She blinks, turns on the internal light, and checks the note she’s holding, with the information from the fax. ‘Three sixty-eight.’
‘There.’ Travis lifts his chin.
He pulls the Lincoln in to idle at the curb. On the right, 366 is a vacant lot covered in grass and dotted with beech trees and hornbeam saplings. The structure they’re looking at on 368 is set back from the road, made of pale brick, double-storied with mullioned windows, on a generous-sized lot. There’s a semi-wild garden plotout front, with a winding concrete path. Forty feet behind and to the right, a large outbuilding.
Emma knows her expression is worried. ‘Travis, what do you think about this?’
He turns off the car and peers out the window. ‘I think this isn’t a warehouse.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
‘Hey. Hey there!’ Fifty-four-year-old Allegheny station box officer Gil Pasternak, husband of Ann, father of five, calls out as he walks the stone corridor toward Kristin Gutmunsson, who is hugging her brother through the bars of his cell. ‘Miss? Miss, you need to step away now. We don’t allow that here.’
Kristin has her face tucked against her twin’s blue scrub shirt, but she turns her head to see Pasternak’s approach. ‘I want to hug my brother.’
Pasternak looks uncomfortable. ‘I’m sure you do, miss, I’m sure you do. But there can’t be any physical contact with prisoners in this part of the jail, I’m real sorry. Please step away.’
‘Can we not allow the bonds of affection in the halls of punishment?’ Simon asks quietly.
Pasternak draws his baton. He steps onto the very edge of the white aisle line. ‘Miss, you need to step back now. Right now.’
Kristin does not step back, but instead turns her face against her brother’s chest once more. Pasternak leans and taps the end of the baton against the bars near her arm.
‘Come on now, miss—’
It happens in a flash: like a striking snake, Simon grabs the baton, pulls hard. Taken off balance, Pasternak tilts toward the bars. Simon seizes him by the collar and says, ‘Step back, dearest.’ Pasternak gasps, eyes wide. Kristin steps back quickly and turns around.
There’s a thrashing, a gurgling sound. A clatter as the baton hits the floor. Kristin keeps her face covered with her hands. She knows what her brother is, but she does not wish to see it.
‘It’s done, now.’ Simon is barely breathing hard. ‘Turn around, Kristin, and collect the keys.’
Kristin turns around. Gil Pasternak lies slumped on the floor of the aisle, most of his blood volume drenching his white shirt, dripping into the puddle at his feet. His eyes are glazed, but his mouth opens and closes like a fish. Where his throat meets his collar, there is a dark red gap that reveals flashes of glistening pink and white.
Simon is half bent over, holding Pasternak’s shirt, easing him gently back against the bars. The razor blade, and Simon’s left hand, are both covered in horrifying crimson. Simon’s left pinky finger is raised, as if he is holding a teacup made of fine porcelain.
‘Kristin.’Simon’s voice forces her to look at him, not at the man dying on the floor. ‘The keys.’
Kristin nods mutely, bobs down, and follows Simon’s directions to find the keys clipped to Pasternak’s belt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Emma sits with Travis, staring at the house at 368 Rutherford Avenue like she’s hypnotized. Her throat has gone suddenly, horribly dry.
‘Westfall said it was a warehouse. That’s what it said on the shipment order.’
Travis lifts his chin toward the building out the window. ‘That is not a warehouse. It’s a house.’
‘Have we got the wrong address?’
‘Nope. I checked.’
‘This looks bad, doesn’t it.’
‘Yes, this looks bad.’
Travis runs his hand over his face; Emma hears the rasp. She’s busy looking across the street at the house that is not a warehouse, and a terrible feeling is coalescing inside. She doesn’t want it to be true, but her certainty is growing roots.
‘Travis, do you remember what I told you when we first met, about why it took so long for the FBI to find Daniel Huxton?’ She can hear how her voice is trembling and soft.
