Long Time Gone Part 26

"Exactly. And he's waiting there, hoping you'll return."

"Maybe he just wants to talk to me," Heather said hopefully.

"Maybe so," I agreed, although I didn't think that was all Dillon wanted. "And in that case, you're our best bet for getting him out of the house. When everyone is in position, I want you to call him on his cell phone and ask him to come outside. Once your family is safe, we'll deal with getting him to surrender."

"For what?"

For kidnapping you, for starters, I thought. And for beating you up. But those weren't things I could say to Heather Peters, not right then.

"Dillon is unstable," I said. "He needs help."

"You think he's crazy?"

"It's possible," I said.

Again there was a long silence. Finally Heather looked up at me. Behind the garish hair and the body piercings I caught a glimpse of the little blue-eyed heartbreaker who had sold me cases of Girl Scout cookies and charmed me into helping her dog-sit.

"What do you need me to do?" she asked.

I handed her my old vest. "Put this on," I said.

"You want me to come along?" Heather asked in disbelief.

I didn't answer because I hardly believed it myself. Taking her with us was incredibly risky. There was always a chance that she could be hurt or even killed in what was likely to be an ugly confrontation. But leaving her alone wasn't an option, either. That would give her far too much time to reconsider. It would give her time to decide to warn Dillon that we were on our way. Keeping a close eye on her would be far safer for Mel, Brad, and me than leaving Heather to her own devices.

"Yes," I said. "You'll be in one of the cars. You'll be relatively safe as long as you stay in the vehicle. When we're ready, we'll need you to call Dillon and get him to come outside."

"What should I say?"

"I don't know. How about telling him you've changed your mind and that you're ready to go to Canada?"

"But I haven't changed my mind," Heather objected.

"Tell him whatever you like, then. Just get him out of the house. We'll take it from there."

Naturally the vest was way too big. Rather than having it hang loose, I had Heather stuff two pillows in under her shirt, which she then tucked into her pants. Once the vest was cinched up tight, the pillows helped it stay in place. She looked like a henna-haired version of the Michelin Man. Under other circ.u.mstances, it might have been comical, but this was serious-a matter of life or death. I dragged one of my old jackets out of the entryway closet to cover the bulging mess so she wouldn't look quite so ridiculous.

"Come on," I said. "Let's go downstairs and meet up with the others."

Mel was appalled when she saw Heather and realized I expected to bring the girl along.

"Are you nuts?" Mel demanded.

"She'll be staying in one of the vehicles," I said with more confidence than I felt. "She should be perfectly safe, but we need her there."

"Why?" Mel asked.

"To entice Dillon out of the house once we're all in place."

"In other words, you're planning to use her as bait?" Mel asked. "What have you been smoking, Beau? I can't condone this."

"It's all right," Heather said. "I want to help."

"You're a fifteen-year-old civilian," Mel countered. "Involving you in this is totally irresponsible. You could get hurt."

"I already am hurt," Heather said. "But I love Dillon, and I know I can talk him into coming outside."

I didn't want to explain in front of Heather that my biggest concern was the possibility that she'd warn Dillon of our intentions the minute we were out of sight.

"It's what we have to do," I said. "And it's what we're going to do. If you don't want any part of it, fine. I'll do it myself. If something goes wrong, then it's on my head, not yours."

Mel was unconvinced. "Right," she said. "And I've got some great oceanfront property in Arizona." Brad Norton pulled up and stopped behind Mel's Beemer. "Okay then," Mel added. "I suppose she's with me?"

I nodded. She escorted Heather to the car, let her into the pa.s.senger seat, and then came back and joined Brad and me on the sidewalk. "So what's the deal?"

After summarizing all I had learned in the course of the evening, I went on to explain my game plan. "I want you and Brad to take up defensive positions in the front yard," I told Mel. "There's a little-used back entrance that leads into the furnace room. The kids use that door to come and go when they don't want their parents to know what they're up to. I'll go in that way. I'll try to sort out where Ron and Amy and the kids are. If I can get some of them out of the house to safety before we make our move, I will. If not, I'll phone Heather and let her know it's time for her to make her call."

