Indefensible (32 page)

Tuesday, 1:05 p.m.

N
ick's feet barely slowed in time.

He'd backed up just before the cliff gave way to air, his arms cartwheeling, his legs frantically braking, digging into the heather.

He bent over and gasped for breath.

He had to get to a phone. Right away.

The picture in his head refused to go away. His mother, in the arms of the man who killed her. The man dropping her, his broad shoulders flexing, then spinning on his heel and running into his mother's bedroom.

Now a new scene superimposed itself. Dr. Jamie Gainsford spinning on his heel when Nick told him where to find Lucy. Dr. Jamie Gainsford striding down the path, his hips moving in a gait that Nick had believed was his father's—until he saw Jamie Gainsford hurry to his truck.

Not only that, but Dr. Gainsford had had this weird expression on his face when Nick opened the door.
He looked hyper. When he left, he could barely keep himself from running down the path.

As Nick watched him go, he knew the first stirrings of unease.

But his own misery was too great for him to dwell on it until he forced himself to remember his mother's last moments. And Jamie Gainsford took the form of the man who held his dying mother in his arms.

Had Nick made a mistake that night?

Could the killer have been Jamie Gainsford? The guy hadn't been on anyone's radar. But he was beeping furiously on Nick's radar now.

Nick slammed his feet into the heather.

Dr. Gainsford was looking for Lucy.

And Nick had told him where to find her.

Tuesday, 1:18 p.m.

G
randma Penny's cell phone was turned off.
Oh, God
.

Nick paced the small house and forced himself to think. He needed to warn Lucy. He dialed directory assistance and got Kate Lange's phone number.

But Kate Lange's phone rang. And rang.

Panic choked his breath. He punched 911.

“Put me through to Detective Drake!” he yelled into the phone. “It's an emergency.”

Within minutes, Detective Drake answered.

“It's Nick Barrett. I think the man who killed my mother is Dr. Gainsford!”

Detective Drake's voice was low, intense. “Are you sure?”

“No. I mean yes. He came to my grandmother's house looking for Lucy. I didn't know. I told him she was at Kate Lange's house. I didn't know.”

“I thought he was in Toronto.” The detective drew in
a breath. “Okay, Nick, listen to me. If he comes back, do not let him into the house, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“You did the right thing. Hang tight. We'll find your sister.”

 

Twelve-year-old patient committed suicide. Twelve-year-old stepdaughter killed by his wife. Twelve-year-old girl now missing.

Ethan's heart raced as he called Deb. “Get an APB out on Dr. Jamie Gainsford. And get the hell over to Kate Lange's house. Nick Barrett just called. He thinks Gainsford might have killed his mother. Gainsford showed up at his grandmother's looking for his sister, Lucy. Nick told him that she was at Kate Lange's.”

“Shit!” Deb said. “I can't believe we missed this connection.”

Dread pulled at Ethan's insides. He'd had blinders on the whole fucking time.

“You talk to the Crown,” Deb said. “Get them to drop the charges. And tell Barrett what's going on. If Lucy's been grabbed, tell him we're going to shut down the province to find her. Do you know when Gainsford went over to Kate Lange's house?”

“Not too long ago.”

They both knew that in child abduction cases, the window of time to find the child alive was just hours.

The clock was ticking.

She'd better be alive,
Ethan thought.
Or I'm not sure I'll be able to live with this one.

He raced down the stairwell, plowing into Nat Pitts, who was opening the door to the second floor.

“Detective Drake, has anyone told you—”

He brushed by her. “No comment.”

Yanking open the heavy door to the courtroom, Ethan covered the distance to the counsel's table in seconds. Ralph Moore had his back to Ethan, unloading his files. Kate sat to his left, reviewing her notes. The photos of the Gainsford family sat conspicuously at the front of the table.

“Ralph.” Ethan took him by the elbow and led him to the court clerk's area, away from the spectators who filled the benches. “We need to talk.”

The Crown was a seasoned prosecutor. Kate had just shown him the pictures, he told Ethan. It didn't take much explanation from Ethan for him to agree to drop the charges. “It was an iffy case to begin with,” he added, giving Ethan a warning look. “You're going to have to do better next time, Detective.”

Ethan didn't respond.

