Snowbound - Blake Crouch [5]
“Thank you, Miguel.” He wiped his eyes, cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go get something to eat, something to drink. They’ve got a whole buffet thing going in the kitchen.”
When Miguel was gone, Will opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.
He whispered, “Oh God.” The cushion evaporated. The crushing load of Rachael’s absence ripped the breath out of him and he crumpled down on the steps, thinking, So this is really happening. It had become a parking lot out in the street. He spotted a news van one block over, a large satellite dish perched on its roof. And in the long grass of the front lawn, a dozen people stood in a circle between the yuccas and saguaros, their faces lighted by the candles in their hands, flames quivering in the evening wind blowing in from the desert.
He sat watching the circle of flames, the sky deepening into dusk, his stomach hurting so much that he could manage only the shallowest of breaths as he strained to hear their words.
A woman’s voice reached him: “Dear Lord, You say that where two or more are gathered in Your name that You are present. Well, here we are Lord, and we’re asking for the deliverance of Rachael Innis.”
He struggled to his feet and stumbled toward them through the grass. He hadn’t prayed in years, since they’d found out their daughter was sick. A standoff fuckoff with God. That ended tonight.
SIX
Will slipped away from the circle of candles and started back toward the house to check on Devlin. Though he’d wanted to, he hadn’t prayed aloud. It had been a long time and he was rusty at talking to God, particularly in the presence of strangers.
As he reached to open the front door, it swung back. Rachael’s mother was standing on the threshold, distraught.
“There’s a detective in the living room, Will. He wants to talk to you.”
For some reason, Will had expected a younger man, perhaps his age, with a buzz cut and stern, distrusting eyes. Having dealt with many cops as a defense attorney, he’d come to regard them as authority junkies, an unimaginative and reactionary bunch prone to forming fast, unmovable opinions. But at first glance, the detective on his couch proved none of his prejudices. The man was sitting between two of Rachael’s girlfriends from yoga class, his hands flattened out on his knees, gazing with a Zen-like calm at a framed photograph over the mantel—a picture from their Grand Canyon vacation two summers ago. He was an older, clean-shaven gentleman with stark white hair and clear blue eyes, and when he saw Will, he rose to his feet, buttoned his jacket, and flashed an appropriately restrained smile.
“Mr. Innis,” he said as they shook hands. “Detective Teddy Swicegood. You’ve cross-examined me in court a few times, if I’m not mistaken. But don’t worry. Won’t hold it against you. I’m so sorry to be here under these circumstances.”
He had at least four inches on Will, and his wizened face belied the strength of his handshake and the lean, solid build beneath the Sears suit.
“You have news?” Will asked.
“It’s pretty crowded in here. There someplace we can talk in private?”
“Yeah. You want a drink?”
“I wouldn’t object to a whiskey.”
Will poured a pair of whiskies and led Swicegood through the sliding glass door. There were a half dozen people on the deck, most of whom he didn’t recognize, sitting on chairs dragged out from the breakfast table and eating off paper plates like they were at a cookout.
The two men walked down the steps and crossed the grass to a weathered fence that ran the length of No-Water Lane and separated the backyards of Oasis Hills from the desert.
Will leaned on the fence, steeling himself, and said, “Just tell me. Don’t beat around—”
“We’ve got APBs out everywhere across the Southwest and we’re working with the Mexican authorities, as well.”
“You haven’t found her?”
Swicegood shook his head.
“But you think she’s alive.”
“I don’t know.”
“Your opinion?”
“Mr. Innis, it’s just too early to be—”
“Please. Take off the fucking kid gloves.”
“That’s a bad stretch of