CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
C HAPTER F ORTY -O NE
A light appeared ahead. Bree stopped and scanned the landscape. “Hold up!”
Ahead, Collins commanded the dog in German. Greta dropped to her belly, but she lay rigid as a Sphinx, her focus riveted on the house.
A back lawn sloped upward to a large house with a massive deck and big expanses of glass to take advantage of the views. A dock jutted out onto the lake like a pointed finger. At its base, a long metal trap held a raw chicken carcass.
The alligator trap set by the zoo’s reptile guy.
“I know where we are.” Bree studied the back of the house. A mosquito droned near her face. She waved it off as the mossy scent of lake water drifted to her.
Matt stepped up next to her. “Madeline Jager’s place. I should have known we were close when I saw the gator.”
“Now we have to worry about Claire and Jager.” Bree studied the back of the house. “The great room looks dark, but there’s a light at the other end of the house. Jager’s bedroom?”
“Probably.” Matt squinted into the night. “Looks like one of the deck sliders is open.”
“Denver probably went inside.” Bree’s gaze swept the building again. “What’s his goal?”
“He might be after a vehicle.” Matt adjusted his grip on his rifle. “He already has a hostage.”
“He doesn’t need to keep Jager alive.” Bree moved forward.
They crept closer. Through the glass on the back of the house, Bree saw two figures moving through the dark kitchen. She directed the team to split up. Collins and Greta would remain outside in case the suspect ran. Bree didn’t want the dog alerting Denver inside the house before they had a clearer picture of what was happening or how many people were inside. Jager could have company. Todd and Zucco would move toward the front of the house, look for a way in, and block Denver in case he attempted to exit the front door to access the detached garage.
Bree and Matt headed for the deck steps—and the open sliding door.
The second tread squeaked. Bree froze. Matt’s shoulder bumped hers. They waited. A cricket chirped. The cry of an owl carried over the water. When no sound or motion—or bullets—came from the house, Bree started to climb again, keeping to the side of the steps, where the treads had support. She transferred her weight carefully to each step. They reached the deck and crept across the boards to the open slider.
Bree glanced inside. Night-lights showed an empty room. With Matt at her flank, she swept her Glock into each shadow. They passed through the kitchen, dimly lit by another night-light in an outlet set in the backsplash. Sweat trickled down Bree’s spine and gathered at the small of her back.
Voices murmured from a doorway. Bree continued toward them. A light shone at the end of a hall, but most of the room wasn’t in her line of sight. With Matt behind her, they stole down the corridor. At the entrance to a room, she put her shoulder to the wall and pulled out her cell phone. Turning on the camera, she inched the lens on the device around the doorjamb. Better than risking her face. On the tiny screen, Denver pointed a gun at a king-size bed. He held Claire by the hair with the other. Claire was between Bree and Denver. In the bed, Jager reclined against pillows, a book splayed on her lap. She was helpless, at Denver’s mercy.
Like Josh and Shelly Mason, Bree realized with a sick feeling. An image of the bloody body on the white sheets flashed into her mind. She blinked it away.
“I know you’re there,” Denver said in a cool voice. “Come on in, or I’ll blow her brains all over her wall. You know I will. I’ve done it before.”
Bree withdrew her phone. She motioned for Matt to circle around to the glass slider or a window, where he’d hopefully have a clear shot at Denver. She stepped into the room, her gun pointed at Denver. “Put down the gun, Denver. You can’t escape. The house is surrounded.”
He waggled the gun pointed at Jager. “She has a car. I’m taking it and driving out of here.”
Bree heard the team responding, reorganizing in her earpiece.
“I’ll kill both of them.” He must have pulled Claire’s hair because she yelped. “You shouldn’t worry about this one anyway.” Denver paused for effect. “She’s as guilty as I am.”
Bree’s heart thudded. “What do you mean?”
“She helped me.” Denver’s voice rose with glee. “How do you think I knew when the Masons would be in bed, that the security system would be off, the best way to get into the house? She wanted them dead too.”
“I don’t believe you.” But in the back of Bree’s mind, pieces of the case began snapping into place like LEGOs. Denver hadn’t needed to know the Masons’ routines. He didn’t need to know the layout of the house or the time the Masons turned on their alarm system.