“We need to instruct Barrett's counsel.” Moore gestured to Kate. She hurried over, her eyes a mixture of resolve and hope. “We're going to withdraw the charges—” Moore began.

“I want them dismissed. They shouldn't have been laid in the first place.” Kate gave Ethan a dirty look.

“Can't do that, Ms. Lange, because Mr. Barrett never entered a plea—”

Impatience surged in Ethan with all this legal bullshitting. “Kate, Gainsford was looking for Lucy. Nick told him where she was.”

“Gainsford? He's here in Halifax?” The blood drained from Kate's face. “Did he find her?”

“We don't know. We're sending patrol over to your house right now.”

She looked at Moore. “You need to let him go and find his kids. You have to drop the charges. They're bogus. We all know it.”

“Like I said—”

“Randall Barrett has been deprived of his liberty for the past three days. His ex-wife was murdered, his son tried to kill him and now his daughter could be in the hands of a killer. I smell a big fat lawsuit and it's going to have your name with ‘miscarriage of justice' stamped on top if you don't do the right thing.” Kate glared at Moore, then Ethan, the blood pounding in her head. “I'm going to inform my client that his ex-wife's killer may have kidnapped his daughter.” She pivoted on her heel and half ran through the door.

Ralph Moore's face was tight. “I will recommend that the charges be withdrawn in light of the evidence uncovered by the accused.” He bit out the word
accused.
“And save ourselves the pleasure of being flayed alive by Justice Carson.”

Tuesday, 1:25 p.m.

L
ucy had not made a peep in the truck. Jamie glanced down at her slumped form in the foot well of the passenger seat, calculating yet again the correct dosage of chloral hydrate for a girl Lucy's age. Had he given her too much?

He turned into the village of Prospect.

All he needed was an hour or less, alone with Lucy. He estimated that he could buy himself that much time if he stole a boat and hid in a cove until it was over.

 

Nick jogged into the village. He could not wait in his grandmother's house. He had to get to Halifax. Tell his grandmother he was sorry. See if he could help.

Please let Lucy be okay.

Please don't take her from me.

Maybe old Pete would be out working in his shed down the road. He'd give Nick a drive.

Nick turned the corner. Ahead, a truck took the narrow bridge too fast. Nick was about to chase after
it, to see if the driver would take him to Halifax, when he realized he
knew
that truck.

It was Jamie Gainsford's truck. It swerved right, bouncing down a narrow lane.

It headed straight onto the old wharf.

Nick began to run.

 

“We've pinged Gainsford's cell phone,” Deb told Ethan over her cell phone. “He's in Prospect.”

“Why would he go there?” Ethan rubbed his hair. “You don't think he's going to take Nick, too?”

“I don't know. There's no answer at the grandmother's.”

“Shit.” Fear clenched his stomach.

“We're five minutes away, Ethan. Tell Barrett to hang tight.”

 

The sheriff let Kate into a small room with a table and two chairs. A corrections officer stood inside by the door, facing Randall, who sat at the table, his hands loosely clasped.

As usual, his gaze did not leave Kate's face as she hurried over to the table.

“What's wrong?” He hadn't missed the anxiety tightening her face. “Does Gainsford have an alibi?”

She took a deep breath. “Gainsford has Lucy.”

His face drained of color. “How do you know?”

“Nick called us. Gainsford showed up at your mother's, looking for Lucy. He told him she was at my house. It was only later that he realized it might have been Gainsford he saw that night.” A flicker in Randall's
eyes was the only acknowledgment of the fact that his son had admitted he had been wrong about him.

“They are going to withdraw the charges,” Kate added.

He pushed his chair away and headed to the door. “What are the police doing?”

“They're looking for him, Randall. He can't have gotten far…”

He turned to her. “Is your dog an attack dog?”

“No.”

“So Lucy was alone, totally defenseless.”

“No, she wasn't. We left her with my neighbors.” Kate's voice caught. What had happened to Enid and Muriel?

Randall had the same question in his eyes, but he asked, “How long has Lucy been missing?”

“We're not sure.”

“I'm going after her.” He lunged toward the door.

The correctional officer barred his way. “I'm sorry, Mr. Barrett. But you can't leave.”

“For the love of God, it's my daughter! She's with the man who killed my wife!”

