“My God,” she murmured. Past the dirt-streaked pane, she spotted Allen in the cellar. He was shirtless, and his trousers were all torn. Sweaty and panting, he looked like a wild man. He held a hammer in his hands. A rope hung from his wrists, which were bound with duct tape. The same tape had been wound around his ankles. One ankle had a splintered piece of wood still taped to it. It looked like he’d smashed up a table. The wood pieces were scattered around him. Allen kicked aside the tabletop and reached for something on the floor.
Susan was about to knock on the window, but she heard a car approaching. She turned and saw the headlight beams sweep across the trees bordering the driveway. She retreated from the window and hid behind a shrub. Then the headlights suddenly went out. But she could still hear the motor running. It sounded like the car had stopped halfway down the driveway. Had someone discovered where she’d hidden her car?
Susan scurried out from the shadowy bushes and darted behind one tree, and then another. Finally, she dashed into the wooded area by the drive. Catching her breath, she tried to get a glimpse of the car that had stopped just short of the Prewitts’ driveway. She couldn’t see it through the bushes and trees. But she heard a voice on a static-laced radio. Susan couldn’t make out what the woman was saying, though it sounded like the police operator.
Then she heard Deputy Shaffer talking in a whisper: “Well, hell, Nancy, I don’t know anything about that. Ms. Blanchette never said anything to me about a missing teenage girl. She must be confused. If you ask me, that woman is N-U-T-Z, nuts. She’s got me running around in circles looking for her missing fiance. I tell ya, these damn tourists are going to be the death of me….”
Susan hid behind a tree and tried to fathom what she was hearing.
Now she understood why the police operator didn’t know anything about the girl. It all started to make sense in a weird, frightening way. Earlier, when she’d heard Shaffer on his police radio reporting a possible kidnapping or hostage situation, he must have faked the call. Susan hadn’t heard any response when he’d made that second radio report.
She listened to the static-marred reply from the operator now. The woman said something about Rosie’s store. Susan couldn’t make out the rest of it.
“Well, I’m way out here by the winery,” the deputy lied. “I was chasing down a potential DUI, but the guy got away. So call Rosie’s and tell Ms. Blanchette I can meet her at the house at Birch Way in about forty-five minutes. That’s the soonest I can get out there, okay? Let’s keep her happy, and tell her I’m looking into this thing with the teenage girl. We’ll figure out what she’s talking about later. Okay?”
There was a garbled response on the other end. But Shaffer must have understood it, because he chuckled a bit and then said, “No kidding, over and out.”
From the wooded area, Susan watched the patrol car—with its lights still off—slowly round a curve in the driveway. She threaded through the trees and bushes and followed the vehicle toward the front of the cabin.
Shaffer shut off his motor and then climbed out from behind the wheel. The car’s interior light went on, and from what Susan could tell, nobody was in the backseat. He must not have run into Jordan’s friend on Carroll Creek Road; otherwise, he would have picked him up.
Shaffer wasn’t wearing his police hat, and the front of his uniform shirt hung over his pants. He looked as if he’d recently been in a tussle or something. Pausing outside his patrol car, he tucked in his shirt and smoothed back his short blond hair. He took out his gun and crept toward the front door.
A hammering noise erupted from the basement.
Stopping in his tracks, Shaffer glanced over toward the side of the house. He seemed to notice the light in the basement window. He skulked along the side of the house, then bent down and peered into the window.
The pounding from inside the house continued. Shaffer gazed into the basement for another minute. When he finally turned away from the window, Susan saw he was grinning.
He moved over to the front door and tried the knob. He put an ear to the door and then shoved the gun back in his holster. From a side pocket of his trousers, he took out something that looked like a ruler. He slid it in the door hinge a few times and then quietly opened the door. Putting the rulerlike device away, Shaffer took out his gun and stepped inside the cabin.
Susan sprinted across the driveway to the bushes at the side of the house. She crawled back to the basement window.
The pounding noise had been replaced by a creaking, splintering sound. She couldn’t see Allen in the basement anymore. She had to put her face close to the ground before she finally saw him near the top of the rickety-looking cellar stairway. He had a crowbar in his hands. He must have found a knife or some shears to cut the duct tape because his hands were free now. She guessed he’d also found some clothes in the basement, as he now wore a too-tight white T-shirt and white painter pants. With the crowbar, Allen alternated between hammering at the door and trying to pry it open. She couldn’t see his face, but she heard him cursing.
Susan gently tapped on the window, trying to get his attention. But he obviously couldn’t hear her past all of the racket he was making. She wasn’t sure about Shaffer’s intentions. Whatever they were, the guy couldn’t be trusted, and she had to warn Allen. She knocked on the glass again.
Then directly above her, a light went on in the living room window. Susan ducked and rolled against the side of the house. Sweeping across the bushes was the shadow of someone in the living room. He was at the window, looking out.
Lying on the cold, damp ground, Susan pressed against the side of the house. She held her breath—until finally, that figure moved away.
From the basement she could hear wood splintering. Susan scooted over and peeked down into the cellar again. But she didn’t see Allen anywhere.
Getting to her feet, she glanced over the ledge of the living room window. The deputy stood in the front hallway with his gun drawn. Then Allen staggered out of what looked like the kitchen area. He saw the deputy and stopped dead.
The deputy smiled at him. “Hello, Mama’s Boy,” he said. “We meet at last.”
Gasping for air, Allen looked exhausted and stunned. “So—the kid called you, huh?” Slump-shouldered, he leaned against the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. “Well, they’re both crazy. I’m no serial killer. I came here with my fiancee and her son for the weekend. These two teenagers, they’ve had me tied up in the basement here for—”
“Shut up,” Shaffer said firmly. He shook his head. “No one called me.”
Allen stopped talking. Susan could see he was still breathing heavily.
“You have to take my word for it, Allen,” the cop said. “When I made you come here, I didn’t think this was going to happen.”
Allen stared at him. “You? My God,” he whispered. “You’re the one who’s been sending me all those e-mails and letters….”
The deputy nodded. “That’s right, Mama’s Boy. I’m your number-one fan.”
Clutching a fireplace poker in his fist, Jordan stood in the bedroom doorway and listened to the two men. He still had an awful taste in his mouth from forcing himself to throw up ten minutes before. His throat felt raw, too. He’d swallowed down some cold water and gargled with Listerine, but it just hadn’t done the trick. He’d been in the bathroom when he’d heard the car pull up outside.
He’d figured Meeker must not have heard. The son of a bitch had been too busy wrecking the basement or whatever the hell he’d been doing. Jordan had grabbed a poker from the fireplace set and been about to go downstairs when he’d heard the car. He’d gone to the window and seen the cop doing something odd. The guy had snuck up to the house with his gun drawn, and then he’d let himself in. Jordan held on to the poker and waited in the bedroom. He’d been tired and punchy before, but he was wide awake now.
“You know, I thought you were dead,” the deputy was saying. “Earlier today, I ran into Jordan Prewitt at the abandoned chemical plant off Coupland Ridge Trail. I went back an hour ago and figured he must have sunk that sweet little BMW of yours into a swamp. I thought maybe you were in the trunk.”
“Was that your plan?” Meeker asked edgily. “Is that why you wanted me to come here to Cullen? Did you set something up with that lunatic and his friend?”
Jordan tightened his grip on the poker. He was starting to shake.
“Hey, I already told you, Allen. I didn’t expect anything like this to happen. See, I’ve always wanted to get you to come back here. And well, I’ve been banging a woman at Orcas Property Realtors, which gives me a chance to check out who’s leasing the different properties and where there are rental openings. I’m always on the lookout
