Читать книгу Lethal Exposure - Elisabeth Rees - Страница 10

ONE

“911. What is your emergency?”

The operator’s voice was calm and soft on the other end of the line. Alone in her home, Rebecca Grey was terrified.

“There’s someone in my house,” she said. “I’ve locked myself in the bathroom.”

Rebecca tried to control her rapid breathing. She was in danger of having a panic attack.

“Stay where you are and I’ll dispatch a police vehicle to your location immediately. Seventy-five Charleston Road?”

“No, it’s Charles Road, not Charleston Road.”

“I’ll amend the address. Can you please confirm your name, ma’am?”

“Rebecca Grey.”

“Deputies from the County Sherriff’s Office are on their way, Ms. Grey. To assist them in finding your house, can you tell me—”

The line suddenly went dead. Rebecca looked in horror at the cordless handset cradled in her right hand. The digital display was blank: the power was out. She pressed the flat edge of the telephone to her forehead and sank to the cool floor tiles of the bathroom. The black-and-white tiling was the only thing that stood out in the enveloping darkness of 3:00 a.m. It was the beautiful art deco–style bathroom that had persuaded her to buy the house ten years ago. She would never have believed back then that she would, one day, be looking at the fan-shaped light fixtures, wondering if she could use them as a weapon. At least her children were spending the night with their grandmother and out of harm’s way.

She pushed herself to her feet, pulling her flannel robe around her pajamas and securing it tightly with the cord. She didn’t keep a gun in the house. That had been a constant source of disagreement with her late husband. As a navy SEAL, he believed he saw the worst side of human nature, and he wanted his wife and children to be able to defend themselves. She saw it differently. Her view of atrocities had always been softened by the lens of a camera. She had taken pictures of plenty of traumatic events during her time as a war photographer, but the camera always seemed to be her shield. It protected her in a way she couldn’t explain. She had been in some of the most dangerous places in the world but never felt threatened because she had always simply been an observer. Now she was a potential target.

She put the phone in the sink and grabbed hold of one of the heavy, frosted-glass light fixtures attached to the wall. She positioned her thumbs on the carved etching of a 1920s figure and pulled down as hard as she could.

In the next moment, she was sprawling across the floor along with the light fixture. The glass clunked and bounced on the ceramic tiles, and she snatched it up as quickly as possible, feeling her heart race with the explosion of noise she’d created in the quiet night.

She jumped to her feet, clutching the glass in both hands, staring at the door, breathing hard with exertion and expectation. The flimsy lock was only intended to let others know that the bathroom was occupied. It was never meant to hold back an intruder. She braced herself for the door to be kicked open, holding the glass up high, trying to focus her eyes in the gloominess.

Instead, she was greeted with an eerie silence. She strained her ears to hear the sounds that had woken her: drawers opening, papers rustling, footsteps on her wooden hallway floor. Nothing. Maybe the burglar had been frightened off by the noise she had made upstairs. Maybe he had assumed the house was empty.

Flashes of red and blue flooded the tiled walls, and she breathed out, letting her body go limp. The police were here. She rushed to the window, only to see them sail right past her front yard.

“No!” she shouted, watching them drive to the end of the road and turn left, which would take them in the direction of Charleston Road. She banged on the pane. “It’s Charles Road you want.”

A loud crash downstairs made her jump. She knew she had to think quickly and try to reach someone else. Only one person came to mind—Conrad Jackson, her late husband’s navy SEAL colleague and best friend. He didn’t live far. He could be there in less than ten minutes, maybe even more quickly than the police officers, who wouldn’t realize their mistake until finding that the numbers on Charleston Road stopped at fifty.

With no time to lose, she slid back the bolt with shaking hands and yanked open the door. All the lights in her bedroom were off, and her digital alarm was blank. It looked as though the power in the entire house was out. She heard a creak on the stairs and couldn’t help a small yelp escaping her mouth. She grabbed her cell phone from her nightstand and darted back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut and bolting it again.

