The Buried, page 17
He clicked the fob for Bruce’s SUV, and lights flickered on, dimly, the headlamps covered with snow. The snow was deep in the parking lot, too, over his boots and wicking up the legs of his track pants, spreading the wetness, the cold. He opened the driver’s door and started the SUV, then pulled out the brush Bruce had left on the passenger’s side.
Mae opened that door. “I should drive—”
“No!” He brushed the snow off the hood and windshield, but even as he cleared it, more snow fell onto it, covering it. It was a waste of time. Time he didn’t have.
Time Adelaide might not have. He tossed the brush onto the back seat and crawled behind the steering wheel.
“I have defensive driving training,” Mae said.
“I grew up here,” Bode said. “I know how to drive in the snow.” After years of living in LA, though, it hadn’t been an easy adjustment. Erika had teased him about it that first year. It hadn’t been any easier for her. Neither had planned on coming back here.
She hadn’t grown up on the island like he had, but he’d suspected she had some kind of connection to it. She’d just said that being out east reminded her too much of her family.
He’d assumed she’d been talking about her dead mother. Because she was the only person she’d told Bode about. She hadn’t told him about Heather or her father.
“You’re distracted,” she said. “I should—”
“And you’re wounded,” he reminded her. “You shouldn’t even come with me.” But just as he didn’t have the time to keep brushing off the SUV, he didn’t have the time or the patience to keep arguing with her. And, even as angry as he was with her, he didn’t want to hurt her by forcing her out of the vehicle. No matter what she or Rick Smallegan might believe, he would never purposely hurt anyone. Pain gripped his heart as he thought of how he might have inadvertently hurt his own daughter.
Just by her having him as a father.
The SUV swerved, the deep snow pulling it, jerking the steering wheel from his grasp. He tightened his grip on the leather-wrapped wheel, and Mae reached over the console. But she pulled back before covering his hand with one of her bandaged ones.
“I got it,” he insisted. But just getting down the damn driveway to the street was a struggle. He didn’t know if he was on the pavement or if he’d gone off it because he couldn’t see. The snow was blinding, falling thick and heavy. The wipers scratched across the windshield, chunks of snow and ice sticking to the blades, making it harder to see, not easier.
He turned up the defroster, blasting heat out of the vents to melt the snow. But it didn’t seem to make a difference. He came upon the gate so quickly and suddenly, he had to brake to keep from striking the iron. An opener for the gate was stuck to the visor above his head. He pushed the button, pressing hard on it, but the sides of the gate just shuddered, fighting against the snow. Then, finally, the quivering metal broke through the drift, scraping aside the snow, clearing the end of the lane, as the gates opened to the street. Or at least where the street should be.
But no plows had been through this way, or if they had, it hadn’t made a difference, as fast and thick as the snow was falling. All the Halcyon Hall SUVs were four-wheel drive, but the tires still sank into the snow, still spun against it, trying to gain traction. When Bode pressed harder on the accelerator, the tires spun, throwing the snow, sliding as the vehicle fishtailed.
Mae reached out again, grasping the console with one bandaged hand and the armrest on the door with the other. “Bode, this storm is really bad . . . even for Maine.”
He shrugged. “Not for the island.”
Life on the island had never been easy, but that hadn’t stopped his ancestors from settling here, from claiming most of it for themselves even after his great-great-grandfather’s boat crashed against the rocky shore. Maybe that was why the man had decided to stay; he’d relished the challenge of the island. And maybe that was part of why Bode had chosen to come back here. But even though he’d known it wouldn’t be easy, he hadn’t known it would be this hard. That he could lose so much . . .
Adelaide.
He had to find her. If she was out in this . . .
But if she wasn’t in the boardinghouse, where else could she be? Panic threatened to overwhelm him again, squeezing his chest, making it difficult to breathe, to think, to focus . . .
But he couldn’t give in to that. Not now, not with Adelaide needing him.