Compassion flashed in the guard's eyes, but he put his hand on his Taser. “Sit down, please, Mr. Barrett, and let me make a call…”

“There's no time.” Randall's whole body was tensed to run.

The bailiff knocked on the door. “Time to go up,” he called. “You're next.”

Kate put a hand on Randall's arm. “This should be over in a few minutes. The Crown agreed to drop the
charges. All they need is for Justice Carson to rubber-stamp it. You'll be free to go.”

How long had he waited to hear those words? Kate wondered. They had held the promise of vindication, of freedom, of a life restored.

Now the life he sought to reclaim was not his own.

But his daughter's.

Tuesday, 1:29 p.m.

T
he wind was at Nick's back, pushing him forward. His feet were moving so fast, he couldn't feel the wharf under them. Which was probably a good thing.
Just go so fast that you skim over the holes.

A rickety structure that had been an eyesore ever since Nick could remember, the wharf had been built years ago and left to rot. And rot it had. Some of the planks were gone. The water gaped at him through the holes, a seething froth of tide and current beneath him. Despite its dilapidated condition, the wharf was still in use by a local, as evidenced by the fishing boat tied to one side.

Nick's gaze was fixed on the truck that bumped ahead of him over the wharf's rough planks, the driver barely keeping the truck from veering off the narrow edges. The wharf wasn't built to hold a car. It shuddered under him as he pumped his arms, head down. He was so close. So close.

The truck kept going. Why wasn't it slowing down?

Stop, please stop. Don't drive over the end with Lucy inside.

He could barely breathe, but he forced his body to move even faster. Brake lights glared angry red eyes at him.

Nick was so close. He was going to reach him. He was going to get there in time.

Then the reverse lights flashed on.

The truck backed straight at him with a roar. There was no room on the sides of the wharf for him. He could either turn around and run for his life.

Or jump.

Veering sharply to the right, Nick hurtled himself off the edge of the wharf.

Cold water slapped his skin, shocking the breath out of his lungs. He pulled himself up to the surface. Then dived under the wharf when he saw Gainsford jump out of the truck and peer into the water.

An eel swam by him. Nick swallowed his fear, peering upward through the underside of the wharf. The odor of rank seaweed filled his nose. He gasped for breath. He saw no sign of movement on top of the wharf. What was Gainsford doing?

A deep throbbing stirred the air, vibrating the water around Nick.

Gainsford had hotwired the boat. Nick knew the boat; it had been part of the landscape ever since he was a kid visiting Grandma Penny. A retired fishing boat turned pleasure craft, it was as rickety as the wharf to which it was tied. The name
Glory Anne
splashed in garish white and red on its stern did little to improve its appearance. The recent addition of a shiny chrome ladder
on the stern merely served as stark contrast to its poorly maintained exterior.

Nick lunged toward the
Glory Anne
, kicking his feet furiously as he swam between the posts of the wharf. Above his head, the fishing boat's lines dangled, no longer attached to the deck. The boat had been cast off.

No!

Nick dived under the water, using his dolphin kick to propel him toward the boat's hull. Water churned, furious and white, repelling him as the engine shoved into full throttle. Caught between two opposing forces—the tide pulling the boat one way, the engine propelling it in the opposite direction—the boat lurched to a stop in the water. Nick knew it would last only a few seconds and then the boat would plow forward. With one final desperate kick, he grabbed a bright orange fender that hung over the boat's side. He clasped the small buoy to his chest, his heart hammering.

Gainsford hit the throttle into high gear and the boat leaped across the water.

 

Randall's entrance in the courtroom caused a stir amongst the spectators, who all straightened and stared. Kate hurried over to the counsel's table.

“All rise,” the court clerk intoned.

Justice Hope Carson strode into the courtroom. Randall hadn't seen her since she was appointed to the bench. With her erect bearing, sleek silver-threaded black bob and formal robes, she looked every inch a Supreme Court justice.

Her tawny gaze skimmed the courtroom, resting on
Kate, then flicked away as if she was not worth her attention. She glanced at Randall, her face inscrutable, and sat down behind the broad desk.

The Crown stood. “My lady, the Crown has considered all the evidence and we are withdrawing the charge against Mr. Barrett.”

The spectators began to murmur, but quieted when Justice Carson began to speak. “The Crown is requesting to withdraw the charge of murder against Mr. Randall Barrett,” she said, her tone formal. “The charge is withdrawn.”