She tapped through her contacts list with fumbling fingers, found the name Jack and hit Call. “Pick up, pick up,” she muttered to herself, pacing in her bare feet. “Please pick up.”

The phone was answered on its fifth ring. “Rebecca, it’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”

“Jack,” she said, rushing to get her words out. “There’s someone in my house. He’s coming up the stairs.”

“What?” His voice was so loud, she had to pull the cell phone away from her ear. “Where are you?”

“I’m locked in my bathroom.”

“Where are Charlotte and Emily?” he asked anxiously.

“They’re with their grandma. I’m alone.”

“Did you call the cops?”

She heard the drawers of her nightstand being opened. “Yes, but they went to Charleston Road. He’s in my bedroom, Jack.” She felt a little dizzy. “I can hear him right outside the door.”

“Listen to me, Rebecca, and do exactly what I say.”

Her throat was dry. She swallowed. “Okay.”

“You grab anything you can find in the bathroom to barricade the door. Towels, sheets, even toilet paper can be jammed under the crack at the bottom of the door to create a door stop.”

Rebecca’s eyes darted around the bathroom, mentally checking off all the items she could use. There was a large shelving unit that would take all her strength to move.

“I’ll need to put the phone down to move things,” she said breathlessly.

“Put it on the floor,” he said calmly. He had clearly gone into navy SEAL mode, despite having retired from the job right after her husband died. “Keep the line open. I want to hear you even if I can’t see you. I’m walking to my car now, and I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’ll call the police and get them to turn around.”

“I’m putting the phone on the floor now,” she whispered as an icy chill flooded her veins. “Please hurry, Jack.”

“Nothing will stop me getting to you, Bec,” he replied. “And nothing ever will.”

She placed the telephone on the floor, leaning it against the wall in an upright position to help the sound travel into its speaker. With Jack listening, it made her heart thud a little less in her chest. Knowing that he was on his way to the house gave her the strength to heave the shelf unit from its corner and drag it across the floor. The towels and toiletries fell to the floor and she dropped to her knees to push the cotton towels against the door, squeezing the fabric into the small gap beneath the door and the floor.

She then maneuvered the shelf into the center of the room and tried to slide it backward. The weight and size made it too difficult, so she had to walk the unit instead, snagging her hand on a sharp edge of the steel frame as she gripped it tightly. She yanked her fingers away and saw blood trickle down her palm. Instinctively she brought her hand to her mouth, trying to stem the flow and provide relief from the stinging pain. A noise outside the bathroom door reminded her of the urgency of her situation, and she ignored the discomfort, using the entire weight of her slight body to push the shelf into position. Sweat trickled down her forehead, and she wiped it away with her hand, smearing warm blood onto her skin.

“Please hurry, Jack,” she whispered under her breath. “I need you.”

She found herself taking a sharp intake of breath. This was the first time she had acknowledged that she needed Jack—a little too much, perhaps. She knew it wasn’t just her dangerous situation that had prompted this feeling. Since her husband, Ian, died, she found herself relying on Jack more and more. Now he was dashing to her rescue like a knight on a horse. As if by stealth, he had become the most important man in her life, and it made her feel very wrong inside. She regretted calling him. She should have called the police again instead.

A drawer slammed in her bedroom, and she heard heavy footsteps walking on her wooden floor. It sounded like somebody was looking for something, checking all her drawers and cabinets. But whatever it was, he clearly wasn’t finding it. She renewed her efforts to push the shelf nice and tight against the door, noticing the door handle slowly turn. The door held firm. The handle rattled as it was shaken violently from the other side, and she used her body to push against the barricade, hoping that the police would arrive soon. After all, it was their job to protect her, not Jack’s.

* * *

Conrad Jackson raced through the dark, empty streets in his Porsche 911. He rarely drove the car, preferring the sturdy robustness of his pickup truck. He only kept the Porsche because Rebecca liked it—she said the yellow color brightened even the darkest of days. And if anyone knew about dark days, it was Rebecca.

