Northwest: Deep Freeze Part 43

He left the boots on the porch; then, in stocking feet, he slipped through hallways that had been, years before, familiar.

The smell of the house hadn't changed, and he noticed a row of empty, sixteen-ounce bottles of Coors on the counter. The furniture-a hodgepodge that suited Wes and no woman would claim-was the same, a little dusty, but no clutter in the living room with its dueling recliners, long couch, big-screen and surround-sound TV.

Floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he searched each room, sweeping the beam of his flashlight across a dining room table with a dried centerpiece that had to be ten years old, dust collecting on the once-glossy wood, then into the small room by the stairs, a parlor Wes used as an office. Along the wide top of the desk, next to a state-of-the-art computer, were neat stacks of mail. Bills in one pile, newspapers in another, magazines in a third. Nothing looked out of the ordinary; the bills were for utilities and such, offers of credit cards at great rates, the magazines ranging from Popular Science and Hunter's World to Playboy and Penthouse.

The computer was on standby...and with a touch of one key, glowed to life. Carter checked the time. He'd been inside ten minutes-he'd only allow himself another ten just in case Wes got bored with the game.

Since he was using Wes Allen's computer, access was a snap, all preprogrammed. Carter glanced at Wes's most recent visits: e-Bay and Jenna Hughes's Web site were at the top of the list, and a check through Wes's list of favorite or bookmarked sites, again had not only e-Bay and Jenna Hughes, but her fan sites and p.o.r.n sites sprinkled in with pages dedicated to basketball, electronics, home repair, and art. Carter copied the list, sent it to himself, then deleted the sent mail. If Wes were clever, and dug deeper, he'd figure it out, but Carter was betting that Wes Allen would never know he'd had a visitor.

The digital time readout on the monitor warned him that his allotted time was nearly exhausted. After wiping the keyboard clean, Carter quickly made his way up the stairs and walked through two small, cold bedrooms filled with extra furniture and clothes, unused for any purpose, including guests, from the looks of it. Stacked boxes on extra tables, chairs and a bed without a mattress, empty closets. A quick check revealed that the boxes were filled with old papers, tax information and the like, not what Carter was looking for.

He left the extra bedrooms undisturbed, then swept through a single, utilitarian bathroom and, finally, Wes Allen's bedroom. It was as stark and uncluttered as the rest of the house, a braided rug supporting a cast-iron bed, a solitary bureau that also served as a TV stand, and a night table where a lamp, reading gla.s.ses, box of tissues, and remote control had been placed. Neat. Tidy. Everything in order. Almost as if Wes had expected company.

Carter checked his watch. The fourth quarter would be about over unless there was overtime involved. He had to move fast.

He quickly searched the closet, found nothing, opened the bedside drawer, and his breath caught in his throat as he s.h.i.+ned his flashlight into the interior. The drawer was empty, aside from a few pieces of jewelry and a stack of snapshots.

Of Carolyn.

Bile rose in the back of his throat as he quickly sorted through the Polaroids.

Pictures of Carolyn laughing, clowning, pointing, or biting her lip. Photographs of her in jeans and sweaters, in a bikini, in a lacy teddy. Snapshots of her wading in the river, seated behind the wheel of Wes's truck, on a bed with rumpled sheets.

Carter closed his eyes and let out his breath. "Son of a b.i.t.c.h." His back teeth ground so hard his chin ached. "Son of a G.o.dd.a.m.ned b.i.t.c.h!"

The old, hot pain of betrayal cut through his brain.

What did you expect when you went snooping?

Had this been a fool's mission? A personal vendetta, as Amanda Pratt had suggested? Is this what he'd really been searching for?

He thought about burning the pictures, then set them in the drawer and closed it.

This search wasn't about him. It wasn't about Carolyn. It was about Jenna Hughes and protecting her. And he'd come up empty-handed.

So far.

Yet he couldn't leave the pictures of Carolyn lying there. Silently telling himself he was a d.a.m.ned fool, he pocketed the full set of shots. Let Wes discover them missing. What could he do? Come down to the station and accuse Carter of the theft of snapshots of his wife?

Without second-guessing himself, he made his way downstairs and nearly jumped out of his skin as a grandfather clock near the front door began to chime the hour. He looked in every closet and cupboard and bookcase as he made his way to the back door and locked it behind him. Get a move on. There isn't much time. Don't push your luck.

On the porch, he pulled on boots and walked outside. He spied the cellar entrance, an exterior door that led to the bas.e.m.e.nt. Locked. With a path of broken snow leading toward it.

