38 #2
It should have been a demon, not an angel, Sam thought.
She looked around. Unsurprisingly, she seemed to be the only person here.
It was early July, and people should be doing summer things, not visiting the dead.
She wasn’t exactly sure what she was hoping to accomplish here, but it seemed like a good place to start—seeing if there were any more messages at Dr. Tyler’s grave while she contemplated how to find a phone and call Conor.
She ducked between headstones and arrived at Dr. Tyler’s memorial.
There were notes stuck into the angel’s wings.
Earrings and bracelets and seashells and a bird’s nest were piled on the ground.
Sam was tempted to read the notes; maybe there was one from Suzanne or Maeve or any of the other sad, sick girls offering up their lives to the dream—whatever it was—of the murdered doctor.
Or to the memory of his wife, Belinda. Sam knew that there could be clues in their writings.
She sat on the grass, catching her breath after her long run. She was about to reach for one of the folded pieces of paper when she heard the whine of an engine behind her. Sam turned and saw Jennifer hopping off her ATV, running over to stand above her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Jennifer said.
“I know,” Sam said, staring at the walkie-talkie in the holster on Jennifer’s belt. “Please don’t call anyone. I’m leaving now.”
“They’re looking for you,” Jennifer said. “We’ve all been told to report if we see you.”
“Please,” Sam said. “Let me leave, I won’t bother anyone . . . I just want to cut through the grounds, okay?”
“Come with me,” Jennifer said. “I don’t want them to find you. And hurry, they’re checking everywhere. They’ll be down here soon.”
Jennifer climbed onto the ATV and gestured that Sam should get on behind her. Sam hesitated, scared and confused. After what had just happened with Lincoln and Maeve, she didn’t trust anyone.
“No,” she said. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
“You won’t,” Jennifer said. “You don’t know them. Get on! We don’t have time . . .”
Sam stood frozen, pressure building inside her chest. She thought of the way Maeve had come charging toward the barn, where Sam had been hiding. The look in her eyes was wild, almost mad, and Sam had known that Maeve meant her harm.
“Are you coming?” Jennifer asked.
Sam held her breath, trying to decide. But did she really have any choice? Not knowing if she was making the biggest mistake of her life, Sam climbed onto the ATV behind Jennifer.
“Hold on,” Jennifer said. “It’ll be a bumpy ride.”
Sam reached her arms around Jennifer’s waist. They set off so fast, Sam nearly fell off.
Jennifer sped them down the hill, through a grove of pines, and onto a dirt access road.
Sam heard gravel under the tires. Dirt flew up into her mouth and eyes.
She blinked hard to clear her vision, but her eyes stung and she couldn’t see, so she just closed them and felt the ATV hit rut after rut and hoped that Jennifer wasn’t delivering her straight to 1740.
Tuesday, July 6; 4:00 p.m.
“Okay, what’s all this about?” Mike asked when Conor and Tom found him on the Ocean House verandah, having an iced tea.
“Who is Judge Flook?” Conor asked.
“Randall Flook?” Mike asked, resting his book on the table in front of him. “He’s a Superior Court judge. A good friend of mine. Why?”
“He’s also a friend of Leo’s?” Conor asked.
“Yes, we play golf together, often in the same foursome. Sometimes they go fishing,” Mike said.
“That’s what they’re doing right now,” Conor said. “Or at least that’s what Leo says.”
“What are you getting at, Conor?” Mike asked. His expression was perplexed, bordering on angry. “Ever since you called me, I’ve been wondering. You think Leo’s lying?”
“He is,” Conor said. “He’s part of it, Uncle Mike. He’s in 1740, and I have to find him and get him to tell me what he knows so I can find Kate.”
“You’re not making any sense,” Mike said. “Sit down and explain what you’re talking about.”
Conor let out a huge sigh of frustration, put his hands on his head, and paced in a circle. Conor knew he wasn’t making sense, and he was glad when Tom took over.
“Uncle Mike,” Tom said. “The bottom line is that Kate has been taken. Her last known location is a crime scene, and there is evidence that it was used by 1740.”
“Explain more,” Mike said, sitting up straighter. “Where is this crime scene?”
“Fernando Harris’s studio in Mystic, Connecticut,” Tom said.
“Kate was there? You’re sure? When?”
“This morning,” Conor said, jumping in. “She was going to see her art conservator. When we got there, her car was in the driveway, but she was gone. We went through the house, and there’s a bedroom just like the one we found on the island—it’s tricked out for someone’s fantasies, and it has restraints for holding women. ”
“God,” Mike said in such a deep voice it sounded like a prayer. “Holding women? You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Conor said. “There’s blood on the handcuffs and on the bedsheets.” He felt sick, thinking of what could be happening with Kate.