He drew in a deep, calming breath and focused on driving through the blizzard. Maybe the island realized it wasn’t going to stop him because the snow finally began to dissipate. Falling in flakes instead of sheets now, as the wind died down as well.
Mae released a soft sigh and leaned back against the seat, releasing her grasp on the door and the console. “It’s letting up.”
While she’d physically relaxed, there was still tension in her voice. And fear . . .
Maybe she was thinking what he was, that if the weather got better, the bridge might open. Then someone would be able to get Adelaide off the island. They had to find her before that happened. Or Bode might never see his daughter again.
That panic crashed over him, nearly overwhelming him, and he closed his eyes for just a second. And when he did, Mae screamed.
* * *
One minute the road was clear ahead, the lights shining on the now gently falling snow. The next minute, a man appeared, jumping into the beams of those lights, into the snow that was too deep for him to move quickly. To get out of the SUV’s way.
Bode wasn’t stopping. Wasn’t braking, as if he was heading straight for him. Mae screamed.
Bode stomped the brakes and gripped the wheel as the SUV spun and slid, fishtailing across the road before finally coming to a stop near the shoulder of the road, behind a vehicle protruding up from a ditch. Its taillights glowed a faint orange beneath the snow that had fallen on it.
It might not have been there long, just since the snow began falling hard. Or it might have been there for hours.
“Where did he go?” Bode asked.
And Mae realized the man was gone.
“Did I hit him?” he asked, his voice cracking with fear and a hint of the panic she’d caught glimpses of earlier. But just as he had before, he drew in a deep breath and calmed himself. “We have to look for him.” He shifted into Park and opened his door.
Mae jumped out as well.
The man had disappeared. Had she imagined him like she’d probably imagined those cries? She hadn’t imagined the gunshots, though. Or that someone was trying to kill her.
She reached for her holster, pulling out her weapon as she peered into the shadows beyond those headlamp beams. The vehicle was here, so someone had been driving it.
Where was the driver now?
“Hello?” she called out.
“Over here,” Bode said, and he headed toward the other side of the road from the stranded car.
The shadow she’d seen earlier was now lying in a deep bank of snow, Bode crouched beside him.
“I’m sorry,” Bode said. “I didn’t see you. Are you okay?”
Bode hadn’t hit him. Mae would have felt the impact, as she’d been in the passenger seat. The man must have jumped out of the way of the SUV and fallen. That wasn’t Bode’s fault, though. The guy had appeared out of nowhere.
He hadn’t moved yet, just continued to lie in the snow, his face turned away from them.
“Are you okay?” Mae asked. He couldn’t have fallen that hard from jumping out of the way. Something else was . . .
“Do you need an ambulance?” Bode asked the guy.
Finally, the man rolled over, facing Bode, as he pointed the barrel of his gun directly into his face. “I need my daughter,” Rick Smallegan said, his voice hoarse. “You took one of them away from me forever. I want the other one back. Tell me where she is!”
While Rick Smallegan was shaking, either with rage or from the cold, Bode was perfectly still, perfectly calm, perfectly cold as he replied, “Tell me where mine is.”
And Mae shivered at his tone. She’d drawn her weapon, had the barrel pointed at Rick Smallegan.
The guy’s brow furrowed now and he asked, “What?”
“Someone took his daughter this evening,” Mae explained.
“How? It’s not possible to get inside that place.” He jerked his other hand toward the stone wall behind him.
They’d gone a mile or so down the road from the employee entrance to the spa, but they hadn’t gone beyond the grounds of Halcyon Hall yet. It was that vast.
“They took her from the boardinghouse,” Mae said, “where the sheriff told us you’re staying.”
Bode’s shoulders bowed slightly. “I thought she’d be safe there . . .” he murmured, his voice cracking with fear. “I thought I was doing what was right for her. . . .” Then he focused again on the man holding the gun in his face. “I didn’t know you were there. That you would take her from me.” He turned back, glancing over his shoulder. Not at Mae but at the vehicle in the ditch. “Check the car!” he yelled at her. “Check the car!”
