Love You More: A Novel by Lisa Gardner
“Don’t know,” Bobby said. “But I’m betting if we drop on him like a ton of bricks, we can find that out. He should be downtown, at the scene of Lyons’s shooting, hanging out with the colonel and other brass.”
D.D. nodded, then suddenly grabbed Bobby’s arm. “He’s not downtown. Bet you anything.”
“Why not?”
“Because Tessa is on the loose. We know it. He knows it. Furthermore, he would’ve heard by now that Trooper Lyons’s shotgun and M4 rifle are missing. Meaning he knows Tessa is armed, dangerous, and desperate to locate her daughter.”
“He’s on the run,” Bobby filled in, “from his own officer.” But then it was his turn to shake his head. “Nah, not a guy as experienced and wily as Hamilton. Best defense is a good offense, right? He’s going for Sophie. If she’s still alive, he’s gonna get his hands on her. She’s the only bargaining chip he’s got left.”
“So where’s Sophie?” D.D. asked again. “We’ve had a statewide Amber Alert for three days. Her picture is plastered all over the TV, her description on the radio. If the girl’s around, we should’ve gotten a lead by now.”
“Meaning she’s someplace buttoned up tight,” Bobby mused. “Rural, no close neighbors. With someone assigned to keep her under lock and key. So a place that is inaccessible, but well supplied. A location Hamilton trusts not to be compromised.”
“He’d never stash Sophie in his own house,” D.D. said. “Too close to him. Maybe she’s at a friend of a friend? Or a second home? We saw the pictures of him hunting deer. Does he have a hunting lodge, a cabin in the woods?”
Bobby suddenly smiled. “Bingo. Hamilton has a hunting cabin near Mount Greylock in western Mass. Two and half hours away from state headquarters, tucked in the foothills of the Berkshires. Isolated, containable, and distant enough to provide him with plausible deniability—even if he owns it, he can say he hasn’t been there in days or weeks, particularly given all the activity that’s required his attention in Boston.”
“Can you get us there?” D.D. asked immediately.
Bobby hesitated. “I’ve been there a couple of times, but years ago. Sometimes he invites troopers over for hunting weekends, that kind of thing. I can picture the roads …”
“Phil,” D.D. stated, pulling out her cellphone. “You get on the Pike. I’ll get us the address.”
Bobby hit the lights, roaring for the Mass Pike, the quickest route for cutting across the state. D.D. dialed BPD headquarters. It was after midnight, but nobody in the state or Boston force was sleeping tonight; Phil answered on the first ring.
“You heard about Trooper Lyons?” Phil stated in way of greeting.
“Already been there. Got a sensitive request for you. Want full background on Gerard Hamilton. Search under his family members’ names, too. I want all known property addresses, and after that, a full financial workup.”
There was a pause. “You mean the lieutenant colonel of the state police?” Phil asked carefully.
“Told you it was sensitive.”
D.D. heard a tapping sound. Phil’s fingers, already flying across the computer keyboard.
“Ummm, if you want some unofficial info, not even water cooler talk, more like urinal gossip …” Phil started, as he typed away.
“By all means,” D.D. assured him.
“Heard Hamilton’s got himself a mistress. A hot Italian spitfire.”
“Name?”
“Haven’t a clue. Guy only mentioned her … derriere.”
“Men are pigs.”
“Personally, I’m a pig who’s in love with his wife and needs her to survive four kids, so don’t look at me.”
“True,” D.D. granted. “Start digging, Phil. Tell me what I need to know, because we think he might have Sophie Leoni.”
D.D. hung up. Bobby came to the exit for the Mass Pike. He careened up it at seventy miles per hour and they went squealing around the corner. Roads were finally clear of snow and there wasn’t much traffic at this time of night. Bobby hit one hundred on the broad, flat highway as they soared toward western Mass. They had a hundred and thirty miles to cover, give or take, D.D. thought, not all of which could be traveled at top speed. Two hours, she decided. Two hours till finally rescuing Sophie Leoni.
