The Facepainter Murders Page 18

  Maybe that one where Chrissy stays. Nora didn't have no relatives for them to stay with and all he had was that crazy Tabitha, and who knew where she was.

  He abandoned the stolen truck in a quarry near the cabin he had broken into and set off through the woods towards a small hamlet on the way back to Culver's. He passed two homes with no vehicles in front or their garages, but the third one had a newer SUV in the lane. Country people, still feeling safe, left the keys in the ignition. He was on his way.

  As he drove closer to Culver's Mills, Bassett tried to plan a way to find his sons. That doctor knew where they were, he thought. She treated them, the paper said. He thought it said that. Why'd he tear it up? He coulda read it again. It said where she was staying.

  Bassett's mind struggled, going off on internal tirades against the police, his wife, Chrissy, blaming them all for his problems. At last, he remembered. She was staying at that bed and breakfast place on Posthill Road. That was on the outskirts of town. He could park the SUV and walk up and have a look.

  Catherine and Anne were working in the garden under the watchful eye of a uniformed policewoman borrowed by Adam from the county. The lane behind offered cover for Bassett as he paused behind the overgrown lilacs in the fence row. Fuck, he thought, cops. He stood listening. Their voices carried to him, as they called back and forth from where each was working. They were talking about the newspaper article.

  "Did you read what Ted wrote about you in the paper yesterday?" Catherine asked.

  "Yes, and I am so annoyed with him. He made it sound as though I was in charge of their case. All I did was tell him about post-traumatic stress disorder in general. I didn't say I was treating the boys. It would have been an appalling breach of confidentiality if I had. I have to ask him to print an explanation."

  Anne knelt at the edge of the garden, punctuating her words with angry stabs at the ground with her trowel.

  "Lucky that's a weed in front of you and not Ted," Catherine said.

  "Well, how could he? What will Thomas think if he reads it?"

  "Are you going to call him about it?"

  "No, I'll speak to Ted about it."

  "What happened to those Bassett boys? "

  Anne, who did, said she had no idea.

  "Karen," Catherine asked the policewoman, "are those little boys okay? Did they have to go to foster care? I could take them for a few days if there's a need."

  "Thanks, but they're fine. A relative is looking after them."

  Crap, thought Bassett. They ain't no relatives. He trudged back towards the SUV. If he could find Chrissy, she'd tell him, or he'd beat it out of her. He set off for the house of the "do-gooder".

  Ada and Chrissy had finished a morning of gardening by getting out Ada's old wicker chairs and sprucing them up with a 'lick of white paint' as Ada put it.

  "Let's have lunch, Chrissy," Ada said, turning to her young helper. At the look of fear on Chrissy's face, she whirled to the street. Gord Bassett lumbered towards them; his huge fists curled at his sides.

  "Where the hell are your brothers, bitch?"

  "Like I would tell you."

  "You will if you don't want this interfering old bag to get hurt."

  Bassett grabbed Ada by her arm and shook her like a bag of laundry. Chrissy flew at him, pounding him with her small fists. With his free arm, he pushed her in the chest and sent her flying across the lawn.

  "Where are they?"

  He shook Ada again.

  "They're at Aunt Tabby's. Don't hurt Ada anymore."

  "Where does she live?"

  "I don't know. I haven't been to see them yet."

  "Do you want me to hit this old woman?"

  "I don't know. I don’t know. Don’t hurt her.”

  Bassett released Ada, who stumbled and fell across one of the lawn chairs. Chrissy ran to Ada, who told her she was all right and to go call 911 and tell them what had happened. Bassett's SUV skidded around the corner and out of sight.

  Adam was back in his office when the call came through from the northern sheriff. It sure sounded like Bassett was on the move, but it had taken all day for the news to filter down to him. Adam called Bill at the County Sheriff's office. Bassett must have stolen a vehicle. The shopkeeper said it was a battered red truck, but no one reported a theft.

  The desk receptionist buzzed him as he was putting on his jacket to leave.