"Will she?" Mel asked. "What if she doesn't? I know more than a little about situations like this. If she and Dillon have been involved in an abusive relationship, she may well cave when it comes time to make that critical call."

I remembered what Mel had told me about her own tumultuous home life, how she had grown up in a family where domestic violence had been a daily part of her existence. Much as I didn't want to admit it, I knew she was right. It was more than possible that Heather would let us down at the last minute.

"Then we'll flex," I said. "It's the best we can do."

Mel was studying me intently. "Are you sure about this?" she asked. "These are good friends of yours. Are you sure that isn't clouding your judgment?"

"Maybe so," I admitted, "but this seems like a better idea than sending the ERT guys in with guns blazing and tear gas flying. Ron and Amy and their kids still need a place to live when all this is over. I'm thinking the three of us can do a surgical extraction. Seattle PD will end up using the law enforcement equivalent of carpet bombing."

"All right," Mel said at last. "Show us what you've got."

We caravanned our three vehicles up Queen Anne Hill to Ron and Amy's neighborhood on West Highland. I parked several houses away and made my circuitous way to their yard by the same route I had used days before, when Tracy had called me to come help out. There was no snow on the ground this time, and it wasn't particularly cold, but it was raining. That made for treacherous going in the steep spots. I was glad when I was able to duck into the relatively dry s.p.a.ce behind the protective layer of vines that sheltered Tracy and Heather's hidden door.

No lights from above shed any kind of illumination into that ivy-shrouded cave. I stumbled forward blindly in the darkness, found the doork.n.o.b, and tried turning it, only to find it was locked. Longing for a flashlight, I felt along the upper side of the doorframe until my searching fingers encountered the key Heather had said was concealed there.

It took a long time to locate the keyhole. The scratching of metal on metal as I struggled to insert the key sounded as loud to my ears as cracks of summer lightning. Once I finally succeeded in unlocking the door, I stepped inside. Slipping off my shoes, I tied the shoelaces together and then let the shoes dangle around the back of my neck while I moved forward in my stockinged feet. Again, I had to feel my way around the room until I located a doork.n.o.b. I blessed the silence of the well-oiled hinges as the door swung open.

I was in a corner of the house I had never seen before. This was a decommissioned laundry room that seemed to be directly under the kitchen. Here a glow of outside streetlights entering the dank bas.e.m.e.nt offered some relief from the oppressive darkness of the furnace room and revealed a flight of rough plank stairs that ended at another closed door.

I tiptoed up the stairs and stood with my ear pressed against the door, listening. There was no sound from the other side, but I knew if anyone happened to be in the kitchen when this door opened, all hope of surprise would be lost. This was my last chance to use my cell phone. I pressed the return call number that would take me back to Mel's phone. We'd made arrangements for Heather to answer, so I'd know the call went through, which it did.

"Okay, Uncle Beau," she said. "I'll call Dillon now."

I wanted to tell her good luck, but I didn't dare speak. Instead, I ended the call and turned the k.n.o.b on the door that led into the kitchen. After the darkness in the bas.e.m.e.nt, the kitchen seemed incredibly light. Standing there, I couldn't help but be grateful that Amy was allergic to pet dander. Otherwise, there might have been a barking dog on the premises to announce my arrival.

I stopped just inside the door and stood dead-still once more, listening. At first I heard nothing but the slow drip of a leaky kitchen faucet. Behind me, on the counter, sat two open and empty pizza boxes. I had to remind myself that it was only a week ago when the Peters family's Friday-night dinner tradition had been derailed by the arrival of Rosemary's custody-battle summons. So much had happened since then, I felt as though years had pa.s.sed rather than a single week.

I heard no sounds. What if they're all dead? I asked myself. What if I'm too late-again?

Just then a telephone screeched on the kitchen wall behind me. I almost jumped out of my skin. The call was answered after only one ring, followed by the rumble of a single male voice-Ron's voice-speaking into the phone.

This can't be Heather calling? I told myself. She's supposed to call on Dillon's cell phone.