Mae wasn’t about to step away from them. Not with that gun so close to Bode’s face, not with the way Rick Smallegan was shaking so badly, he might inadvertently squeeze the trigger. Or purposely . . .
And if he did, Mae wouldn’t be able to stop him. She couldn’t protect Bode right now. She thought of pulling off her bandages with her teeth. But the tape . . .
Panic gripped her now, wrapping around her like the cold, squeezing her chest. “I don’t think he has her,” she told Bode. “I don’t think he took her.”
“I didn’t,” Rick said. “I . . . I haven’t been back to the boardinghouse since this morning.”
Bode shook his head. “No, he has to have her.” He turned back toward the vehicle. “She has to be in there.”
To humor him, Mae stepped a little closer to it and peered inside. Then she shook her head. “No . . .”
“No!” Bode yelled, and then, despite the gun in his face, he grabbed Rick Smallegan’s shoulders and shook him. “Where is she? Tell me where she is!”
“No!” Mae gasped, afraid the gun would go off. She rushed up and tried to get between them. But Smallegan was half lying in the snow still, and Bode was kneeling. And she couldn’t get between them, couldn’t shield Bode, couldn’t protect him.
The gun went off, and Mae screamed, scratching her throat raw from the force of it. Rick jerked back, dropping the gun to the ground where it disappeared into the snow.
“Bode!” she yelled.
He was still kneeling, still holding Rick’s shoulders, staring into his face.
“Are you all right?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “No. I won’t be until I find Adelaide.”
“You didn’t get hit?” she asked.
“No.”
But she wondered if he would know. If he would feel the pain, or if he was in shock like he’d been when he first heard Deacon on her cell saying that Adelaide had disappeared.
She stepped closer, trying to see his face, but he and Rick were in the shadows just outside the beam of the headlamps. She knelt down like Bode, sinking into the snow. The cold gripped her legs, wrapping around her thighs like icy hands. She needed to find the gun before one of the men did. She holstered hers, then plunged her hands into the snow, feeling around in the fluff for the solid piece of metal. She found it and lifted it out.
Bode glanced at the gun. “Was that you shooting at us in the tunnels?” he asked Rick. “And because you couldn’t kill me physically, you’re trying to rip out my heart by taking my daughter?”
“That’s what you did to me,” Rick replied, his voice filled with hatred. “You took both of mine.”
“No,” Mae said. “I was wrong—”
“He took your sister, too,” he said. “You told me that! You told me he killed her.”
“I was wrong about that, too,” she said. “Kimber Lee died because she didn’t get the help she desperately needed.” The help that she, as her sister, should have made certain she got. Just as she should have made certain that Rick Smallegan had gotten the help he needed before his grief made him so desperate he’d done something crazy. Something that couldn’t be undone.
Like kidnap a baby or kill Bode.
“It’s freezing,” she said. Even though the snow had let up, the cold hadn’t. “We need to get out of here.”
“We need to find Adelaide,” Bode said. And finally, he stood and turned toward the SUV, and as he stepped into the light, she noticed the blood trickling down the side of his face.
He had been hit.
* * *
Everyone had searched the house for the baby. Twice. Everyone but Evelyn. She’d only searched the first time, while she’d tried to console Genevieve. Now that the weather had broken a bit, the others were searching the garage and around outside, looking for evidence of a vehicle driving away with the baby.
Knowing how cold it was out there even with the storm breaking, Evelyn was making coffee and cocoa and heating up soup. Once everyone had gone outside, Evelyn heard it. The faint cry, so muffled it sounded far away.
And she remembered that nobody else knew every nook and cranny of the house like she did. Well, no one but her sister. Bonita had been with them when the baby disappeared, though.
Hadn’t she been? Where was she now?
Evelyn started up the back stairwell in the kitchen to the second floor. The house was so full these days, with the two teenagers and Deacon and his pop star girlfriend, sweet Olivia. And Rosemary and her fiancé, Whit, the judge.