  "Adam, there's a 911 call about a guy terrorizing Ada Warren. The young girl who made the call sounded frantic, the operator says. They dispatched. The man had left by the time the girl called, but she says he’s her stepfather and he’s looking for her brothers. And there's a kid here who insists on talking to you."

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Kyle reached for a branch of the walnut tree that hung low over the fence around his aunt's backyard. He was going to be late, and Aunt Tabby would be mad if he didn't make it on time. He crept onto the branch and dropped into the yard. As he ran up to the back door, he heard a man's voice yelling. Who could be there? It didn't sound like his dad. He was still scared that his dad would come and hurt Tabitha, no matter how much she reassured him.

  "Make the call, lady," the voice said.

  Kyle crept onto the porch and along under the windows to the living room. He raised his head and peered in. Tabitha and Mike huddled together on the couch, staring up at a man who waved a gun at them.

  "Make the call or the kid gets it."

  Kyle stood against the wall of the porch, trying to stop trembling and trying to think. He'd find Davidson. He let them stay with Aunt Tabby. He was okay. If he ran to the police station, he could find him in time.

  He set off running faster that he had ever run before, across lawns and through back alleys to get to the square. As he disappeared around the corner, an SUV parked in the lane behind Tabitha's property and a man got out, leaving the door open behind him. A few seconds work opened the locked gate. He slipped through and ran across the yard. Bassett had found his boys.

  A young boy stood in front of the receptionist's desk, his hands clenched into tight little fists, and his eyes fixed on the door. When he saw Adam, he raced across to him, blurting out his story and his fear.

  "Hold it, Kyle. Slow down and tell me what's going on."

  "Lieutenant, we got a call from his aunt. Some guy is holding a gun on her and the other boy, demanding the paintings and a helicopter out of here."

  "Some guy? Do you know who it is?" Adam asked as he put his arm around the trembling boy.

  "Is it your dad?"

  "No, I never saw him before. We gotta go there, Lieutenant. We gotta save them."

  Kyle sobbed into his sleeve.

  "We're going. You stay here with Kelly and Dr. McPhail.

  "Anne, can you stay with him?"

  "Sure."

  Anne put her hand on Kyle's shoulder as they watched the policemen leave.

  Inside Tabitha's home, the gunman waited, pacing the length of the small room. Two hours he gave them. Small town cops. Could they make a decision or would they call in FBI or some state police? He wanted that painting. Four years of planning. Three years living in this god-forsaken little town. He’d earned it. And now he wouldn't have to share any of it. That bitch last night threatening him, wanting it all her way. She deserved what she got.

  What was wrong with that kid? The boy froze, staring at something he had seen through the open door. Could they be in the house so soon? The kid looked terrified.

  He edged back to the wall, using the width of the door to shield himself from the opening. He darted a glance at Mike. Now the kid was hiding his face in his aunt's shoulder. Maybe he didn't see nothing.

  "Hey, kid, what did you see?"

  "What?"

  "What did you see through the door?"

  "Nothing."

  Bassett had moved back into the kitchen and crept out to his vehicle. A shotgun hung on the rack in the back window. Sirens grew closer.

  Adam set up his line at the edge of
Tabitha's lawn and waited.

  Inside the man with the gun paced. Christ, the cops were here already. If he talked to them, they would try to talk him out. The phone rang.

  "Lady, you talk to them."

  He waved the gun at Tabitha.

  "Hello?"

  "Tabitha, it's Adam Davidson. Are you all right? Who's with you?"

  "Mike. I don't know where Kyle is."

  "He's at the station. He saw the situation and came to us. He's frightened but not hurt. Put the guy on."

  "He won't talk to you," she told him, after offering the phone to her guard.

  "Tell him if he doesn't talk to me, no deal."

  Adam heard her pass on his message, and then the phone went dead.

  Inside, the phone hit the wall, knocking a picture to the floor. The sound of shattering glass mingled with Mike's screams. He whimpered as he clutched at his aunt.

  "Now what?" Tabitha said.