He'd noticed a set of keys in a drawer by the back door.

Though time was ticking off quickly, he couldn't come this far, take this much of a risk, and not follow through. As swiftly as possible, Carter retraced his steps, grabbed the key ring, and made his way to the cellar door. In all the years he'd known Wes Allen, he'd never once crossed this threshold.

Carter tried six keys before the seventh slid into the lock and it sprang open. Using the beam of his flashlight as his guide, he stepped carefully inside, pulled the doors shut, and started down the ancient wooden steps to a dank, brick-lined bas.e.m.e.nt just deep enough for him to stand. The thin beam of his flashlight exposed old jars, tools, unused hunting and fis.h.i.+ng gear, rubber waders, a canoe that had seen better days.

Nothing.

He stepped farther inside, breathing slowly, trying not to consider the seconds ticking by. He swept the flashlight slowly into every cranny, the yellow beam was.h.i.+ng over cobweb-laden beams, crumbling mortar, and around a corner to another door, this one padlocked.

What the h.e.l.l?

Carter checked his watch. His time was up. More than up. But he couldn't stop now. It took several tries, but he found the right key, the lock gave way, and he pushed open the door and flipped on a light switch near the door.

He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut.

Got ya, he thought, with a needle-sharp sense of satisfaction. This small room was a shrine, a G.o.dd.a.m.ned altar to Jenna Hughes.

As dirty as the rest of the cellar was, this room was pristine, the walls recently Sheetrocked and painted a soft gold, the floor carpeted, a television mounted in one wall, a VCR and DVD set up with surround sound, video camera, tripod, digital camera, a s.p.a.ce heater set on the floor near a bookcase filled with videos, DVDs, and pictures of Jenna Hughes. Everywhere. In frames, or pinned to the wall, between candles, and among bracelets and necklaces, hair clips and garters. A short black wig was mounted on a Styrofoam head. Earrings glittered on the arm of the only piece of furniture in the room, a red leather recliner, facing the screen.

Using his handkerchief, he picked up a tiara. It looked familiar. Had Jenna worn something like this in Innocence Lost, when she'd played the teenaged prost.i.tute? Were the earrings like those that had sparkled in the ears of Paris Knowlton, the role Jenna had played in Beneath the Shadows?

Carter had seen enough of her movies recently. He should remember. He checked his watch and frowned. He'd stayed too late.

He started to leave, the beam of his flashlight illuminating the videos and DVDs, t.i.tles he equated with p.o.r.n or Jenna Hughes. Wes Allen's very private theater. Carter hated to think what Wes did while he watched.

He was about to leave when the beam of his flashlight slid over a black video case that didn't have a printed spine. His gut slammed hard against his diaphragm. A labeler had been used to identify the homemade film: CAROLYN.

"s.h.i.+t!" Carter reached for the video, intent on putting it into his pocket or smas.h.i.+ng it into a million pieces. But he couldn't. Not if he wanted to nail Wes, and d.a.m.n it, he wanted to nail Wes Allen in the worst possible way. If for nothing else, then the p.o.r.nography. Curiosity about what was on the d.a.m.n tape burned through his brain and his guts ground.

He couldn't compromise the collar. Couldn't.

But he slipped the video into his pocket.

It was time to get the h.e.l.l out of here.

A sound pierced the silence. The deep, rumbling sound of a truck's engine. Getting closer.

h.e.l.l!

He quickly slipped out of the room, slapped the light switch off with a gloved hand, closed the door behind him, and managed to click the lock closed. He was halfway across the bas.e.m.e.nt when he stopped short. The truck was close, the engine growling ever louder. Through the crack in the cellar door, he saw lights flas.h.i.+ng. Headlights sweeping across the exterior of the farmhouse. From Wes Allen's truck.

Carter froze.

Pressed himself back against the wall.

He heard the engine die, the pickup's door creak open, and the sound of Wes trudging through the snow toward the house.

Carter held his breath as the footsteps clomped up the steps to the back porch, paused for a second, then walked inside, the floorboards groaning directly above Carter's head.

Go on in, Wes, turn on the news...check your e-mail...or go on up to bed...sleep it off.

But the footsteps overhead stopped in the kitchen.

No sound at all came from the house.

As if Wes had felt something in the air. Had sensed someone had been in his house.

Carter heard another soft sc.r.a.pe. The sound of a drawer opening? Oh, c.r.a.p, was Wes intending to visit his private viewing room?