“Bec,” he called into the cell phone hooked up to the car’s speaker system on the dash. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m almost there. I’ve called the police, and they’re on their way back to you.”

The sounds coming from the speakers were impossible to distinguish, but he thought he could hear dragging noises, probably from the big metal shelf that stood in the corner of the bathroom. She sounded like she was barricading herself into the bathroom well. She was safe for now, and he shifted into fifth, increasing his speed to make sure she stayed that way. Rebecca and her children had been the focus of his life for the last eighteen months, ever since making a solemn promise to his SEAL colleague and best friend to look after his family. That fated mission had been the last for both of them—Ian Grey had lost his life, and Jack made the decision never to return to active duty. Cradling his dying friend in his arms on a dusty hillside in Afghanistan had changed Jack’s life forever.

He turned onto Charles Street. “I’m here. Just hang on a little longer.” He had no idea if Rebecca could hear his voice over the speaker of the cell phone on the bathroom floor, but it didn’t matter. Talking to her made him feel more reassured. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. This was one promise he intended to keep no matter what, and the welfare of Rebecca and her children would always be his top priority.

He screeched to a halt outside her home. The front lawn was well-manicured, and the wooden exterior of the large house was pristine white. There was no sign of anything being wrong on this leafy Florida street. He grabbed his cell phone from the dash and slipped it into the top pocket of his linen shirt, making sure he kept the line open. Then he pulled a handgun from his glove compartment and exited the car, making his way quickly and silently to the front door. The door was closed but opened easily with a gentle push. The lock was lying neatly on the carpet where someone had gone to considerable trouble to disassemble it in order to gain entry. This guy was a professional.

The house was shrouded in darkness, and the only noise to be heard was the slow tick of the mantel clock in a living room strewn with papers and files from Rebecca’s cabinets. He noticed some of her award-winning prints amongst the clutter—photos of Somalian soldiers holding guns aloft, images of Chechen children caught up in a war they didn’t understand, pictures of ordinary Afghan people trying to rebuild their lives among the chaos of conflict. Rebecca captured more than the scene itself. She captured the pain in people’s eyes and the humanity behind the headlines. Her dedication to photographing suffering in the world humbled him, and to see her life’s work discarded on the floor made his anger bubble to the surface. Jack found himself hoping that the intruder had hightailed it out of there, lest he let his anger get the better of him.

Creaks on the floor above let him know that someone was walking through one of the bedrooms with hurried footsteps. He ascended the stairs with soundless movement, keeping one ear trained on any noise coming from the cell phone in his pocket. The dragging noises in the bathroom had ceased. He hoped it was a good sign.

Then the house was filled with sounds of dull, repetitive thudding, reverberating through the air on a menacing wave. It was coming from Rebecca’s bedroom, where she was hiding in the adjacent bathroom. He took the last few steps in one bound and burst into her bedroom to see a masked man bringing his foot heavily against the barricaded bathroom door. In one hand, the man held a semiautomatic pistol, raised level with his shoulder. Jack’s sudden presence in the room caused him to jump back from the door and point his gun, ready to shoot.

Jack dived to the side before the bullet had a chance to seek him out, and he saw Rebecca’s closet door splinter with a powerful impact. He rolled and sprang to his feet, running out into the hallway to see the black-clad man dart into Rebecca’s youngest daughter’s bedroom. The intruder yanked open the window with such force that the frame slammed into the casing, shattering the glass on impact. The guy let out an expletive and tried to force the remaining shards through the frame with his gloved hands, ready to make a quick getaway.

Jack took his opportunity and ran to the doorway, firing a warning shot into the wall right next to the man. The suspect immediately raised his hands in the air, shuffling on his sneakered feet, crunching on the glass beneath.