  "Shut up; I have to think."

  Outside, Adam took a call from Kelly.

  After Adam had left, Anne had tried to distract the frantic Kyle by getting out her drawing materials. She took her pencils and sketch pad from her bag and asked him if he would like to draw. When he refused, Anne started drawing the objects on the desk, hoping he would get interesting.

  "This is strange," Kelly, the deputy guarding them, said to Anne.

  "What's strange?"

  "The prints from Janice Maynard's apartment belong to a guy."

  "Did they only find one set?"

  "Yes."

  "May I see?" holding out her hand for the fax.

  The thin face, delicate for a man, no or little facial hair, illuminated by large dark eyes, belonged to a man called Raymond Charron, known to be involved with art theft but also suspected of several vicious assaults. You never knew, Anne thought, from the way a person looked. Although, there was an odd look in that man's eyes. She'd seen it before, in the eyes of autistic children; a look that said the rest of the world didn't quite exist. The face looked a little familiar to her.

  "Kelly, can you make some copies for me?"

  "Sure."

  Kyle came around the desk to look at the picture.

  "That's the man, Dr. McPhail. That's the man who has Aunt Tabitha and Mike."

  "Are you sure, Kyle?"

  "Yes, yes."

  Kelly started across the room to radio Adam.

  Anne took her charcoal from her bag and added a hat to one of the copies. Not the face that trembled at the edge of her memory. She added a moustache—no. More hair, perhaps.

  She added short curls, then a big, bouffant hair do. The face of Janice Maynard looked back at her.

  "Kelly, Kelly, tell him that guy is Janice Maynard."

  "What?"

  "Look at this picture."

  Adam answered the call. Kelly's excited voice came through. "Lieutenant, that man's name is Raymond Charron. Kyle recognized the picture."

  "What picture?"

  "The identification picture from the fingerprints from Maynard's apartment. They are the same as the ones at Matilde's place. Anne drew a big hairdo around the picture and this guy Charron is Maynard or at least her twin."

  "Send the picture."

  Adam picked up his megaphone. "Charron, you need to talk to me. Pick up that phone."

  Charron thought Bassett. He was a crazy bastard. The cops would try to wait him out, but he'd kill them. Kill his boy. He had to get him. He edged down the hall from the kitchen. Mike was crying again.

  His shotgun blast hit Charron low, too low. Charron fell but didn't lose his grip on the gun. He lay quietly, waiting for the shooter to come in sight.

  Bassett walked into the room, cradling his shotgun. "Come on, Mike. We're getting out of here.

  "No, I want to stay with Aunt Tabby. We're going to see my mom."

  "You're coming with me. Where's Kyle?"

  "I don't know. I don't want to go." Mike sobbed and clung to his aunt.

  Charron's finger tightened on the trigger. His shot hit Bassett in the back, spun him around. Bassett fell, blood oozing from his spine and trickling from the corner of his mouth. A dead eye stared up at Mike. He screamed, and his aunt turned his face away.

  Outside, Adam heard the first shot, shouted "Go, go." into his radio.

  Brad hit the front door first with the full force of his heavy shoulders.

  "Police," shouted Adam as he ran down the hall toward the living room. Charron raised his pistol and waited.

  Coming in from the rear, one of the team, Dave Graham, shot Charron in the chest. When Adam reached him, he was dead.

  The room filled with massive men in helmets and body armor. A stricken Dave sat beside Charron's body.

  "Lieutenant, he was going to shoot you."

  "It's okay. You did what you had to do." Adam went to Tabitha and Mike and led them outside to the waiting paramedics. Finally over, he thought, finally over.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The next day brought some good news. Pete was going to be fine. No bones were broken, and the wound was clean with no infection so far. Trevelyan and Mrs. Bassett made slow but steady recoveries. Chrissy and Tabitha and the boys were visiting when Adam stopped by.

  "Lieutenant," Nora Bassett said, putting out her hand.

  Adam took the pale, cool hand between his.

  "How are you doing, Nora?"

