Honeymoon - James Patterson [77]
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I muttered while the line rang.
And rang and rang.
“Shit! Nobody’s answering!”
The answering machine finally picked up, and I left a frantic message about going over to the neighbors’ and waiting for the police to arrive.
My mind raced with horrible, dreadful thoughts. Was Nora already there? And how did she know where there was?
Will was off the radio. He turned to me. “The Riverside police will be at your house in minutes.” He nodded at my phone. “No luck getting through?”
“No,” I said.
“Is there a cell phone?”
“I’m about to try.”
I hit my speed dial, only to hear the call go right into voice mail. I left the same message with the same ominous intro. It was like in the movies. It’s John. If you and the boys are in the house, get out right now! If you’re on your way home—don’t go there.
I leaned back my head and let out a frustrated yell. I suddenly felt dizzy again. I tried to get myself to calm down and not think the worst. It wasn’t possible.
“Faster, guys!”
We were already doing over eighty. We’d cut across the border to Connecticut and were making a beeline south for Riverside. I was feeling completely helpless when I had an idea. Call Nora.
Maybe that’s what she wanted. Maybe—hopefully—her threat was nothing more than that, the only intention being to scare the hell out of me and keep the game going. I’d call her and she’d laugh wickedly. Riverside was just a decoy. She was miles in the opposite direction.
If only.
I dialed her number.
Ten rings in a row.
No voice mail.
No Nora.
The police radio kicked in with a burst of static. We were being patched through to a patrolman in Riverside. He was outside the house. The doors were locked, some lights were on; as far as he could tell, no one was around.
I looked at my watch. 9:10. They should’ve been there. The boys’ bedtime was nine.
Will flipped the transmitter onto speaker. “No sign of forced entry?”
“Negative,” we heard.
“Have you checked with the neighbors?” asked Mitch as he slowed to take a sharp turn. The front and rear left tires screeched in stereo.
“She probably would’ve gone to the Picottes directly across the street,” I added. “Mike and Margi Picotte. Friends of ours.”
“We’re checking there now,” said the patrolman. “How far are you guys from here?”
“Ten minutes,” said Will.
“Agent O’Hara, are you there?” asked the patrolman.
“Right here,” I said.
“I’d like to dismantle the lock on one of the doors to the house. If that’s okay? Just to make sure no one’s inside.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Take an ax to it.”
“Roger that.”
His voice cut off with another burst of static. Outside the cruiser, the siren blared into the night. Inside, it was silence. Small-town cops Will and Mitch Cravens and me.
I caught Mitch’s eye in the rearview mirror. “I know, I know,” he said. “Faster.”
Chapter 102
MITCH GUNNED IT and turned ten minutes of driving into five. We arrived in front of my house with a fifty-foot skid. The street was aglow with police patrol lights, the red and blue twirling all around and up into the night. Pockets of neighbors stood and watched from their lawns, wondering what was going on at the O’Hara house.
At that moment, not much.
I hurried through the open front door to find four cops talking in the foyer. They’d just completed a room-to-room search.
“Empty,” one of them told me.
I went into the kitchen. There were a few dishes in the sink, a roll of Saran Wrap on the counter. They’ve eaten dinner. I checked the phone on the wall by the refrigerator. The message light was blinking, but there was only one message. Mine.
All the cops, including Will and Mitch, had gathered in the adjoining den. I went over to them.
“We need a plan,” I said. “I don’t have one, either. I’m not at my best right now.”
A small dark-haired officer named Nicolo took the lead. He was very organized and said there was already an all-points bulletin out for Nora’s red Mercedes in the entire Tri-State area. Airport security had been notified.