Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

But not everything – not the most important thing, a cold, flat voice said. Kendra wouldn't have left behind the evidence. She needed that. So after she picked up Sean, she drove – she didn't stop, she just kept driving because she already had the evidence with her. She figured out a way to have it with her at all times, within arm's reach in case she needed to run. She had the evidence with her at all times.

Randy removed the handbag from the evidence bag and placed it on the bench. Darby's attention never left the blood-soaked clothes, afraid that if she looked away she'd lose the connection to the voice speaking to her: She had the evidence with her at all times. She had the evidence with her at all times.

Darby reached for the box of latex gloves. She put them on and started with the handbag.

Black leather Liz Claiborne wallet holding nothing but cash and a Vermont driver's licence for Amy Hallcox.

Three plastic-wrapped tampons.

Next, the box of Altoids. Nothing in there but mints.

She had the evidence with her at all times.

You couldn't carry a handbag with you at all times. Kendra would have used something that she could have with her at all times.

What was left? Watch and jewellery.

The watch had already been dusted for prints. Darby picked it up. Black polyurethane strap and a black faceplate surrounded by a stainless-steel mask with a brushed-steel finish. The second hand ticked along steadily. Silver numbers but no manufacturing stamp identifying the watchmaker.

She turned it over. The back of the watch looked normal, but not the left side. A small rectangular piece of plastic. She grabbed a pair of tweezers and pushed out a plastic tab belonging to a small USB flash drive.

'Holy shit,' Randy said. Then his surprise turned to embarrassment. 'I never would've thought… I examined that watch myself and not once did I notice that.'

'You weren't supposed to. It's concealed. I need to take this to my office. Oh, and before I go, I should tell you that there'll be some people inside here momentarily sweeping the office for listening devices.'

'What's going on?'

'Sorry, Randy, I can't tell you. Orders of the commissioner.'

'Say no more.'

Darby thought about the USB drive. Kendra Sheppard had gathered information during a time when such devices had yet to be invented. That meant only copies of the original documents and audio recordings were on the drive. Had she destroyed the originals? Or had she stored them someplace safe?

She found Warner inside her office along with the other two men.

'I need to speak to you privately for a moment,' she said.

Warner pointed to the door. The two men nodded and left.

Darby slid the tiny flash drive into the USB slot of her computer.

The door shut behind her and Warner said, 'What's up?'

'I found Kendra Sheppard's documents.' Darby pointed to the computer screen holding a list of MP3 audio files and PDF files.

Warner slid next to her and leaned on the desk. He took out a pair of bifocals. Darby stared at the list. Christ, there're dozens of files here. 'Judging by the size of these files, I'd say they were scanned.'

'Can you print them out?'

She nodded, then grabbed the mouse and clicked on one of the PDF files.

A window opened asking her for a password.

She clicked on one of the audio files and got the same window.

'Shit.'

'What?' Warner asked. 'What's wrong?'

'They're password protected.'

'You don't happen to know the password, do you?'

'No. And don't ask me to start typing in random passwords either.'

'Why not?'

'Because I might wind up erasing the files. I'll call the computer lab.' She reached for the phone.

Warner blocked her. 'I've got to clear it with the commissioner. You got a guy in mind?'

'Jim Byram,' she said. 'He's the best at this stuff.'

'Okay. Once he's vetted, I'll have him get to work on it.'

'These files are probably just copies. Kendra either stored the originals someplace else or destroyed them.'

Warner nodded. 'You talk to Cooper yet?'

'He's not here.'

'Where is he?'

'I don't know.'

'Then go find him. Find him and talk some sense into him. Then call me on your way back here. I'll need your help sorting through these files.'

She pushed the chair back and stood up.

'One other thing,' Warner said. 'These people who were following you… if you think you see anything, I want you to call. Don't go all Rambo on me, okay? We need these guys alive.'

Darby nodded and left, thinking about where Coop was, how she was going to get him to open up and talk.

She checked in to ballistics. They had no record of a Glock eighteen ever having been used in the commission of a crime.

Jamie awoke to a gauzy haze of thoughts. She tried to open her eyes and a dim voice – one that sounded eerily familiar – groaned in protest: No, stay here with me.

She recognized the voice – had slept next to it for close to fifteen years.

Stay here with me, Dan said. Stay here where it's safe.

Safe?

Safe from what?

It came to her, slowly at first. Father Humphrey had come to her house to warn her about Kevin Reynolds. He knows what happened here and asked if I knew you, if you still lived in the area. Humphrey's words. And… and… what? She had run into the house to get the kids. And Humphrey grabbed her, telling her to calm down. She remembered pulling free. Remembered running to the foot of the stairs, about to scream to the kids to come down right now, when a plastic bag was wrapped around her head.

Father Humphrey did that, she thought. The priest who baptized both my babies and ate dinner at my house and saw to my husband's funeral arrangements while the kids and I were recovering in the hospital – that man wrapped the plastic bag over my head.

She remembered feeling the plastic sticking to her lips as she sucked in air. Remembered struggling to prise his rough, callused hands from her throat and remembered her face slamming against the wall and pain exploding inside her skull – pain, oddly, she couldn't feel at this moment – she couldn't feel anything and for some reason that scared her the most. She should -

Rough hands slid across her cheeks. Fingers pushed her eyelids open and she saw Father Humphrey's face and his sad, bloodshot eyes. She couldn't seem to focus on the rest of the room but she could make out shapes and colours behind the priest – an emerald-green comforter covering a bed; a pair of drawn lavender curtains covering her windows and a lamp sitting on an oak nightstand.

My bedroom. I'm in my bedroom and I seem to be sitting up. Why can't I move my hands and feet?

For some bizarre reason she didn't feel afraid. She didn't feel anything. My head should be pounding – it should feel sore, at the very least – but I don't feel any pain. I just want to shut my eyes and go back to sleep.

'Come now, darling,' Humphrey said, gently shaking her head. She could smell cigarette smoke and booze on his breath. 'Time to wake up.'

He let go of her face. Her chin dropped against her chest and her body slumped to the side but she didn't fall. A long line of drool dripped on to her tan shorts.

Father Humphrey had duct-taped her to one of the kitchen chairs. She could see the strips wrapped around her shins. He had tied her hands behind her back – the kids, oh Jesus God, Jesus Mary and Joseph, what did he do to Michael and Carter? Were they in the bedroom?

It took a great amount of effort to raise her head.

'That's my girl,' he said.

Her head flopped to the side, against her shoulder. The bedroom door was open and she could see the hall. The doors to the boys' bedrooms were shut. The door to the dead room was open. Father Humphrey had kicked it open. She saw the lock and pieces of wood lying on the carpet.