Jack looked at the shards scattered on Charlotte’s dollhouse, and his anger intensified. “You should be grateful the little girl who sleeps in this room isn’t here,” he said through gritted teeth. “What do you want with this family?”

The man didn’t answer. And neither did he turn around. He remained standing with his back to Jack, hands aloft, still holding his gun.

“Put the gun on the floor,” Jack ordered. “Slowly.”

The man began to steadily lower his arms and bend his knees to squat down on the floor.

“Jack.” Rebecca’s voice was faltering behind him. In his peripheral vision, he could see her walking hesitantly into the hallway.

He didn’t remove his eyes from the intruder, who was taking his time to lower his weapon to the floor. “You okay, Rebecca?”

He felt her hand come to rest on his shoulder and glanced down at it. Streaks of blood stained his shirt, and he momentarily let his guard slip.

“You’re hurt,” he exclaimed, taking her hand and holding it in his. He flipped his eyes back up to the suspect and was faced with an empty space. It had taken the guy barely a second to vault through the broken glass. Jack ran to the window and saw the man scrambling down a tree alongside the house. His wiry figure was illuminated by the flashing red-and-blue lights of the police car that had turned onto the street. He turned to race from the room in hot pursuit, but Rebecca gripped his forearm.

“Let him go, Jack,” she said. “The police will pick him up.” She looked at him intently. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

He saw the fear on her face and gave a small nod of his head. He couldn’t leave her when she needed him. He put his gun down and lifted her bloodied hand in his. There was a long cut that snaked down her forefinger to her thumb.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she said. “I cut myself trying to move the shelf in the bathroom.” She laughed weakly. “When I bought it, I never thought I’d be moving it to use as a barricade.”

He took her noninjured hand and led her into the main bathroom. He flipped the light switch before remembering that the power was out, and he used his cell phone to activate a flashlight. He sat her on the edge of the bathtub, pulled a clean towel from the rack and wetted it a little to wrap around her wound. He then positioned himself on bended knee to hold the towel tight against the cut. Her usually honey-warm skin looked pale with a streak of blood across her forehead. He often thought that her skin had a luminous quality, and it seemed to sparkle when the sun shone down on her. Her eyes were the palest blue he’d ever known, in stark contrast to her dark, almost black hair. To say she was striking was a vast understatement. But at that moment her radiance was fading, and she looked exhausted.

He brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’ve been in a lot worse situations that this.”

He tried to raise a smile. “Haven’t we all?” He immediately regretted saying these words, worried that she might think he was referring to the day that neither of them had ever spoken of—the day when her world stopped. She didn’t need reminding of that, not now.

“It’s fine, Jack,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here. Ian would be really grateful.” She looked him in the eye. “I’m really grateful.”

He held her hand, smoothing her fingers with his own, wondering how she always seemed to know what he was thinking.

A uniformed deputy appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Grey?”

She looked up. “Yes.”

The light in the bathroom suddenly flicked on, as did the lamp in the hallway. “Someone tripped your fuse box,” the deputy said. “My partner fixed it.”

Jack stood up. “Did you catch the guy?”

The deputy raised his eyebrows. “What guy?”

Jack ran his fingers through his hair. “The guy clambering down the tree in the front yard.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see him.”

The deputy straightened his shoulders. “And who might you be, sir?”

“Conrad Jackson. I’m a friend of Rebecca’s. She called me after your patrol car drove past her house on its way to Charleston Road.”

The deputy shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. “We had a couple of problems with the computerized address system.” He looked past Jack to Rebecca. “I apologize for the delay, ma’am.”

Rebecca didn’t look up, and her voice was small. “It’s okay. Mr. Jackson got here in time.”

Jack led the deputy into the hallway, out of earshot of Rebecca. “So the guy got away, huh?”

The deputy crossed his arms. “We were focused on getting inside the house to assist a lone female. Our priority is always to safeguard the victim.”

“Did you check and secure the whole house?”

“My partner is searching the property as we speak.” The officer looked Jack up and down. “You talk like a cop. You in the force?”

