Scarlet Falls: Hour of Need Part 8

"Car accident?" Mac's train of thought echoed Grant's original a.s.sumption when he'd gotten the call in Afghanistan.

The coffee pot hissed as Grant dropped into the chair across from Mac. There was no way to smooth the news over. "No. They were murdered. Not sure why. Robbery maybe."

Mac's mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"I know." Grant rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. "I can't wrap my head around it either."

"That can't be right. Not Lee and Kate-" Mac's voice cracked. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

Grant got up, filled a gla.s.s with water, and set it on the table in front of his brother. Mac stared at the water. His spine snapped rigid. "Where are the kids?"

"They fell asleep in the car. Hannah's outside with them." Grant summed up his last twenty-four hours. "Child services delivered them yesterday. Last night was rough. Faith screamed. Carson cried. No one slept."

"I can't believe they spent three days in foster care. How do they seem? Are they OK?"

"I don't know what's normal for them. The baby pukes a lot."

"I think that's pretty normal for her. How about Carson?"

"Quiet. Exhausted. Terrified," Grant said. "You'll probably be a better judge than me."

"Why would you say that?"

"You see him more than I do."

"Not really. I'm not here much. I was in South America most of the winter. I'm supposed to go back next month."

The coffee pot beeped. Grant got up and poured two cups of coffee. "South America?"

"Giant river otters."

"Do you have to go?"

"Only if I want to keep my job, my grant, and continue the research I've been working on for the past three years," Mac said. "Why?"

"The kids. Someone has to raise them." Grant set the mugs on the table and sat down.

Mac scrubbed his face with both hands, then flattened his hair. "Yeah, I guess it's you, me, or Hannah."

They exchanged a look.

"Right. You or me," Mac qualified. He lifted a fist over his shoulder. "You want to shoot for it?"

"Rock paper scissors isn't going to cut it." Grant snorted. "They aren't the last piece of pie."

"No, they're not." Mac sighed. "I'm sorry. You're going to have to give me a little time to take this all in. I still can't believe . . ."

"I know."

"The police are sure it's them?"

Grant wished with all his heart he could say no, that the police could be mistaken about Lee and Kate's ident.i.ties, but he couldn't do that. "Yeah, they're sure."

Mac slammed a fist on the table. "How the h.e.l.l does a suburban lawyer get killed in a robbery?"

Donnie scanned the residential street. Daylight wasn't the best time for a break-in, but the house was empty. The big guy staying at the Barretts' house had even taken the dog with him. Donnie got out of the white van. The rear windows were heavily tinted to block prying eyes. He'd put a few tools and a big metal box with a handle in the back in case anyone looked. The ladder he'd secured to the roof rack solidified his cover and had come in handy a few times.

He got out and grabbed a clipboard. His dark green coveralls, emblazoned with Robinson's Gutters & Siding on the back, gave him a great excuse to circle the yard and study the exterior of the house.

At the back door, he glanced around. No one in sight. He pulled the key ring from his pocket. None of the four keys fit. d.a.m.n. Either the Barretts hadn't carried a key to their own house or someone had changed the locks.

Donnie walked back to the van. Opening the rear door, he slid a gla.s.s cutter into his pocket and picked up a measuring wheel. Rolling the wheel in front of him, he measured his way around to the rear of the house. A large bush in the flower bed concealed the air conditioning unit. Allowed to grow untrimmed, the shrub also s.h.i.+elded the laundry room window. Behind the cover of the evergreen, he climbed onto the AC box and cut the window gla.s.s. A flip of the lock gave him access. He paused for a full minute. No beeping. No alarm. No security system. Sweet. He lifted the sash and pulled his body through the opening. Inside, a few tugs straightened his coveralls.

He started his search upstairs. An hour pa.s.sed. Then two. Frustration built as he moved to the first floor. He'd had two objectives. Two. And he couldn't deliver. The killing had gone off without a hitch, but the recovery was f.u.c.ked. If he were playing baseball, a batting average of five hundred would command respect. But in his world, anything less than a perfect score was failure. The agreement was all or nothing. He wouldn't get paid half for completing 50 percent of his objectives, and leaving a job unfinished wouldn't help his future employment opportunities.