Carter still had the key ring on him. If Wes was looking for his keys...oh, s.h.i.+t. He couldn't panic. Had to figure a way out of his. Wes shuffled a bit, swore. Searching for keys that were missing?

If you don't do something, he's going to come down here and you'll be trapped.

Slowly, Carter extracted his cell phone from his pocket. Sweating despite the freezing temperature, he turned the phone on and muted it. He pressed BJ's number.

She answered on the second ring. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Call Wes Allen," Carter whispered.

"What?"

"It's Carter. Call Wes Allen at home. Tell him you saw someone lurking around his shop in town. He needs to get down there. p.r.o.nto. You've called me, and I'm going to meet him there. You have another emergency you have to cover."

"Carter? What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?" she asked. "What's going on?"

The floorboards were creaking overhead. "What the f.u.c.k?" Wes growled.

"Just do it. Now!" Carter whispered harshly into his cell, then rattled off Wes Allen's number.

"Can't you?" she demanded, then said, "Fine...but you owe me." BJ sounded miffed.

Carter snapped off his phone. Hardly dared breathe in the damp, frigid bas.e.m.e.nt. He could have put in the call to Wes himself, but it wouldn't have allowed him enough time to beat Wes to the shop. Someone else had to have made the call-that someone was BJ. This way, if Wes took the bait, everyone's a.s.s was covered.

Overhead, Wes walked out the door again, his boots ringing on the floorboards of the porch.

Come on...come on...call, d.a.m.n it...

Wes was getting closer.

For G.o.d's sake, BJ, call!

The footsteps were near the cellar door; any minute, Wes would notice the lock was open.

Rrrriiinnnnggg!

Carter waited, listening hard. Nothing.

Again the phone rang. The footsteps stopped dead in their tracks.

Answer the phone, Wes. Answer the d.a.m.ned phone.

"Jesus." Wes began running, over the snow, up the steps. The back door opened as the phone jangled again. Carter, standing just below the floorboards, heard it all.

"h.e.l.lo!" Wes's voice was irritated as the door slammed shut behind him. "What?...Who is this? My shop?...The alarm didn't go off...isn't that your job? Oh, h.e.l.l. Yeah...thanks. I'll check it out." Wes hung up, swore, and flew out the door. Carter heard him running to his rig, the door of his truck opening and closing, and the engine finally firing.

Carter sagged against the wall and reminded himself to send BJ flowers or take her to a ball game or something.

Tires spun. The truck roared down the drive. Carter gave himself two minutes, just in case Wes had second thoughts; then he hurried out of the bas.e.m.e.nt, locked up, deposited Wes's key ring in the drawer behind some bottle openers, and let himself out. After locking the door securely behind him with Carolyn's key, he took off, running up the hill and through the woods in the oversized boots. It had started snowing again, hard, which was d.a.m.ned lucky. His tracks would be covered before daylight.

CHAPTER 37.

"I can't, not tonight," Ca.s.sie whispered from her bed. It was late. What was Josh thinking, calling after midnight. "And don't argue with me, okay? I'm not going to let you tell me what to do."

"So you can let your mom control you."

"I said, 'Don't go there.'"

"Okay, but what about tomorrow? There's a party."

"I can't. Look, Josh, don't do this, okay?"

"But I love you, Ca.s.s, you know it."

Do I? "I can't risk it."

"Tomorrow. We can go earlier. There's another candlelight vigil for Ian's mom-you could say that you wanted to go. I just want to see you again."

"I don't know..." But there was a part of her that needed to get out, away from these four walls with a tense mom, dorky sister, and watchful bodyguard.

"Think about it," Josh said, and hung up.

Ca.s.sie bit her lower lip and looked out the window. Would the d.a.m.ned snow never quit? It was true she was bored to tears and her mom and her were getting on each other's nerves. Big time.

She'd nearly broken up with Josh...and had had second thoughts.

But to sneak out using the excuse of going to a candlelight vigil for Lynnetta Swaggert? How lame was that? How slimy?

She flung herself back against the covers and fought tears.

Her life was s.h.i.+t.

"I will come for you..." a disembodied voice whispered over the frozen terrain. Snowflakes, tiny beads of ice, rained from a moonless sky.

The voice seemed to resonate from everywhere-the mountains, the river rus.h.i.+ng by, the dark forest.

"Who are you?" Jenna cried, scared out of her wits. She was running as fast as she could, gulping terrified breaths of cold air and looking over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever it was that was following her. She saw nothing, but he was there, chasing her, following her every move. She sensed him. Felt him. Knew he was chasing her.