Using the noise of the call as audio cover against any possible floor-board squeaks, I crept through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the dining room. Moving slowly, I inched forward past the dining-room table until I had a partial view of the living room. Tracy and Amy sat like bookends at opposite ends of the couch. Jared, stretched out between them, was sound asleep with his head in Amy's lap. Ron's chair was parked close enough to the couch so he could, if needed, reach out and touch his wife's hand, but right now he was busy speaking into the phone. Molly Wright was nowhere to be seen, but it was possible she, like Dillon, was sitting just outside my range of vision.

"No," Ron was saying firmly. "We have absolutely no interest in buying a vacation time share. Please remove us from your list." And then he hung up.

A thick fog of cigarette smoke filled the room. Since neither Amy nor Ron smokes, I knew the stench had to come from whoever was with them. I was still standing there like an idiot, waiting for the sound of a ringing cell phone when the front door slammed open and a Kevlar-vest-covered Heather stormed into the living room.

My stomach lurched. My plan had called for her to stay safely in the car. Instead, she had now blundered into a room where the tension was so thick it was difficult to breathe.

"Heather!" Ron exclaimed.

What the h.e.l.l is she doing here? I wondered. And how did she get past Mel?

At the sight of her stepdaughter, Amy made as if to rise to her feet. Jared whimpered and half awakened. "Don't move." I recognized Dillon's voice at once. "Stay where you are," he commanded. Saying nothing, Amy subsided back into her seat and patted Jared's shoulder until he settled again.

Without a glance in her parents' direction, Heather walked as far as the middle of the room and stopped. Yes, it was stupid for her to be there. It was also terribly dangerous, but even as I feared for Heather's life, I couldn't help but applaud her courage as she stepped into the noman's-land between her family and her troubled boyfriend. Standing deathly still, she fixed her unseen boyfriend in an unwavering gaze.

"I tried to call you," she said. "You didn't answer the phone."

"I lost my charger," Dillon said. "The battery ran down."

Both Mel and I had been afraid Heather would fall apart when it came time for her to confront Dillon. At the sound of his voice, Heather's cheeks, flushed from being outside in the cool air, paled suddenly, but she didn't back off.

"What's going on?" she asked. "What are you doing here? And what are you doing with that knife?"

A knife! I felt a surge of panic. Kevlar can protect someone's chest from flying bullets, but the soft armor would do little to protect Heather if Dillon came after her wielding a knife.

"Why did you run away?" Dillon asked in return and without answering any of Heather's questions. "Why did you leave me?"

"Because you hit me," Heather replied matter-of-factly. "Don't you remember?"

Ron must have missed the bruising on Heather's face as she hurried past him. Hearing the news that his daughter had been a.s.saulted hit Ron hard. His hands darted reflexively toward the wheels on his chair. I had little doubt that his first fatherly instinct was to charge across the room and smash Dillon Middleton's face into a million pieces. Had I been in Ron's place, I'm not sure I wouldn't have, but with amazing self-control Ron forced his hands back into his lap and left his chair parked next to the couch. Only fear for his daughter's life could have forced him to stay where he was.

"I didn't mean to," Dillon replied. "Hitting you was an accident, but that's why I'm here. I came back to get you. I need you with me, so I came back."

"All right," Heather said. "I'm here. Let's go."

"No," Ron said. "Heather, you can't do this. You can't go with him. If he's already hit you, what do you think he'll do with that knife?"

"I have to go, Dad," Heather said. "Leave me alone. Come on, Dillon."

I realized then that Heather was still trying to keep to our original game plan. When Dillon's cell phone hadn't worked, she had somehow eluded Mel and Brad and come inside to carry out her part of the deal. And she was absolutely right in doing so. Whatever was going to happen next couldn't take place in a living room full of people.

Before Ron could raise another objection, I moved into the doorway far enough that he could see me. I mimed that he should zip his lip and then mouthed the words, "Let them go!"

Turning away from Dillon, Heather walked as far as the front door and held it open. Then she turned back to Dillon. "Well," she said. "Are you coming or not?"

Dillon moved forward. When he reached Heather, he grabbed her with one arm. Then with his other arm, the knife arm, wrapped around her shoulders, they stepped outside.

