Page 33 of Memory of Murder (Colby Agency: The Next Generation #3)

Johnsburg

The house was dark.

Jack saw no other vehicles. He eased to the side of the street opposite the house Mary and Neil had shared.

He shut off the engine, and the headlights went out.

“I don’t see her snazzy red car.”

“I didn’t see any vehicles parked along the street.” Jack reviewed the slow roll along Fairlawn they had just made. “The only two houses on the street that appear to be occupied have one vehicle each in the drives, but nothing Carin would be caught operating.”

Anne released her seat belt and turned around to try and scan the street, but with only one streetlamp at the end of the block there was little to see.

“Should we go in first?” She turned back to him.

Jack had an uneasy feeling about this. He reached across the console and opened the glove box. The feel of her breath on his neck had him turning to face her. “We could always go back to our motel and insist on doing this in the daylight.”

She smiled. He didn’t have to see—he felt it. “There are things I would much prefer to do tonight, but maybe this will give us the rest of what we need to finish this.”

“Okay.” He brushed his lips across hers. Then he took the handgun and flashlight from the glove box. He didn’t like carrying a handgun when digging around in a cold case. It generally wasn’t necessary. But he never went on assignment without one. Tonight his instincts were on fire.

“I have the key.” She dug it from her bag and held it up for him to see.

“Okay.” He turned off the interior lights and reached for his door. “Stay put until I come around to your door.”

The air was hot and thick with humidity as he exited the car, closing the door softly.

He scanned the street. Spotted no movement, although he couldn’t be certain as dark as it was.

Keeping his steps as quiet as possible, he walked around to the passenger-side door and opened it. He kept watch while Anne climbed out.

They hurried across the narrow street and into the overgrown yard that fronted the abandoned house.

It still struck him as odd that Mary’s and Neil’s things—at least some of them—remained in the house.

From the looks of this part of the street there wasn’t that much going on in the way of gentrification.

Still, nearly thirty years was a long time for a house to sit abandoned.

Why had Preston Reed kept it all this time like some sort of shrine? Actually, that was probably the answer.

As with their last visit, they made their way onto the porch, thankfully without turning on the flashlight.

Anne used the light from the screen of her cell, which was far dimmer than the flashlight app, to find the door key.

If anyone was watching them, Jack would prefer that they stay as invisible as possible.

The door opened before the key was even in the lock. She stared up at him, and he leaned close and whispered, “Stay behind me.”

She nodded her understanding, her temple brushing against his jaw.

For several seconds he stood just beyond the doorway and listened for any sound and allowed his senses to sharpen in the darkness. When he was satisfied, he moved forward. Anne stuck close behind him. He closed the door, gritting his teeth as the click echoed in the silence.

They moved through the house, checking room after room and finding nothing beyond what had been there the first time they walked through the house.

“What was the point of this?” Anne murmured.

“Maybe she was delayed,” Jack offered, keeping his voice low as well.

“Maybe.” Anne walked to the back door. She held her cell up to look at the door with the light from the screen. “I don’t remember the door being boarded shut.”

Jack turned on the flashlight and joined her at the back door. The glass area in the upper part of the door was now covered with boards. He reached for the knob, gave it a twist, and though it turned freely the door didn’t budge.

“Maybe someone saw us over here on Wednesday and Reed sent a caretaker over to secure the place.”

“But they left the front door unlocked?” Anne countered. “And if there’s a caretaker, why let the place grow up like this?”

Very good questions. “Let’s go,” he said sharply, a new kind of worry kicking him in the gut.

Before they were out of the kitchen the smell of gasoline reached his nostrils. The odor was immediately followed by a whoosh he recognized all too well.

The front door was engulfed in flames. He hurried to the nearest window. Anne rushed to yet another.

The sashes wouldn’t budge. Obviously they’d been screwed or nailed shut. Or years and layers of paint had sealed them shut.

“This way,” he called out.

They hurried from room to room, checked all the windows. All were secured in the closed position.

By the time they were back in the kitchen, flames were climbing up the side of the house, dancing over the windows. Smoke had started to fill the air.

Urgency fired in Jack’s gut. He grabbed Anne by the hand and rushed back to the bedroom Mary had used as an office. He grabbed the chair.