“Do you think she’s a good cop?” Bobby asked suddenly.
D.D. didn’t have to ask who he was talking about. “I don’t know.”
Bobby took his gaze off the fast flying darkness just long enough to glance at her. “How far would you go?” he asked softly, his eyes dropped to her belly. “If it were your child, how far would you go?”
“I hope I never have to find out.”
“Because I would kill them all,” Bobby said flatly, his hands flexing and unflexing on the wheel. “If someone threatened Annabelle, kidnapped Carina. There wouldn’t be enough ammo left in this state for what I would do to them.”
D.D. didn’t doubt him for a minute, but she still shook her head.
“It’s not right, Bobby,” she said quietly. “Even if you’re provoked, even if the other guy started it … Criminals resort to violence. We’re cops. We’re supposed to know better. If we can’t live up to that standard … Well then, who can?”
They drove in silence after that, listening to the throaty growl of a flat-out engine and watching city lights wink by like bolts of lightning.
Sophie, D.D. thought, here we come.
42
Lieutenant Colonel Gerard Hamilton was my commanding officer, but I would never say I knew him well. For one thing, he was several levels above me in the food chain. For another, he was a guy’s guy. When he did hang out with the troopers, it was with Shane, and he often included Shane’s partner in crime, my husband, Brian.
They’d catch Red Sox games, maybe a hunting weekend, or a field trip to Foxwoods.
In hindsight, it all made perfect sense. Shane’s little excursions. My husband tagging along. Hamilton, too.
Meaning, when Brian started to gamble too much, get in too deep … Who would know how badly he needed money? Who would know another option for getting rich quick? Who would be in the perfect position to prey on my husband’s weakness?
Shane had never been big in the brains department. Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton, however … He’d know how to bring Shane and Brian along. Skim a little here, then a little there. It’s amazing how people can rationalize doing bad things when at first you start out small.
For example, I didn’t plan on killing Shane when I got out of jail, or murdering a gangster named John Stephen Purcell, or driving through the freezing night to my superior officer’s hunting cabin with a shotgun on my lap.
Maybe Brian and Shane told themselves they were merely “borrowing” that money. As union rep, Shane would know all about the pension account and available balance. Hamilton probably knew how to get access, what kind of shell company would be most appropriate for defrauding retired state cops. In the old boys’ network, it was probably a matter of a single phone call.
They’d set up a dummy company and they were off and running, billing the pension fund, collecting the funds, and hitting the tables.
How long had they planned on running the racket? A month? Six months? A year? Maybe they didn’t think that far ahead. Maybe it hadn’t mattered to them at the time. Eventually, of course, internal affairs had figured out the fraud and launched an investigation. Unfortunately for Brian and Shane, once such an investigation started, it didn’t end until the taskforce got answers.
Is that when Hamilton had decided to turn me into the sacrificial lamb? Or had that been part of the domino effect? When, even after stealing from the troopers’ pension, Brian and Shane had continued to be short on funds, borrowing from the wrong players until they had both internal investigators and mob enforcers breathing down their necks?
At some point, Hamilton had realized that Shane and Brian might crack under the pressure, might confess their crimes to save their own necks and deliver up Hamilton on a platter.
Of the two, Brian was definitely the bigger liability. Maybe Hamilton had negotiated a final deal for the mob. He’d pay off the last of Brian and Shane’s bad debts. In return, they’d eliminate Brian and help frame me for all the crimes.
Shane would remain alive but too terrified to speak, while Hamilton and his cohorts could keep their illicit gains.
Brian would be dead. I would be in prison. Sophie … well, once I’d done everything they asked, they wouldn’t need her anymore, would they?
So my family would be destroyed, for Shane’s survival and Hamilton’s greed.
The rage helped keep me awake as I drove three hours west, toward Adams, Mass., where I knew Hamilton kept a second home. I’d been there only once, for a fall barbecue several years ago.
I remembered the log cabin as being small and isolated. Perfect for hiking, hunting, and holding a young child.