  Her battered face, missing teeth and multicolored from the bruising, smiled up at him.

  '"I'm fine now. Thank you for saving my family."

  "You're welcome, but the boys did a lot to save themselves, and my staff did the hard work."

  "I know you tried to get me to leave him, but I was so afraid."

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  "He hurt me so much, and he threatened to kill Chrissy if I left. He would have."

  "You're going to be fine now," said. "I'll help you all I can."

  "Tabitha has been so kind."

  "Yes, she has." He stood up to go. "I'll drop in again."

  He left, planning to tell Dave Graham, who still reeled from the shooting, how his actions helped this family.

  Anne came into the station to finish her work on the Leclerc genealogy. She arranged to meet Nancy Webb at Evan's for dinner and wanted to give her a copy. Both Nancy and Trevelyan would be unhappy with the results, she thought. Land records recorded a sale by the legitimate heir in 1875 that took the piece of property out of Leclerc hands. Anne wanted to see the pictures stolen from the library. They were returned to Evan's since there was no legal case pending.

  "Adam," she asked, "would you join Nancy and Catherine and Erin and me for dinner at Evan's. We're going to view the pictures at last. Thomas may be able to join us as well."

  "Nancy?"

  "She wants to understand about her family."

  "And try to get some cash, likely."

  "Give her a chance."

  "Okay, okay. What time?"

  "Seven."

  A cold wind blew across the square and swirled around Anne and Catherine at Evan's front door. Mary and Andre took them into the dining room where Adam and Erin sat in front of the fire, sipping wine and looking at the painting and sampler. Andre displayed them on easels where the ceiling lights would best illuminate them.

  A few moments later, Nancy arrived, and Thomas followed her.

  "Adam, I have been wondering why the paintings were moved so often," Thomas said after joining the group sitting in front of the fireplace.

  "Dishonor among thieves. There's no one alive to ask, but we think it went like this. First, they stashed the crates here, convenient for Matilde to watch over them. Next, they moved them to the farm when Mary and Andre went to New York, to wait for transit somewhere else. When Bassett went missing, the thieves took them to the farm. Matilde couldn't resist having a browse around Evan's and didn't count on Mary being so observant."

  "Why were you so frightened?" Anne asked, turning to Nancy.

  "I felt re
sponsible. There was so much suspicion of me the first time when Jennifer's body was found in my library, that I was sure I would be suspected this time. Whenever I saw Adam, I was sure he was going to arrest me."

  Anne put her hand over Nancy's restless fingers, twisting her napkin into knots.

  "Try to relax; you're safe now."

  Mary and Andre joined them for dessert, and the discussion turned to the painting and sampler.

  Samuel Leclerc's eyes, gazing out from the portrait, met Anne's.

  "You have Samuel's eyes," she said to Nancy.

  She went on to show Nancy her genealogy and how her mother's family fit into the long line from Samuel. Nancy and Trevelyan were remote cousins.

  "How is he?" Nancy asked. "I'll go visit him."

  "He's coming along, but the doctor said it would take a long time," Adam said.

  Anne said, "This painting isn't good enough to explain all this killing or the theft."

  She got up and walked around the easel.

  "Can I carry it to better light," she asked Andre.

  "Sure."

  The weight of the painting surprised her. She had examined many old paintings in her prowls through antique stores. This one was too heavy, and its back was covered with cardboard, not rare but also unusual.

  "Erin, heft this. Do you think this picture is too heavy?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "Can we dismantle your painting," Adam asked Andre as he threw his arm around Anne's shoulders, "otherwise I don't think she will ever be satisfied."

  "I'll get pliers."

  When Andre pulled off the thick backing, a canvas, no more than ten inches by twelve inches, fell into his hands. A bright landscape, resplendent with sunflowers and poplars, expanded under a turbulent sky. The signature in the corner, read, in printed letters, Vincent.

  "Could it be real?" Erin said.

  "I hope so. I'll check the stolen art list. Thank you, Dr. McPhail," Adam said, hugging her.