Chris Mooney - The Dead Room

'No police. I don't want them involved – I don't want anyone involved. Guys like King don't work in a vacuum, Darby. They always have help.'

'Warner knows I came over here to speak to you.'

'Tell him you couldn't find me.'

'He'll come looking for you.'

'Let him come looking. Better yet, buy me some time. Tell him I called you and promised to speak to you later, say, around eight. I'll already be at the airport.'

'And what if they go looking for you there?'

'Then I'll figure out a way to handle it.'

'Stay here, Coop. We can figure out a way -'

'I'm not staying here. I can't. I need to do this. I can't risk having anything happen to Jackie or my mother.'

'Your mother's in Florida.'

'Not for long,' he said. He straightened, gripped her lightly by the shoulders. 'Please let me do this my way, okay?'

'What can I do to help?'

'Lock up my place before you go.'

'I will as long as you keep your mobile phone on and promise to pick up when I call.'

'I promise. Make sure you do the same. I'll call you later, after I get Jackie squared away.'

Coop stepped into the rain. She wanted to go to him but her feet felt nailed to the floor.

He turned and rushed back to her. Grabbed her gently by the face and then leaned forward and kissed her hard on the lips. She kissed him back, just as hard, not wanting to let go.

He let her go. He swallowed back tears.

'I'd stay here if it would make a difference, I swear to God I would, Darby. But these guys are slick. They never go to jail. They always have inside help. How the hell do you think they managed to slip a bomb inside the house and on the Explorer?'

'I've got to see this through, Coop. I can't walk away.'

He closed his eyes for a moment, then swallowed. 'Take care of yourself, Darb. Be careful.'

'You too.'

Darby watched him get inside the passenger seat.

Get out, she wanted to say. Come back.

The Honda tore down the street and disappeared. She shut the door and turned back to the empty house, water dripping down her face and back.

Bono had stopped singing. Her eyes roamed across the boxes, the pictures still hanging on the walls, the dishes still piled in the kitchen sink. She stood there and took in the room, wanting to preserve it in her mind, wanting to try to hold some piece of him, knowing, right then, that this was it. Coop was leaving. He wasn't coming back.

Darby locked the front door and checked all the downstairs windows. She took the stairs to the first floor, reminding herself to go into the basement and double-check the hatch doors to make sure they were locked.

She was heading back downstairs when her phone rang.

'You're a genius,' Randy Scott said. 'Mark fumed the inside of the binoculars and found a print – a damn good one. It rang the cherries in the database, but here's where it gets weird. The print belongs to another dead person, only this guy's named Daniel Russo from Wellesley.'

'What happened?'

'He died in some sort of home invasion five years ago. The database doesn't give all the details. I have a case number but I don't have access to our computer system – I don't have the authorization. I know you do.'

'Is Warner still there?'

'No, he's gone. They're all gone, as a matter of fact.'

He's probably still with the computer guy, she thought. 'I'm on my way back to the lab. I'll see you in a few.'

Darby hung up and dialled Warner's number.

'Warner.'

'It's Darby. I've -'

'Your computer guy still hasn't broken through the password protection. The commissioner is here, and she wants to know if you spoke to -'

'Listen to me for a moment.' Darby moved across the living room, heading for the basement door to lock down the bulkhead. 'I've come across some information regarding the binoculars we found in the woods. A fingerprint. It -'

A shadow moved in the corner of her eye. She turned to the dark hall and caught sight of the butt end of a shotgun as it slammed against the side of her head.

'It was one of those wrong place, wrong time kind of things,' Father Humphrey said.

Jamie's eyes fluttered open. He was still lying on her bed, still holding the glass against his stomach and staring up at the ceiling. The bottle of Johnnie Walker, she noticed, was almost empty. How long have I been out?

'Danny was doing this home extension for a… mutual friend, I guess you could say. This gentleman was looking to fix up a house rather quickly, turn it around and put it back on the market – he's an absolute genius when it comes to property, this man. He's made a fortune. I knew Danny was struggling to get his business off the ground so I gave him Danny's name.

'And your husband jumped at the opportunity, Jamie. I mean he jumped through hoops when he found out this gentleman was willing to pay cash to get the job done fast. No receipts, nothing to report to the IRS. You should have seen the look in Danny's eyes. It was like I handed him a winning lottery ticket.'

Humphrey grinned, proud of his magnanimous gesture, and took a long sip of his drink.

Jamie managed to lift her head. It took some effort but not as much as before. That warm, blissful feeling from what seemed like hours ago had started to trickle away. Pain had started to seep through the cracks. She could feel a dull throb from where her head had hit the wall, the scratching and soreness around her throat from the priest's fingers.

'The gentleman who hired your husband was very impressed by the quality of your husband's work. Danny had a gift, no question – and by God, what a work ethic! He cleaned up the work site at the end of each day no matter how late it was, no matter how tired he felt, just in case this gentleman I mentioned decided to swing by and take a look around. Danny knew this was a big job for him and he wanted to impress. He probably should have just headed home instead of turning around to go back and clean up.'

She forced her head back, then let it roll to the side so she could see the hall.

'So your husband goes back to the house to clean up and he finds this man's wallet sitting on this half-finished kitchen worktop. Danny calls the man and leaves a message on his mobile. Your husband wants to impress, wants to show what a good guy he is, and you know what he did?'

Jamie didn't answer. She swallowed, tasting blood.

Michael pulled back the valance. She saw Carter. He was scared but no longer crying. He turned and whispered something to his brother.

'Your husband,' Humphrey said, 'remembers that his client spends most of his time on his boat at the Marblehead Yacht Club. It seems the two of them had several conversations about boats, Danny being some sort of yachtsman-in-training. So instead of pocketing the wallet and going home, your husband, the kind and generous soul that he is, gets back in his car and drives an hour north to deliver the wallet to the marina, finds the boat and guess who he sees sitting on the deck or whatever it's called drinking beers along with his client?'

She wanted to hold Carter. Wanted to hold him and Michael in her hands and press their cheeks up against her and tell them how sorry she was for letting them down. Again. Wanted to scream the words so her boys could hear them, hear her hurt. Her guilt.

'Danny hands over the wallet,' Humphrey said, 'and his client tells him to stay for a beer. Only Danny refuses because he recognizes the man sitting on the deck – Francis Sullivan. Only Francis isn't going by that name any more, being dead and all. And, truth be told, he doesn't even look like Francis Sullivan, not with all the surgery he's had, and – wait, I forgot. You already know this part, don't you?'

Jamie watched as Michael slid his foot out from underneath the bed.