Another hour later, he rifled through the last kitchen drawer. d.a.m.n it. Not here.

His gaze fell on a few kid's drawings on the fridge. He stiffened. Blue shamrocks. Wait. It was almost St. Patrick's day. Maybe the picture was just a coincidence. The kid could be color blind or plain weird. He walked closer and peered at another drawing of a man. Right under the crayon man's eye sat a hollow teardrop.

Mother. f.u.c.ker.

He pulled up his sleeve and inspected the ink blue shamrock on the inside of his wrist. A glance in the chrome toaster mirror showed him the empty teardrop tattooed below his right eye.

The teardrop had been the mark of humiliation, drawn on his face while he'd been pinned to the concrete by four prisoners. The Aryan shamrock represented his revenge. They'd helped him kill the BFG gang member who'd raped and marked him. Killing the rival gang member had gotten him into the AB. He hadn't had much choice, but "blood in, blood out" meant that the Brotherhood now owned him for life. He was not f.u.c.king going back to prison. He was done with that s.h.i.+t.

He must have f.u.c.ked up during one of his visits to the house. That kid had gotten a good look at him. He now had a new objective.

The kid had to be eliminated.

The cabin door opened, and Hannah carried a squalling Faith inside. A bleary-eyed Carson trailed behind her, followed by the prancing dog.

"I think she's hungry." Hannah handed Faith to Grant as if the baby were a live grenade, but then considering the projectile vomiting, the a.n.a.logy was fair.

Mac rubbed behind AnnaBelle's ears. "How's the happiest dog on earth?"

Grant mixed formula, and Faith sucked greedily.

"Maybe you should think about eating slower," he said to her.

She batted her eyes and ignored him.

Carson wandered aimlessly around Mac's cramped quarters. He stopped in front of a fishbowl on the sofa table. "Uncle Mac, your fish is dead. Again." He fixed Mac with an accusing stare.

"Oh, yeah." Mac walked over to stand beside Carson. "I meant to drop him off at my neighbor's house. I knew there was something I was supposed to do before I left." He gave Carson a hug. "How are you, buddy?"

"I'm OK," the boy said in a small voice. He looped an arm over AnnaBelle's neck.

Mac picked up the fishbowl and headed for the hallway that led to the back of the cabin. A toilet flushed. He came back out into the main room and washed his hands. "Are you hungry?"

Shaking his head, Carson crossed the room and climbed up onto the chair next to Grant. Carson knelt and peered over Grant's shoulder at the baby. "Is she done?"

"Almost. You want to go home?"

Carson nodded, then rested his forehead against Grant's shoulder.

"OK. We found Uncle Mac, who promised not to turn his phone off again. We can go as soon as your sister is done eating."

"Is she gonna puke?"

"Let's hope not."

Faith did not barf, which Grant considered progress. He loaded the kids into the van, then turned to Mac, who'd followed them outside. "We need to make some plans."

Mac nodded. "I need some time to get myself together."

Grant opened the car door. "OK. Don't take too long. And I meant what I said about your phone. Keep it on and charged. I really need your help, Mac."

"I got it." Hopefully, Mac would remember his phone better than his fish. For a smart guy, he could be s.p.a.cey. "I'll be over first thing in the morning."

Grant got into the car.

"Any ideas for dinner?" he asked Hannah.

"It's not even close to dinnertime." She shook her head and turned her face to stare out the pa.s.senger window. Like him, she'd learned about the murders from half a world away, with no family member to soften the shocking blow, and she didn't look like she was handling Lee and Kate's deaths well.

At least she probably wasn't seeing a guy's face repeatedly blown to bits in her sleep.

"Our mealtimes are a little messed up today." Grant looked in the rearview mirror. The kid had refused to eat the peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly sandwich Grant had made him for lunch. "Carson? Any requests for dinner. How about chicken nuggets?" To get a meal into the kid, Grant would even resort to fast food.

Carson just shook his head. Grant drove the remaining twenty minutes in worried silence. At the house, he pulled around back and put the van into the garage. When he opened the rear door, he saw the box of files that he'd forgotten to drop off at the law firm.

Tomorrow. He was too d.a.m.ned tired to do it today.

