located?” She gives me the address before the call ends abruptly.

I rocket out of my chair, reciting the address under my breath, my heart thumping wildly. I blink my eyes in the glare of the squad room light. Joe has commandeered someone’s desk and is working on his laptop. He jumps up when he sees me. “What?”

“Let’s go! Ferris is at his wife’s parents’ place on the Cape.” I swing by Bob’s office and tell him what’s going on as we hurry by.

Inside a cruiser, I hit the GPS while Joe pulls into the street. It’ll take about an hour and twenty minutes to get there. I call for backup from local PD. They’ll arrive a lot quicker than we will, and we head to I-495 south.

*

The huge, gray clapboard house comes into view under a fancy streetlight. It’s right on the beach and got to be worth several millions. Cop cars are parked along the sandy road, their lights strobing through the morning darkness.

Joe and I exit our vehicle and are hit with damp, salty, frigid air. The crashing of waves in the distance lends an eerie backdrop to the scene. We hurry up the steps and enter through the unlocked front door. All the lights are on as we make our way to the kitchen. Several local uniformed officers are clustered there. One young female cop sits at the table with the Ferris boys, sleepy-eyed and scared, bowls of untouched cereal in front of them.

A sergeant peels off the crowd and leads us into a living room filled with furniture covered in off-white canvas slipcovers. Blue and green knickknacks cover the end tables, and magazines are fanned on the coffee table.

“We haven’t found them,” the sergeant says. “When we got here, the kids were still in bed, the front door was wide open.”

“No Ferris or his wife?”

“No. We’ve got officers combing the area, but so far no luck. We did spot tracks in the sand.”