“Stand back and call 911.” As soon as she moved away, he crashed the window with the chair.

He used the chair to shove the remaining jagged pieces of glass from the frame, then he tossed it aside and used his hands to finish busting out the wood parts.

The flames were climbing that side of the house too.

They only had moments before it would be too late.

This old house was going up in flames like dry kindling.

“Help is on the way,” she said as he pulled her toward him.

“We can’t wait.”

As if on cue she started to cough.

They had to get out now.

“I’m going to pick you up and set your feet on the windowsill, and then you need to jump as far forward as possible.

” The idea that they had no idea what was in all that overgrown grass and shrubs outside—benches, flowerpots, yard ornaments—twisted his gut.

Part of him wanted to go first and check out the situation.

But the smoke filling his lungs warned there was no time. He had to get Anne out of here.

She hesitated. “You’ll be right behind me?”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“Okay.”

He put his hands on her waist and lifted her upward. She planted her feet on the windowsill and leaned forward.

“Go!” he shouted as he released her.

She jumped, landing in the dense shrubs beyond the flames.

Jack went next. He grabbed onto the sides of the window frame, the heat scorching his fingers, and lunged into the air.

He plowed into the thick brush and shrubs. His knee contacted something hard.

He clenched his jaw against the pain and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Anne by the arm and started through the junglelike landscape. Pain roared up his leg and his knee refused to work properly, but he managed to hobble quickly forward.

He checked the rental car, then they climbed inside. His body shuddered with the effort of working through the pain.

Anne stared out the car window at the house that was now fully engulfed. Thankfully there were no inhabited properties on either side of it.

They would need to make a statement when the police arrived.

Anne turned to him. “I want to go to her house.”

Jack wasn’t sure that was a good idea. “We should wait for the police.”

“No,” she argued. “I want to see Carin Wallace’s face and find out why the hell she did this if she wasn’t the one to kill my father. If we wait she could be long gone.”

Jack started the car and pulled onto the street. By the time they arrived at the intersection at the end of the block, firetrucks were roaring toward them, lights and sirens blaring.

Knowing that help was on-site made leaving more palatable. They drove the few miles to Barrington and the extravagant residence of Carin Carter Wallace. She likely wouldn’t answer and surely wouldn’t open the gate.

To Jack’s surprise, the gate was open.

He rolled forward, going slowly. He scanned the landscape as best he could, following the path of the headlights as they drew closer to the house.

“Her car is here.” Anne pointed to the red vehicle.

There was an SUV also. Range Rover. White. Didn’t look familiar.

Jack parked. “We should approach the house with caution. We can’t be sure who’s in there with her and what’s happened.”

Anne nodded. “Got it. I’ll follow your lead.”

They emerged from the rental and walked toward the front door. Lights were on inside, suggesting someone was there. Only two steps separated the stone parking area from the double door entry. One of the doors was ajar.

Jack hesitated. He drew his weapon. “You should call 911 again and give them this address. Whatever has happened here, it isn’t likely to be good.”

Anne made the call, staying close behind him as he entered the house. He didn’t have to go far before he spotted the first sign of trouble.

A suitcase on the floor by the table where a car fob lay in a glass catchall.

“In here.”

The voice, male, was one Jack recognized. He moved toward the entrance to a great room, where Preston Reed sat on the sofa. A few feet away Carin Wallace lay on the floor, blood pooled around her middle.

Anne gasped, and though Jack wanted to rush to the wounded woman’s side to check her vitals, he held his position in front of Anne. He had to protect her at all costs. He surveyed the man seated on the sofa. “Do you have a gun, Mr. Reed?”

He nodded, gestured to the floor.

Jack walked closer, saw the handgun on the floor.

He kicked it away, sending it under the coffee table.

With the immediate threat out of the way, he checked Carin Carter Wallace for a pulse.

Considering her eyes were open, pupil’s fixed and dilated, and her chest wasn’t moving, he didn’t hold out much hope that she was still alive.

Her skin was cool, no pulse at the base of her throat.

He shook his head at Anne, who stood a few feet away, staring in shock.

Jack stood and approached the man on the couch. “What happened, Mr. Reed?”