The fingers on my right hand wouldn’t work anymore. The bleeding had finally slowed, but I suspected the bullet had damaged tendons, maybe even nerves. Now inflammation had further compromised the injury and I couldn’t form a fist. Or pull a trigger.
I would proceed left-handed. With any luck, Hamilton wasn’t around. One of his officers had been killed in the line of duty tonight, meaning Hamilton should be in Allston-Brighton, tending to official matters.
I would park at the bottom of the long dirt drive that led to the cabin. I would hike in through the woods, bringing the shotgun, which I could fire left-handed from my hip. Aim would be lousy, but that was the joy of a shotgun—impact area was so large, your aim didn’t have to be any good.
I would scope out the cabin, I rehearsed in my mind. Discover it deserted. Use the butt of the shotgun to break out a window. Climb in, then locate my daughter sound asleep in a darkened bedroom.
I would rescue her and we would run away together. Maybe flee to Mexico, though the sensible thing would be to head straight back to BPD headquarters. Sophie could testify that Hamilton had kidnapped her. Further investigation into the lieutenant colonel’s affairs would reveal a bank balance far greater than it had any right to be. Hamilton would be arrested. Sophie and I would be safe.
We would move on with our lives and never be frightened again. Someday, she’d stop asking for Brian. And someday I’d stop mourning him.
I needed to believe it would be that easy.
I hurt too badly for it to be otherwise.
Four thirty-two in the morning, I found the dirt road that led to Hamilton’s cabin. Four forty-one, I pulled off the road and parked behind a snow-covered bush.
I climbed out of the car.
Thought I smelled smoke.
I hefted up the shotgun.
And heard my daughter scream.
43
Bobby and D.D. had just turned off the Mass Pike for the dark ribbon of rural US 20 when her cellphone rang. The loud chime jerked D.D. out of her groggy state. She hit answer, held the phone to her ear. It was Phil.
“D.D., you still headed west?”
“Already here.”
“Okay, Hamilton has two property addresses. First one’s in Framingham, Mass., near state HQ. I’m assuming the primary home, as it’s listed jointly under Gerard and Judy Hamilton. But there’s a second home, in Adams, Mass., solely under his name.”
“Address?” D.D. demanded crisply.
Phil rattled it off. “But get this: Police scanner just picked up a report of a residential fire in Adams, near the Mount Greylock State Reservation. Maybe it’s a coincidence? Or possibly Hamilton’s cabin is the one on fire.”
“Shit!” D.D. jerked to attention, fully awake. “Phil, contact local authorities. I want backup. County and town officers, but no state troopers.” Bobby shot her a look, but didn’t argue. “Now!” she stated urgently, ending the call, then immediately plugging the Hamilton’s address into the vehicle’s navigation system.
“Phil got us the address, which apparently is near the scene of a fire.”
“Dammit!” Bobby pounded the steering wheel with his hand. “Hamilton’s already there and covering his tracks!”
“Not if we have anything to say about it.”
44
Sophie screamed again, and I jerked into action. I grabbed both the shotgun and the rifle, pouring shotgun shells and rounds of .223 ammo into my pants pockets. The fingers on my right hand moved sluggishly, dumping more ammo onto the snow-covered ground than into my pockets. I didn’t have time to pick it up. I moved, relying on adrenaline and desperation to get the job done.
Weighed down with a small arsenal of weapons and ammo, I careened into the snowy woods, heading toward the smell of smoke and the sound of my daughter.
Another scream. An adult cursing. The sizzling sound of wet wood catching flame.
Cabin was straight up. I bounced from tree to tree, struggling for footing in the fresh snow, breathing shallowly. Didn’t know how many people might be present. Needed the advantage of surprise if Sophie and I were going to get through this. Don’t give away my position, find the higher ground.
My professional training counseled a strategic approach, while my parental instincts screamed for me to charge in and grab my daughter now, now, now. The air grew denser with smoke. I coughed, feeling my eyes burn as I finally crested a small knoll on the left side of the property. I discovered Hamilton’s cabin on fire and my daughter struggling with a woman in a thick black parka. The woman was trying to drag Sophie into a parked SUV. My daughter, wearing nothing but the thin pink pajamas I’d put her to bed in four nights ago and still clutching her favorite doll, Gertrude, was thrashing wildly.