Only Edie was gone.
And the man had arrived to take her place in the attic.
Evelyn headed up the steps now, that steep back staircase that led to the attic bedroom. Deacon had checked it out twice. Once before he talked to the state trooper and that man from the manor and again after he finished the call with them.
Evelyn had overheard some of it. Enough to know the man loved his daughter. He sent her here with Genevieve to keep her safe. To protect her.
Evelyn tried to protect the people she cared about, too. So she shouldn’t have allowed that man to move into the boardinghouse, into Edie’s room. While she’d commiserated with his frantic search for his daughter, she hadn’t realized how far he might take that search, what means he might use to get what he wanted.
A baby.
That soft cry pealed out again. A little louder than before.
She was closer as she ascended the last step into the attic bedroom. A lamp beside the bed cast a soft glow in the room, reflected off the dark glass of the dormer window. This room was small, but it wasn’t the entire attic. There was more to it.
And probably nobody had checked it.
Evelyn hadn’t.
She hadn’t thought of it. The rest of the space wasn’t insulated and heated like this room. It was cold. Dark. Filled with old boxes of holiday decorations, linens, and her mother’s figurine collectibles. And her father’s war memorabilia. After what had happened with Teddy Bowers, after Bonita had shot him, Evelyn and Deacon had moved some of the collection up here. The old weapons . . .
And Evelyn had put a padlock on the door that led to that unfinished attic space. Not that the door was even that noticeable; it was covered in the same floral wallpaper that covered the slanted walls. But this part had hinges and a handle and a little eye hook and latch to which the padlock was affixed.
The padlock lay on the floor now, the key inside it. The key Evelyn thought she’d hidden well, in her underwear drawer. Who would want to go through an old lady’s bras and panties?
Another old lady who sometimes borrowed them, as if they were still teenagers stealing each other’s clothes.
Evelyn should have known, should have realized.
The cry rang out again, louder, more of a wail. Of fear. Of discomfort . . .
The baby had been missing for a couple of hours already. Why hadn’t Evelyn thought to look here earlier?
Maybe because she hadn’t wanted it to be true.
She drew in a breath and pulled on the handle, opening the short door. Then she ducked down to pass through it and stepped onto the unfinished floorboards and into the chill of the storage area.
Boxes and old furniture covered most of the floor. On one of the tables sat a candelabra, wax rolling down the side of each lit candle to pool on the mahogany surface beneath it. Another candle sat on an end table, burning. And on an old metal daybed, Bonita sat, rocking a baby in the crook of one of her arms. A quilt was wrapped around the little girl, and she wore a small knit cap.
So hopefully she wasn’t too cold. Yet. But she was scared, her little body stiff as she wailed and kicked and swung her small arms.
“Shh . . . it’s okay, baby,” Bonita said, staring down at the child. “Your mama has you now. And nobody’s going to take you away again.”
Pain squeezed Evelyn’s heart. “Bonita?”
Her sister turned toward her, and her blue eyes, which were sometimes clouded with confusion, peered at her now. Clear. Bright. Focused.
And Evelyn shivered. “It’s cold up here, sweetheart. Why don’t you take your baby and come downstairs with me?”
Bonita shook her head.
“You don’t want to get your baby sick,” Evelyn said.
“You’re trying to trick me, like that nurse!” Bonita shouted. “You’re not taking my baby. Not this time!” And she raised her free hand, pointing a gun directly at Evelyn.
And the baby stiffened in her arm and cried out louder.
“You’re frightening the baby,” Evelyn said. And her . . .
She’d thought once before that the guns weren’t loaded, and that even if they were, Bonita wouldn’t pull the trigger, wouldn’t shoot anyone. She’d been wrong then. She couldn’t take the chance that she was wrong again. That her sister might shoot her or anyone else who came through that door and tried to take the baby from her.
Like someone had taken her baby all those years ago . . .
Chapter Nineteen
They’re looking for her in the snow.