Because Claire did.
A second thought sent a chill into her marrow: How much of the investigation was based on Claire’s statements?
“Why would Claire do that?” Bree needed to stall until Matt got into place.
“Because the Masons were shit.” Denver’s tone turned bitter. “Josh killed our dad. Then he stole Blaire and ruined my whole life. He wanted to do nasty things to her. Right, Blaire?”
Claire’s legs sagged. Her head lolled forward for a few seconds. When she lifted it, her eyes were bleak with shame—utterly hopeless—as if she didn’t want to draw another breath. But she didn’t deny Denver’s claim.
Even as Bree questioned how Denver had learned the truth, she knew he wasn’t lying this time. Claire had helped him kill Josh Mason. What teenager could deal with learning her adoptive father had murdered her biological one? On top of all that, it sounded as if Josh had also made inappropriate advances on Claire. Bree hoped he hadn’t succeeded.
Claire shook her head. She wasn’t crying. She’d shut down. “I did it. I helped him kill them.” She spoke in a monotone, her voice emotionless, dead.
Bree didn’t waver. “Claire will face the consequences of whatever she’s done, but I’m not going to let you take her anywhere.”
“Oh, really?” Denver focused on Jager and straightened his arm. He was going to shoot her. His eyes gleamed with anticipation. He wanted to do it. Wanted to kill. Wanted to inflict pain on others to somehow compensate for his own. To make other people—anyone and everyone—pay for the damage he’d suffered.
Helplessness swamped Bree. She couldn’t shoot him without risking Claire’s life. Bree started forward, as if she could stop him—and his bullets—with her bare hands.
“No!” Claire spun and flailed at him. He shoved her away, pointed the gun at Jager, and pulled the trigger as Claire gathered a foot under her body and launched herself into the air. The gun went off, the sound echoing. Claire landed on the bench at the foot of the bed. A red stain bloomed on her shoulder.
No! Bree’s heart stumbled. Whatever Claire had done, Bree couldn’t let her die. But before she could save the girl, she had to eliminate the threat.
Movement flashed in Bree’s peripheral vision: Jager rolling out of bed and taking cover.
With Claire out of the way, Bree fired at Denver, but he was already turning and shooting back at her. She dropped to the floor, squeezing off two more rounds as her knee smashed into the carpet. A quick flash of pain burst up her leg before adrenaline numbed it. A bullet whizzed by her head and stuck in the door. Bits of wood splintered and exploded into the air. She crawled behind the bed and took aim over the mattress.
The sliding glass door shattered. Glass pebbles rained across the floor like marbles. Matt stood on the other side, the butt of his rifle raised. He’d broken the door to get to them.
Someone groaned.
Claire.
The bloom of blood on her shirt was spreading quickly. Too quickly.
With Matt cutting off his escape path, Denver turned and raced for the bedroom door. On his way, he fired two shots toward Matt, who withdrew behind the doorframe.
Bree fired a shot at Denver as he disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen. Matt crouched in the doorway, rifle at the ready.
Bree waved him back toward the door. “He’s headed toward the kitchen.”
Matt went after him, charging through the room.
Bree had a choice. Stay and save Claire or chase Denver.
She headed for Claire, using her radio to update the team of Denver’s retreat. Then she called for an ambulance. Regret already knotted her gut. She hated sending someone else—even her well-trained team—to do a dangerous job instead of doing it herself. It was the one type of delegation she couldn’t accept. Yet she had no choice.
“I need a towel!” she yelled.
Jager shoved a thick white hand towel into her hands. It was folded in a fancy square, with a monogrammed MJ showing on the top. The bullet had pierced Claire’s shoulder. Bree rolled the girl and checked for an exit wound. None. Settling her on her back, Bree placed the folded towel over the wound and pressed down.
Jager nudged Bree out of the way. “You go. I’ve got this.”
“You’re sure?”
Jager knelt. The blue silk of her pajama set soaked up blood as she used her stacked palms and body weight to apply pressure. “Yes. Go.”
Bree scrambled to her feet. She could hear the team in her earpiece. Matt was in the lead. Bree headed for the door, sliding on a carpet of glass beads. Matt had gone through the house. Bree would try to cut off Denver outside.
Please. Don’t. Die.