Page 52 of Home (Myron Bolitar 11)

"My dad, he didn't drink a lot because when he did"--again Francesca closed her eyes--"it was awful. I had maybe seen him drunk three or four times. That's all. It was always bad. But not like this."

"So what happened next, Francesca?"

"Mom called him some horrible names. She ran out into the garage and got in her car. Dad . . ."

She stopped again.

"Dad what?"

"Dad ran after her," she said. Her words came slowly now, measured. "But before he did, he put down what he was holding in his hand."

Their eyes met.

"What did he put down?" Myron asked.

"A gun."

Myron felt the chill tingle up toward the back of his skull.

"He ran out the door after her, so I stood up. I came out from behind the couch."

Francesca's eyes were wide. She was back in that house now.

"I started toward the kitchen. The gun was sitting there. On the kitchen table. I was shaking just looking at it. I didn't know what to do. Dad was so angry. He was drunk. I couldn't just leave the gun there."

"What did you do, Francesca?"

"Please," she said. "I didn't know until now. You have to believe me. They lied to me all these years. I didn't know until Patrick came home."

"It's okay," Myron said. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Francesca, what did you do when you saw the gun?"

"I was scared Dad would use it." Tears rolled down her cheek. "So I took it. I hid the gun upstairs in my room."

"And then?" Myron asked.

"And then Patrick found it."

Chapter 33

I drive Brooke across the Dingmans Ferry Bridge.

Zorra has stayed behind. I can handle this myself. He has matters to attend to.

I glance at my cousin. She is staring straight ahead. I remember a family holiday when we were both teenagers. We were staying on our grandfather's estate on Fishers Island. Fishers Island is nine miles long and one mile across. It's off the coast of Connecticut but is technically part of New York. You probably haven't been. It's not a place that welcomes strangers.

One night, Brooke and I got both stoned and drunk on the beach. I have rarely gotten stoned. Myron does not approve and there are very few other people I trust enough that I am willing to lose control in front of them. At one point, Brooke suggested we take a night canoe ride.

So we did.

It was late by then, probably approaching midnight. We paddled and then started drifting. Both of us lay back. We talked about life. Even now I can remember every word. I stared up at the sky. The stars were out in full force.

It was glorious to behold.

I don't know whether it was because we were high or because we were lost in the conversation or perhaps the beauty of the sky put us in a trance. But suddenly we heard a rushing noise. We bolted upright as the final ferry of the day headed directly toward us. The ferry is large--large enough to carry both passengers and vehicles from the mainland to our island.

It was bearing down on us. Nay, it was almost on top of us.

There would be no time to paddle to safety.

Brooke moved first. She jumped from her spot and tackled me, throwing us both into the water. We started to swim frantically as the ferry came closer. Even now, even as I sit in this car, I can feel that bow pass over my back. I have been close to death many times. But that, my friends, was the closest.

I didn't react in time. Brooke did.

Brooke stares out the front windshield. "Rhys is dead, isn't he?"

"I don't know."

She looks at me.

"I think he is," I say, "but I'm not giving up yet."

"It's starting to become clear to me. My son is dead. I think I have always known. I always felt it. But I would never rely on a mother's intuition. I rely on facts, not emotion. I turned off emotion when my son vanished ten years ago."

"You've been a good mother to Clark."

She almost smiles. "I have been, haven't I?"

"The best."

"He's a good boy," she says. "He suffered so much over the years. Do you remember my father's funeral?"

"Of course."

"I was eleven. You were twelve. I never saw his body. The heart attack was so sudden. My mother wanted a closed casket. There was no point in seeing him that way. That's what everybody told me. But . . . I had a friend, a soldier. She told me that the reason they made sure that they brought home the dead, even risking their own lives, was so that the families could mourn. She said that they needed something tangible in order to move on. We all need to say good-bye, Win. We need to accept it, no matter how terrible, and then move on. I knew Rhys was dead, even before Patrick told me. And yet, even though I know I'll never see my boy again, I still have hope."