“Navy SEAL, retired.”

The deputy nodded in admiration. “Then I guess Mrs. Grey is in safe hands.”

Always, Jack thought. “I want the surrounding area searched thoroughly for any sign of this guy. He’s armed and dangerous. You’ll find a bullet lodged in a closet in the master bedroom. Have it analyzed to see if it matches any recorded crimes or offenders.” He cast a backward glance at Rebecca and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I want to know why he targeted this house. What did he want?”

Jack’s natural authority and commanding presence had an instant effect on the deputy, who wrote the instructions in his notepad and immediately radioed other patrol cars to begin the search for the suspect.

Jack returned to Rebecca’s side in the bathroom, and she stood to face him, a little unsteady on her feet. He gripped her shoulders to hold her up, and she rested her forehead on his chest. He felt the warmth from her skin tingle through his thin linen shirt. She wasn’t usually so affectionate with him, and he felt a mixture of awkwardness and pleasure to hold her so close. His promise to Ian Grey was to take care of his wife, not to become emotionally involved with her. He certainly didn’t want to overstep, so he pulled away, guiding her into the hallway and lowering her into a chair in the corner.

A second deputy came up the stairs. “Looks like our guy is long gone,” he said. “It’s a total mess down there, but expensive items like the TV and gaming devices are untouched.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And the way the door lock was taken apart is like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Rebecca leaned forward and pointed to the deputy’s hand. “What is that you have in your hand?”

He held it forward. “I found it outside in your front yard, possibly dropped by the perp.” He held it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s an art brochure from the Regency auction house in New York.” He raised his eyebrows at his partner. “Our criminals are getting a little more cultured than they used to be. You should see the price guide of this stuff.”

Rebecca held out her hand. “Can I see it?”

As the deputy handed her the brochure, Jack noticed Rebecca’s expression change to one of fear. He knelt down by her side. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing the two deputies working together to thoroughly check all the rooms upstairs.

“I’ve seen this brochure before,” she said shakily. “In fact, I photographed these artworks in a presidential palace twelve years ago when I was working in Iraq.” She cradled her injured hand as she talked. “I recently read a newspaper article advertising an art sale in an auction house called Regency in New York. The pieces in the pictures looked exactly like the ones I’d photographed in Iraq, so I requested a brochure. When it arrived, I recognized the artwork immediately, and I wondered how they came to be in the US.”

Jack’s senses tingled to attention. “Do you think they were stolen from the palace?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I called the auction house two weeks ago to ask them who currently owned the artwork but they said it was confidential information. I told them I photographed these pieces during Operation Iraqi Freedom twelve years ago, and they said that was impossible.” She looked at him with clear, wide eyes. “But they claim the pieces were legally purchased and imported from Turkey over twenty-five years ago.”

Jack leaned in closer. “Do you believe that’s true?”

She shook her head. “No. These are such distinctive pieces, Jack—sculptures, ceramics, paintings, tapestries. Some of them are hundreds of years old. I know they were in the Al Faw Palace in Iraq. I have the photographs to prove it.”

“Did you say all of this to the auction house in New York?”

“Yes.”

Jack let out a long breath. “And what do they intend to do about it?”

“They said they’d take my concerns to the current owner of the art and get back to me with a response.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But that was over two weeks ago. I called them yesterday, and they gave me the brush-off. I told the guy on the phone that I’d go to the police if they don’t start taking me seriously.”

Jack rubbed his temples. “And now someone wants to silence you?”

Rebecca closed her eyes. “It looks that way.” She let her head fall into her hands and spoke with a muffled voice through her fingers. “What have I gotten myself caught up in, Jack?”

“Hey,” he said gently. “Whatever you’re caught up in is my problem, too.”

He put a protective arm around her shoulder, trying to feign composure, but in reality his mind was racing with endless possibilities, all of them fraught with danger. His promise to Ian was about to be tested to the limit.