Sophie bit the woman’s exposed wrist. The woman jerked back her arm and slapped her. My daughter’s head rocked sideways. She stumbled, sprawling backward into the snow and coughing raggedly from the smoke.
“No, no, no,” my daughter was crying. “Let me go. I want my mommy. I want my mommy!”
Shotgun on the ground—couldn’t risk it with my child so close to the target. Finding the rifle instead, yanking out the magazine, fumbling in my left pocket. Always load an M4’s stack magazine minus two in order to keep it feeding evenly, my police training dictated.
Kill them all, my mother’s instinct roared.
I hefted up the rifle, racked the first round.
Fresh blood oozing from my shoulder. Sluggish fingers curling laboriously around the trigger.
The woman towered over Sophie. “Get in the car, you stupid little brat,” she screeched.
“Let me go!”
Another scream. Another smack.
Anchoring the butt of the assault rifle against my bleeding shoulder and sighting the dark-haired woman now beating my child.
Sophie crying, arms curled around her head, trying to block the blows.
I stepped clear of the woods. Zeroed in on my target.
“Sophie!” I called out loudly across the crackling, acrid night. “Sophie. Run!”
As I’d hoped, the unexpected sound of my voice captured their attention. Sophie turned around. The woman jerked sharply upright, trying to pinpoint the intruder.
She looked right at me. “Who the—”
I pulled the trigger.
Sophie never glanced behind her. At the body that dropped suddenly, at the head that exploded beneath the onslaught of a .223 slug and turned into a puddle of crimson snow.
My daughter never turned. She heard my voice and she ran to me.
Just as a gun cocked in my ear, and Gerard Hamilton said, “You fucking bitch.”
D.D. and Bobby followed the GPS system through a winding maze of rural roads, until they came to a narrow dirt road lined by fire trucks and grim-faced firefighters. Bobby killed the lights. He and D.D. bolted out of the car, flashing their creds.
News was short and bad.
Firefighters had arrived just in time to hear screams followed by gunshots. Residential home was an eighth of a mile straight up, surrounded by deep woods. Judging by smoke and heat, the building was
Bobby told D.D. to stay in the car.
In response, D.D. stalked to the rear of her vehicle, where she donned her Kevlar vest, then pulled out the shotgun. She handed the rifle to Bobby. After all, he was the former sniper.
He scowled at her. “I go first. Recon,” he snapped.
“I’ll give you six minutes,” she retorted just as sharply.
Bobby donned his vest, loaded the M4, and walked the edge of the steep property. Thirty seconds later, he disappeared into the snowy woods. And three minutes after that, D.D. hit the trail right behind him.
More sirens in the distance.
Local officers finally arriving at the scene.
D.D. focused on following Bobby’s footsteps.
Smoke, heat, snow. A winter inferno.
Time to find Sophie. Time to get the job done.
———
Hamilton yanked the rifle from my injured arm. The M4 fell bonelessly from my grasp and he scooped it up. The shotgun was at my feet. He ordered me to pick it up, hand it over.
From the top of the knoll, I could see Sophie running toward me, sprinting across the property below, framed in white-dusted trees and bright red flames.
While the barrel of Hamilton’s gun dug into the sensitive hollow behind my ear.
I started to bend down. Hamilton relented an inch to give me room, and I hurled myself backward into him, yelling wildly, “Sophie, get away! Into the woods. Get away, get away, get away!”
“Mommy!” she screamed, a hundred yards back.
Hamilton pistol-whipped me with his Sig Sauer. I went down hard, my right arm collapsing beneath me. More searing pain. Maybe the sound of something tearing. I had no time to recover. Hamilton hit me again, looming over me, slicing open my cheek, my forehead. Blood pouring down into my face, blinding my eyes as I curled up in the fetal position in the snow.