All the Dark Places(90)

“His or hers?”

“Both, we think. But they peter out pretty quick.”

I glance at Joe. “They couldn’t have gotten too far on foot.” I turn back to the sergeant. “What about his vehicle?”

“Gone. Hers is still here, but his isn’t.”

Shit. “You think he could’ve taken her?”

“Possibly.”

“We’ve got a BOLO on him and his vehicle, so hopefully someone will spot him, and hopefully Mrs. Ferris is okay,” I say, my eyes sweeping the room as if clues might be hidden among the bric-a-brac. “You get anything out of the kids?”

“Nope. They were asleep. Didn’t hear anything. Their bedroom is upstairs in the back, so it stands to reason. And they haven’t seen or heard from their father since Friday night is what they told us.”

“Did they see their mom this morning? Her call came in just after four a.m.”

“No. Last they saw her, she kissed them good night about ten.”

So Ferris has an hour and a half lead on us. He could’ve gone back to Boston. He could’ve gone anywhere. I call and update the chief, and he tells me there’ve been no sightings of Ferris or Mrs. Bradley there, but they are working with the phone company, pinging his cell.

But I can feel it in this quiet house, as though an evil presence has been here and gone. Mrs. Ferris’s fear is nearly palpable, and I know we’re running out of time. Joe and I get in our vehicle and head back toward Graybridge.

*

We ride in silence, each lost in the puzzle at hand. Where would Ferris go? Where would he take his wife? Where would he stash Mrs. Bradley? There are thousands of basements in and around Boston if that’s where he is. But for all we know, he’s taken both women on a twisted road trip. Or, my stomach clenches, we’re already too late. Neither woman is alive.

I shake that thought from my head. Get a grip, Rita.

We near Boston. The city lights blink in the gray early dawn. My phone rings. Lauren.

“We’ve got it, the location of his cell phone.”

“Where?”

“Downtown.” She gives me the coordinates.

“We’re close.” I turn to Joe and instruct him to get off two exits from where we are now.

“Boston PD’s got SWAT on the way,” Lauren says.

“Do we know where he is exactly?”

“Just the intersection I gave you. It’s a neighborhood of old row houses, empty and slated for demolition. Should be lots of basements.”

“All right. We’ll be there shortly. Good work, Lauren.”

The area has been cordoned off. Police and SWAT vehicles line the deserted streets. The area is depressed and ugly as it rises through the early-morning light. Joe and I trot toward a table set up as a command center. A tall man in a SWAT jacket leans over a map that has been weighted down with cop radios, which crackle with chatter.

He introduces himself quickly and outlines the search quadrants where officers are currently scouring. I look down the street. Houses that one hundred years ago would have been filled with families, children on their way to school, men and women on their way to work. The few spindly trees are winter bare and forlorn as they fight to survive in front of the abandoned homes.

Joe and I join up with a team and head down the broken sidewalk. We’d rather take part than stand still and wait. There are blocks of empty houses. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.

We clear several decrepit basements, empty save for rats and debris, broken household items, and other remnants of lives lived long ago. I’m working up a sweat despite the cold temperatures and falling snow. And I’m feeling more despondent with every cleared building. Where are you, Molly Bradley?





CHAPTER 70


Molly


IT’S MORNING. DIM LIGHT FROM THE LONE WINDOW ILLUMINATES THE basement in dull gray. My fingers throb; the numbness has worn off, and I’m in a lot of pain. I wonder when Cal will be back, and if Laken is okay. If only there were a way I could warn her, but that’s impossible. All I can do is prepare for Cal to come back for me.

I think about Jay. How it would hurt him to see me like this. Fresh tears slip down my cheeks. He was a good person, and he probably wondered about Cal, worried about him, but wanted to talk to him first before going to the police. He would’ve wanted to be sure. He probably held out hope that Cal hadn’t hurt anybody. Annalise was still just a missing person at that point. I heave a deep breath.

My thoughts travel back to my family, too. My parents and how totally ineffectual they were at handling a crisis, how they drew back into their routines and careers, even as my life crashed down around me. I think about Corrine and how she was the only one who really had my back, and I start to cry again. I haven’t always been a good sister.

I glance up at the window and see snowflakes, fat and delicate, riding the air currents slowly to the ground through the gray dawn. This brings up a memory as well. My Grandpa Wright. Back before Keith Russell, we used to drive out to his farm on Sundays for dinner he cooked himself. Grandma had died years earlier. My parents were always in a rush to go home when we were out there. They didn’t like his little house, which smelled of animals and pipe tobacco. But Corrine and I used to like it there. I don’t remember much about Grandpa, but I do remember one thing he used to say. When Dad would ask him if he was going to clean up the place, or if he’d agree to move into town, he’d always say, “If I winter.” When I asked what he meant, Dad frowned and said that was Grandpa’s way of saying if he lives until spring. Now I understand. There are no guarantees in this life. Who knows if any of us will survive?