Forty-Four
Forty-Three
Crane left Alicia’s apartment building and headed for his car. He popped the trunk with his remote, the lid yawning open as
he approached. He dumped the box of magazines in there and vowed to get rid of them as soon as he saw a suitable spot. Got
behind the wheel, brought out his phone, and did some basic research. It didn’t take much time to come up with an address
for Holden.
There was one hell of a mess to deal with. It was Cleanup on Aisles Four, Five, Six, and Seven.
People who couldn’t keep secrets—either by deliberately revealing them or being too stupid to know how—were a liability. Catherine’s
blackmailer had been on that list, and Catherine’s son Holden was on it from the get-go. That had been Crane’s big mistake,
not nipping that problem in the so-called bud. Should have killed the boy that very night back in 1999. He’d have never had
the opportunity, years later, to tell Alicia Zane all about it, and, according to Zane, his nephew, Gage.
Catherine Chartwell’s mistake with the magazines had now earned a spot on the list too.
She had to go.
At least Crane didn’t have to worry about Brent Chartwell. Alicia Zane had evidently taken care of that. She’d have had little
choice but to eliminate him after he’d witnessed her killing that Kennard woman. Thinking she was Catherine.
He found Holden’s place and parked a few houses beyond it. There was no car in the driveway, but for all he knew Holden didn’t own one. Crane wasn’t worried about going up to the front door. Holden was unlikely to recognize him, not after all these years, and anyway, it was dark that night.
Crane knocked. Ten seconds later, he knocked again. When there was no answer, he tried the door. Locked. He glanced to be
sure no one was walking past, then put his shoulder into it, giving the door a solid bump. It opened, taking some of the framing
with it.
Crane quickly slipped inside and closed the door. He wasn’t clear on his purpose here. Prove to himself, perhaps, that Holden
wasn’t home. Maybe he was passed out in his bedroom, or sitting in a bathtub. Either way, an easy target, and best not to
pass up an opportunity if one presented itself.
But the house, he quickly determined, was empty.
Should he wait? Crane knew nothing of Holden’s comings and goings. Maybe he had a job tending bar and wouldn’t be home till
midnight. He could be at a friend’s. And he might walk through that door in five minutes. How long was he prepared to hang
in and—
Noise out front.
He crossed the living room and peeked out the window. A man and a woman getting out of an old BMW. The woman got out of the
car first, heading for the door, the man following. Who the hell were these people? He didn’t think the man was Holden. If
it had been, he’d have pulled the car into the driveway.
At a passing glance, Crane thought he could see something of Brent Chartwell in the man. Something about the way he held his
jaw. So not Holden, but the brother.
Would they walk in if no one answered their knock? Did they have a key? Not that they’d need one. He’d busted the door.
As he moved toward the bedroom, someone knocked. The woman shouted: “Holden! It’s Diana!”
Then the man was talking, saying they should go, as Crane slid open the folding closet doors, hoping to hide in there.
The woman said, “I heard something.”
The closet was so crammed with things Crane wasn’t sure he could fit in.
There were three cardboard banker’s boxes on the floor, and Crane perched his butt on top of them.
Felt them crush a couple of inches under his weight as he twisted sideways, pulling in his feet, and slowly pulling the door back into a closed position.
Slowly, quietly, barely breathing, he brought the gun out of the holster under his jacket.
He heard movement. They were in the house.
The woman, again, calling out for Holden, and then Gage.
Gage.
Through the slats, Crane could make out someone coming into the room. A man. He was there briefly, left, then returned with
a woman. Made some comment about how no one would have been able to hide under the bed, there was no room. Okay, so that confirmed
some things for Crane. This was the brother. Reece. And that had to be his wife. And Gage was their kid.
The woman was hanging around on the other side of the closet door. Crane’s hand, gripping the gun, began to sweat.
He considered his options:
Kill them.
Find out from them where Holden and Gage were, and then kill them.
Listen and learn.
For the moment, he was sticking with Number 3. Clearly, Reece and his wife had no more idea where Holden and Gage were than
he did.
Crane kept holding his breath.
Reece said, “They’re not here. Let’s go.”
But the woman kept standing there, not two feet away from him. Like she sensed his presence.
Crane thought, Looks like Option Number 1.