Hannah unlocked the back door, and they all went into the kitchen. Grant flipped on the light. He set the car seat on the floor. Barking, AnnaBelle tore down the hall, her paws sending the carpet runner flying.

Grant scanned the room. The papers he'd left in neat stacks on the table were askew. The kitchen drawers hung open. Items on the counter had been s.h.i.+fted. Grabbing the baby and the dog's collar, he turned and herded them all back out the door. He could hear AnnaBelle lunging against the front door.

"What's wrong?" Hannah resisted.

He whispered in her ear. "Someone was in the house."

Chapter Eleven.

Grant hustled them back to the van. He put the kids and dog inside and handed the keys to Hannah. "Lock the doors, drive down the street, and call the police."

"Where are you going?" Hannah protested.

"I'm going to check the house."

"But-"

"I'll be fine." He closed the van door.

As soon as the vehicle pulled away, Grant turned back toward the door. Anger and purpose sped his strides as he sprinted up the walkway. G.o.d help anyone he found in his brother's home.

He crept inside through the door he'd left open. He listened, but the house was silent. He stopped in the kitchen and selected the utility knife from the block on the counter. Rage boiled in his veins and blurred his thoughts as he stalked into the hallway. Reverse gripping the handle, he started searching rooms. The office and dining room were clear. If someone was in the house, he'd find him.

Grant walked up the stairs. He slid into the kids' rooms, checked their closets, and peered under beds, then crossed the hall to Lee and Kate's room.

Grant stood in the center of the master, listening for a creak of hardwood that would give away an intruder. In his peripheral vision, a curtain moved. He crept across the floor with silent feet and swept the fabric aside, the blade poised for attack. But the s.p.a.ce was empty. Air from the floor radiator blew into his face and moved the drapes.

With his fingers clenched on the knife handle, he turned away. Clothes hung from half-open drawers as if they'd exploded. A pair of silk panties lay in the middle of the room. The intruder had gone through Kate's intimates. Grant's fury compounded as he eased back into the hallway and trod toward the guest rooms, then went up to the third floor and checked the attic.

A wide-open, dusty-and empty-s.p.a.ce greeted him.

Disappointment flooded him. One minute with his brother's killer. That's all he wanted. That's all he needed.

Breathing hard, he stopped at the base of the attic steps. To do what? He hadn't had a choice in Iraq and Afghanistan. He'd killed to protect other soldiers. He'd killed for his country, but to kill for pure revenge would be different. He looked down at the knife in his hand. If Grant had found someone behind that curtain, would he have slit the intruder's throat? Without even making sure he was the same person who'd killed Lee and Kate? The answer was a disturbing maybe.

Frankly, he wasn't sure what he would have done.

He dragged the sleeve of his sweats.h.i.+rt over his sweating forehead. His adrenaline rush ebbed, leaving his hands shaky. He flexed his fingers. The physical letdown would pa.s.s. His fury, however, remained at low simmer in his gut. He breathed in and out and willed his anger to cool. He needed to control his temper. Carson and Faith were reliant on him to take care of them. He couldn't lose it.

Grant jogged down the stairs and peered out the living room window. A marked police car pulled into the driveway and two uniformed cops got out. A dark blue sedan parked behind the black-and-white. Detective McNamara stepped out of the second vehicle and walked toward the house.

Grant greeted the cop on the porch. The flow of cold air chilled his clammy skin. "There's no one in there now, but there was."

"We'll just have a look inside." The uniforms disappeared into the house.

Eying the knife in Grant's hand, McNamara held out a hand. "You should have waited for us."

Yes. Grant handed him the knife, handle first. "I'm pretty much an expert at clearing buildings." His argument sounded weak because it was lame. He'd gone into the house hoping to find someone to take the brunt of his anger.

McNamara accepted the knife. "Yeah. I bet you are, but you don't do it alone, do you?"

"No," Grant admitted.

The minivan pulled into the driveway. The sliding door opened, and Carson jumped out. He bolted across the lawn and hit Grant in the legs with a full-body hug hard enough to knock him off balance. Grant pried his thin arms from around his thighs and picked the boy up. "What's wrong, buddy?"

AnnaBelle circled them, barking.

Carson buried his head in Grant's shoulder. "I was scared for you."