My part of the job was to usher Amy, Ron, and the kids to safety. Hurriedly I ducked back out of sight behind the dining-room wall.

As soon as the front door slammed shut behind then, I heard someone shout, "Freeze!"

I didn't wait to hear more. I charged out of the dining room. "Come on, come on," I yelled at Amy and Tracy, who both seemed astonished to see me. "Into the kitchen, quick!"

I grabbed the startled Jared from his mother's arms and carried him to safety. Amy and Tracy were right behind me, with Ron in his wheelchair bringing up the rear. I handed my now-wailing namesake, Jared Beaumont Peters, over to his father and then raced back to the front door. I shut off the interior lights before I opened it. Just as Heather and Dillon must have done, I had to pause on the porch for a moment before my eyes adjusted to the sudden change in light.

When I could see again, there was Dillon's Focus parked in the middle of the drive. Brad stood on the driver's side of the vehicle, and Mel Soames stood on the other. Both had their weapons drawn and were pointing toward the Ford's interior. "Drop the knife!" Mel ordered.

As I moved closer, there was some illumination from a nearby streetlight, enough that I could glimpse a single occupant in the front seat of the vehicle. If Dillon was holding Heather down on the far side of the seat, if he was threatening her with the knife, he was probably too preoccupied with the weapon to turn the key in the ignition. That explained why the Focus wasn't running.

Taking in the chilling scene, I lost all hope. With two .38s trained on the vehicle from the outside and with a drawn knife inside, Heather Peters didn't stand a chance. And if she got hurt or died, it really would be all my fault.

"Put down the knife." This time Brad issued the order. "Put it down and step out of the vehicle."

But nothing happened. The car door didn't open. The knife didn't tumble onto the driveway. Determined to help, I charged off the porch, only to be knocked off balance by someone coming toward me at breakneck speed.

"Help him, Uncle Beau," Heather pleaded as I righted myself. "Stop them before they shoot him. Please."

Overwhelmed to realize Heather wasn't being held at knifepoint, I clutched her in a quick but heartfelt bear hug. "All right," I said. "I will, but you have to go inside. Don't come back out until we say you can."

Without waiting to see whether or not Heather did as she was told, I sprinted forward.

"Come on, Dillon, we don't want to hurt you," Mel was saying. "You're not going anywhere. Now put down that knife."

"We shouldn't have done it," I heard Dillon say as I reached the back b.u.mper of the car. "I'm sorry."

There was a sudden flurry of movement from the driver's seat.

"s.h.i.t!" Mel Soames exclaimed, and she wasn't talking about the Special Homicide Investigation Team. Brad leaned inside and retrieved the knife. He emerged with both his hand and the knife dripping with blood. By then I could see what Mel had meant. Dillon Middleton sat slumped sideways in the driver's seat with blood gushing from a self-inflicted wound to his gut.

"No!" Heather shrieked from behind me as she darted toward the car.

Seattle's award-winning EMTs arrived within two minutes of receiving my 911 call, but I suspected long before they got there that no matter what medical magic they brought with them, it would be too little too late to save Dillon Middleton.

CHAPTER 21.

ALL h.e.l.l BROKE LOOSE after that. By the time the aid car took off for Harborview Hospital with Heather and Dillon on board followed by the rest of the Peters family, West Highland had filled up with cop cars and media vans. Queen Anne Hill was no longer my turf. In this instance, it wasn't Brad's or Mel's, either. Temporarily relegated to the sidelines, we stood in the rain watching the proceedings just like the other neighborhood onlookers.

"I guess you heard what Dillon said." Mel's comment was a quiet one, but it packed a gut-wrenching wallop, because I had indeed heard what he said. "We shouldn't have done it."

It was pretty apparent that the "we" in question had to be Dillon and Heather. And as for the "it"? That had to be the murder of Rosemary Peters. All three of us-three sworn police officers-had heard what might well turn out to be Dillon Middleton's deathbed confession. Dillon was on his way to a hospital and maybe a funeral home. As for Heather? If what Dillon had said was true, Heather Peters might well be headed for prison. The idea that she had played a part in her mother's murder had been a possibility all along. I simply hadn't accepted it. Now it was unavoidable.