“Shane?” Ryan called. A pause. “Caitlin?”
No response. No sound of footsteps. Nothing.
Marc eased his way in front of Ryan, then crept ahead, sweeping the area with his gun.
Ryan followed behind him, aware that, not only was Marc armed, he was former FBI. He was trained at this. Ryan was not.
They’d barely gone fifteen feet, when Marc caught something in his peripheral vision, and swerved to his right. “Shit,” he muttered.
Ryan peered around him and gasped. Just outside the bathroom was a crumpled body, unmoving and lying in a pool of blood. Beside it, were two shell casings and a cell phone that had been crushed. On the other side of the cell phone was a jagged line of blood.
The inconsistency of the blood pattern struck Marc at once. Reflexively, he whipped out his cell phone and took a few quick photos.
Ryan was in a whole different headspace. Pushing past Marc, he strode over, squatting as he reached the body. “Shane,” he managed. “Oh my God. Shane.”
Marc was beside Ryan in a heartbeat, restraining him from doing anything that would contaminate the scene. He leaned over Shane’s body, checking for a pulse, a breath—any sign of life.
There were none.
Marc gripped Ryan’s arm, standing and pulling him to his feet. Ryan’s entire body was stiff with shock, but Marc knew that consolation would have to wait.
“Ryan, we’ve got to get out of the house,” he said, visually sweeping as much of the ground floor as he could. “The killer might still be inside. He might have Caitlin.” A hard swallow, as Marc considered the possibility that she might also be dead. That additional jagged line of blood didn’t bode well. “I’ll call 911 as soon as we’re on the front lawn.”
Ryan didn’t budge. He was staring, wild-eyed, down at Shane’s lifeless form. It was only when Marc tugged insistently at his forearm that he regained some semblance of awareness. “No, Marc.” He gave a firm shake of his head. “I have to stay with him.”
“He’s gone,” Marc stated simply, placing a supportive hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “But Caitlin might not be. Let’s get the EMTs and the cops here. We might be saving her life.”
Slowly, Ryan turned, allowing Marc to lead him outside the house and to the front lawn, where he sank down on the grass, still unable to process this horrific occurrence.
Marc kept his Glock at the ready—just in case it was needed. “I’ll watch the windows and the doorways to block any attempt at escape,” he told Ryan. When there was no response, Marc glanced down, giving Ryan a worried look. The poor guy was staring off into space and wasn’t even hearing him.
Stationing himself close to his friend’s side, Marc took out his iPhone and called 911.
“What is your emergency?” was the immediate response.
Marc supplied his name, the address of the crime scene, and then, in staccato phrases, the necessary information.
He disconnected the call, knowing that it would be two minutes, at the most, before the ambulance showed up. He used the time wisely, pressing the button to Hutch’s private cell phone line.
One ring. Then, “Marc?”
“We’re in New Rochelle,” Marc said. “Ryan’s cousin, Shane Walsh, has been killed at his home. He worked for the Bureau, New York field office, Violent Crimes. I called 911, so the locals must already have been dispatched.”
Not even a heartbeat of a pause. “Text me the address.”
“Already done.”
“Then I’m on my way.”
McKay residence
Woodlawn, Bronx, New York
Friday, 5:15 p.m.
Maureen was sitting alone in Fiona’s empty childhood bedroom, her heart hammering, her hands clasped in her lap.
It had been almost two hours since she’d picked Kennedy up at school. Given that both sets of Kennedy’s grandparents were gone, Maureen and Colin were, not only next of kin, but authorized for Kennedy’s drop-off and pick-up. So Maureen had just stepped outside the cab, waved at the security guard, and called out to her great-niece.
