Page 38 of The Perfect Hosts
“The dispatcher couldn’t get much out of the caller. Said she was whispering and couldn’t make much sense out of it,” Colson explains.
“I’m almost there. I’ll let you know what I find.” Jamie ends the call and presses his foot on the gas, the speedometer reaching eighty miles per hour.
When he turns into the long driveway that leads to the Drake house, there’s a white Ford truck sitting out front. Jamie gets out of his car and scans the property, but it’s quiet. No sign of activity of any kind. He circles the truck, peeking through the tinted windows. It’s parked at an odd angle, and the tailgate is down. He examines the truck bed. The saddle box is open, and the contents are jumbled and spilling over the side. He lets out a breath.
As Jamie crosses in front of the truck and approaches the house, he spots the damaged front door and the spray of broken glass. Just inside, the home-security system panel hasbeen destroyed. His hand instantly goes to his sidearm, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and unclips his gun from its holster.
Jamie winces at the crunch of glass beneath his feet, aware that he may be alerting the intruder of his presence. He could be stepping into a hornet’s nest, but the thought of Madeline Drake and her unborn baby in danger pulls him forward. Once inside the living room, he’s faced with more damage. Though the home appears to be what many would describe as minimalist, with clean lines and no knickknacks or clutter, it’s clear that what the Drakes do own is top-of-the-line. Or, at least, used to be. An oversize coffee table has a long, deep scratch down the center, the leather couches have been ripped, artwork on the wall has been destroyed, and the tempered glass covering the gas fireplace has been smashed.
Heart pounding, Jamie moves through the main level checking a large pantry in the kitchen, the mudroom, the bathroom, and the home office. Empty. He faces the steps leading to the second floor. They curve up and around, and he doesn’t have a clear view as to what might greet him at the top. Someone with a weapon could be there, just out of sight, ready to pounce.
From behind him comes a gasp, and Jamie turns to find Mellie Bauer standing there. What the hell is the waitress from the party doing here? Mellie’s eyes widen at the sight of Jamie pointing a gun at her. “Oh my God,” she cries. “Oh my God.”
“Were you the one who called 9-1-1?” Jamie asks. Mellie nods. “Go outside,” Jamie says firmly. “Go outside, and wait for someone to tell you what to do.” Without another word, she disappears, and he can hear her soft footfalls retreating.
Gritting his teeth, Jamie creeps up the stairs, head craning to see what’s to come. When he rounds the corner, he breathes a bit easier. The landing is empty. He hears the murmur of voices and soft crying coming from down the hall.
Jamie hurries down the long corridor in search of the source of the weeping. He pushes open the first door—a bathroom, the second a guest room, the third is what looks like the master bedroom. All empty. The final door is ajar, and as he gets closer it’s clear that this is where the sounds are coming from. He presses his back against the wall outside the door, gun in hand, pointed upward. He dares to peek around the doorjamb. Facing away from him, standing next to a crib is Madeline Drake, her hands slightly raised. From this angle, Jamie can’t see the other person but knows someone is there. If startled, they could hurt Madeline. If he waits too long, they may do it anyway.
The destruction is frenzied. Whoever did this is angry. Angry enough to smash through the front door in broad daylight. Jamie runs through the possibilities: Sully Preston, Dalton Monaghan, Lucy Quaid, someone not yet on their radar.
Closing his eyes briefly before speaking, Jamie says, “Madeline, it’s Agent Saldano. Is everything okay in there?”
“Don’t come in,” Madeline says in a rush. “I’m okay, but wait.” Her voice is tight, filled with fear, but Jamie stays put. Madeline’s voice drops, and though he can’t understand what she’s saying, from the low, earnest tone Jamie knows she’s pleading with the intruder.
Jamie dares another peek around the door. Madeline is holding out her hands as if preparing to accept an offering. He edges in farther, and that’s when he sees Dalton Monaghan sitting in a rocking chair, a gooseneck crowbar lain across his lap and a piece of paper in his hand. More concerning is that there’s a red gas tank at his feet.
“Dalton, I’m staying out here for now,” Jamie says, “but the sheriff is on his way, and things will be much easier if you lay down the crowbar and you let me come into the room. We can talk things over.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Dalton says, with surprising calm. “Not with you, anyway. I’m here to talk to Wes.”
“Let’s take this outside, Dalton. You’re scaring Madeline, and I know you don’t want to do that,” Jamie says, keeping his voice even, conversational.
“She’s part of the problem,” Dalton scoffs. “I told Johanna she was getting too involved with her. That Wes and Madeline don’t really care about her—that she was nothing more than hired help to them.”
“No!” Madeline says shakily. “Johanna was my best friend. I loved her.”
“I bet you wouldn’t say that if you knew your husband was screwing my wife,” Dalton says, sending a scathing glance Madeline’s way.
“That’s not true,” Madeline sputters. “Johanna would never do that to me.”
“She would, and she did,” Dalton says bitterly, holding up the piece of paper in his hand. “This proves it.”
“Listen, Dalton, I’m putting my gun away,” Jamie says already sliding his firearm into its holster. “I only want to talk.” Where is the backup? Jamie wonders. He’d feel much better about this if he knew the cavalry was coming. With a steadying breath, Jamie steps into the doorway with his hands raised and empty. There’s a strong smell of gasoline, and Jamie takes note of the wet ring of carpet encircling Dalton and Madeline. Dalton has risen from his seat in the rocking chair, the crowbar held in his hands like a baseball bat. One swing and Dalton could easily crack Madeline’s skull.
“Whoa, now,” Jamie says, his eyes fixed on Dalton’s. “My gun is holstered, see?” Dalton’s gaze flicks down to Jamie’s waistband, then returns, but he doesn’t lower the crowbar. “I know how painful this is. I do,” Jamie says. “Why don’t you let Madeline go, and we’ll talk about it. Just the two of us.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Dalton shouts. He kicks at the plastic gas can at his feet and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a lighter, the piece of paper fluttering to the floor with themovement. Dalton turns to Madeline, the crowbar shaking slightly in one hand, the other worrying the lighter’s spark wheel. He uses his shoulder to swipe at the sweat running down his face. “People like your husband act like they can get away with anything. He thinks he can have whatever he wants and blow up lives like it doesn’t matter.”
“You’re wrong,” Madeline says, as Jamie inches his way toward Dalton. “They wouldn’t do this to us. They just wouldn’t.”
“Stay there,” Dalton orders, and Jamie stops in place.
“Listen, Dalton,” Jamie says. “Your wife just died. I know you’re angry and sad, but this isn’t the way to handle it. Let Madeline and her baby go.”
Dalton barks out a laugh. “You think I’m sad about my wife’s death? Johanna got what she deserved. Now I want to make sure Wes does too.”
“Madeline?” comes a desperate cry from below. “Where are you?”