“Early today,” Tom said, “a young woman was found murdered, dropped into the ocean, with wounds on her wrists consistent with having been restrained.”
“Sexual assault?” Mike asked.
“We won’t know until the autopsy,” Conor said. He stepped closer, then sat down next to their uncle. “Right now, I just need to find Kate.”
“Of course. But what does any of this have to do with Leo and Randall?” Mike asked.
“I don’t know about Randall, but things are adding up about Leo. They are on Leo’s boat now.”
“You think they’ve got Kate on board?” Mike asked, sounding shocked.
“They could,” Conor said. “It’s one possibility.”
Mike was silent for a long moment, obviously pondering something. Conor had the idea he was weighing whether to tell them what he was thinking. Finally, he did.
“The rooms,” he said. “With the restraints. It sounds to me as if women are being trafficked. As if that is the focus, the purpose, of the people involved with 1740. Would you agree?”
“Yes,” Conor said. He glanced at Tom. “Tell him.”
“Uncle Mike, there is the same setup on a boat called Psyche. Everything about it is familiar to me. The Coast Guard is always on patrol for human traffickers. And we find them, even right here in Rhode Island. Harbors where you would least expect it. On boats you’d never guess.”
Mike put his head in his hands for a few seconds, then looked up.
“Some detective I am. Our little group failed completely,” he said, and Conor knew he was referring to the Old Detectives—himself, Anne, Nola, Edward, and Leo.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Conor said.
“Rhode Island has a task force to combat human trafficking,” Mike said. “Federal, state, and local law enforcement officers. They all work together to investigate the crimes and bring justice to the victims.”
“That’s good,” Tom said.
“Guess who is on the task force advisory committee? Representing the legal community?” Mike asked.
Conor just stared at him.
“Leo Kennedy,” Mike said. “And Randall Flook is the federal court judge who hears many of the cases. He is responsible for issuing—or not issuing—warrants. As much as I admire him, he’s known for being a stickler in terms of giving warrants to search or make arrests when it comes to trafficking.
He gives the suspects the benefit of the doubt more than the prosecutors wish he would. ”
“You mean he’s got his thumb on the scale in favor of the traffickers?” Conor asked.
“That’s not what I would have said until now. You know that I am very strict when it comes to the Fourth Amendment . . .”
“Search and seizure,” Tom said.
“Yes. The government has all the power, so I always want to make sure the police follow the rules and don’t take shortcuts.
In general, I might be more conservative in granting warrants than Randall.
But right now, hearing all this, I have to wonder about him.
Before I go off on this, tell me—specifically what makes you think they are involved? ”
“I don’t know about Judge Flook,” Conor said. “But the name of Leo’s boat is Rosebud.”
“So what?” Mike asked, frowning.
“Roses are a theme from Beauty and the Beast,” Conor said. “These boats have names connected with it. Just like the sailboat, Psyche. Kate told me that the inspiration for the fairy tale is the myth of Cupid and Psyche. And there’s a boat tied up at Maynard-King called Zémire.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Kate told me it’s from an opera, the same story—a guy stops at a castle garden to pick a rose for his daughter, and he winds up having to sacrifice her to the owner.”
“A rose,” Mike said, sounding stunned. “Rosebud.”
He fell silent, obviously shaken by the explanation. Conor stared at him, getting even more restless. None of this was getting them closer to finding Kate. Tom’s phone buzzed. He glanced at Conor, then answered the call and put it on speaker.
“Sir, this is IS Texiera. You wanted a report on the Hatteras, Rosebud,” the voice said, and Conor knew that IS stood for intelligence specialist.
“Rosebud is not off Block Island,” IS Texiera continued. “She’s currently at a dock in Narragansett. I’m texting you the coordinates now.”
As soon as Conor heard “Narragansett,” he didn’t even have to ask where the GPS latitude and longitude would place Leo’s boat. Tom disconnected and turned back to Conor and Mike, just as Anne and the Aldriches came up the hotel stairs from the beach.
“Conor, we’ve got to go,” Tom said.
“To Maynard-King?” Conor asked.
“Yes. Rosebud is at their dock.”
“I’m going with you,” Mike said.
“Wait, what is this about?” Anne asked, sounding alarmed.
“Kate is missing,” Mike said, standing and putting his arm around his wife. “And she could very well be aboard Leo’s boat.” Conor could see that Anne was clearly distressed.
“What about that other girl, Kate’s assistant? I thought she was missing . . .” Anne said.