I say nothing.

"And I hate hope," Brooke says.

We reach Lake Charmaine. Someone had put the sign back in place by wrapping the chain around a post. I simply drive through it. The chain gives way easily. Hunter's pickup truck is still blocking the driveway. I check the rental car's location on the GPS again. It hasn't moved, so the car is still at this house. I take out my revolver, a Smith & Wesson 460, and look at Brooke.

"May I request that you stay here until I suss this out?" I ask.

Her answer is to open the car door and get out. I figured that it would be a waste of time, but one must make the effort. We start up the driveway, just as I had done with Myron. Hunter is in the same Adirondack chair. The rifle is on his lap.

As we move closer, Hunter spots us. He begins to rise, pointing the rifle our way.

"Don't kill him," Brooke says.

I shoot him in the leg. He drops to one knee. I shoot him in the shoulder. The rifle goes flying. I move toward him now. Brooke is right behind me.

Hunter looks up at me, then at Brooke. He is crying.

"I'm so sorry," he says.

"Where is she?" I ask.

"So sorry."

I bend down, find the bullet wound on his shoulder, and squeeze hard.

He screams.

"Where is she?"

The front door of the house suddenly opens. A young woman with long hair steps outside.

Brooke puts a hand on my arm and nods.

"That's Vada," she says.

Chapter 34

Myron found Nancy Moore in her backyard.

She sat in a gazebo by her rose garden. A mug of coffee was cupped in both her hands. She didn't turn as Myron approached.

"I told you not to come back," she said.

"Yeah, I know. Have you heard from Patrick?"

She shook her head.

"Aren't you worried?"

"Of course I am. But this is all a big adjustment for him. He needs a little space."

"He's been gone for ten years," Myron said. "I would think space would be the last thing he would want."

"Myron?"

"Yes."

"I don't care what you think. I want you to leave."

Myron didn't move. He just stood there until she looked at him. When she did, he just stayed right where he was, staring at her. Then he said, "I know, Nancy."

"You know what?"

It was a formality. He could see it in her eyes.

"Francesca told me."

"She's confused. Her brother coming home after all these years has messed with her head."

"He's dead, isn't he? Rhys, I mean."

"Patrick told you that."

"No, Patrick told us a story. You worked on it with him. It was a good story too--the best one to tell a devastated mother. Rhys was never harmed, Patrick said. Rhys was happy. He was brave. His death was quick and before all the horrors started. As I listened to it, I couldn't help but think, how convenient."

"Get out."

Myron moved alongside her. "We know Vada is up at the lake."

Nancy went for her cell phone, but Myron snatched it before she could reach it.

"Give me that back."

"No." r />

"You don't understand a thing," Nancy said.

"Oh, I think I do," Myron said. "It's no wonder you convinced Chick not to talk about the texts. He thought it was because it would be a distraction. The cops would start looking at the two of you, thinking, I don't know, you were having an affair and so one of you went off the deep end or something. But that wasn't it. You knew it all started with the texts. Chick didn't."

Nancy Moore rose and started back toward the house. Myron followed her.

"So Hunter pulls a gun on you. Did you realize Francesca was the one who hid it? That would also explain why you kept this all a secret from her. Or maybe you realized that she was just a kid. She could never keep a secret this big. Maybe you didn't want her to blame herself. If she had just left Daddy's gun where it was. If she had just not worried about what Hunter might do with it."

Nancy stopped by the back door. She closed her eyes.

"So she hid the gun in her room and Patrick found the gun," Myron said. "I'm not sure when. Francesca didn't know either. A few days later. Maybe a week. Did Hunter forget about it--or was he scared to bring it up? I don't know. It doesn't matter much. Patrick finds it. You and Hunter have been fighting a lot. Maybe Patrick knows that. Maybe he even knows why. Maybe he blames Chick Baldwin or that whole family."

"No," Nancy said. "Nothing like that."

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