She rested a stern glance on the Crown, sparing Ethan—the detective who had tried to find her daughter's killer—her censure, Kate noted. “Bailiff, please release Mr. Barrett. Now.”

The bailiff hesitated, clearly taken aback by this turn of events. Accused were released down in the cells, not in the courtroom.

“Time is of the essence. Mr. Barrett, you are free to go,” she said to Randall. Her eyes met her long-ago lover's. They burned into him, a tiger urging him to protect his own. “If I believed in God, I'd wish you God-speed. As I do not, all I can hope is that your daughter does not experience the same fate as mine.”

 

The water raged against Nick, the wake sucking him under the side of the boat. He clung to the fender, the bright orange plastic smooth and slick. His grip slipped a notch. Then another. His hands were dangerously close to the bottom of the buoy. He slid his hand upward and grasped the rough rope that attached the fender to a cleat
bolted in the deck. He just prayed that whoever tied the fender onto the cleat knew his knots.

He also prayed that Gainsford would stay in the small glass-fronted cabin that housed the wheel. If he did, he wouldn't be able to spot Nick hanging on to the side.

Nick couldn't see where the boat was heading. Water streamed into his face, up his nostrils, down his throat, into his eyes. But he sensed they were crossing the mouth of the bay where it met the ocean. The water was choppier, the swell lifting the boat. The engine vibrated through the side of the hull, a rhythmic drumming that jolted his bones.

His grip slipped, the rough rope abrading his palms. He clung to it with a strength he never knew he possessed. But then in the next second his fingers became more numb, more cramped. More fatigued.

Hold on, Nick. You can't fall off now.

He couldn't feel his fingers.

He pressed his chest into the fender, trying to pin it against his body. But the rope ripped through his hands. He felt his legs splay out against the side of the boat.

I'm sorry, Lucy. I'm so so sorry.

He could not hang on.

I'm sorry, Dad.

Three things could happen to him now: he would lose his handhold completely and get left in the water, too far from shore to make it back. Or he would get sucked under the boat and be chewed apart by the propeller blades.

Or, if he was fast enough, he could grab the ladder that hung off the stern of the
Glory Anne.

It was a split second of win or lose.

His hands grasped at air as the fender sprang out of his grip.

Oh, God.
He fell down into the water, bumping against the hull. Ocean pounded into his face. Panic seized him. In a second the stern would move past him. And be gone in even less time.

A flash of silver—

Now! Now!

He lunged upward, scrabbling for the bottom rung of the ladder. His face smashed against the stern as the boat thrust upward into a wave. But it worked to his advantage. With the bow up and the stern down, he was able to grab the middle of the ladder and pull himself partly out of the water before he got dragged down into the wake of the boat.

He hunched on the bottom rung of the ladder. His heart hammered. He began to shiver.

To one side lay the rocky coastline. To the other, the ocean. Fog moved closer to shore, chill and damp. And thick. Soon it would envelop him in cold moisture. He needed to act before he was too cold to move.

He rested his cheek against his hands, gripping the ladder, his teeth chattering. How the hell was he going to overpower Jamie Gainsford, a man with fifty pounds more muscle?

You need a plan, Nick. You can't just hope this will work out. He's smarter than you. He's stronger than you.

He's playing chicken with the Coast Guard by sticking close to the shore.

The whole coastline from Peggy's Cove to beyond Prospect was made of granite. Massive cliffs looming
overhead and deadly shoals guarding the shoreline. The coast was jagged and barren, with long fingers of rocky peninsulas separated by bays. Upper Prospect, home of Prospect village, and Nick's grandmother's house, sat on one of those rocky peninsulas that overlooked Prospect Bay. The bay separated Upper Prospect from the next finger, which was broader, and split midpoint into two separate tips with multiple islands clustering around it.

These jagged stretches of rocky coastline provided numerous coves to dart into. And hide.

Despair gripped Nick. With his smaller boat, Jamie Gainsford could easily play cat and mouse with the much larger Coast Guard vessel.

And then what? What was he planning to do with Lucy? He shivered. The fog was getting thicker. The
Glory Anne
swerved around a navigational buoy. Nick prayed that Gainsford knew how to follow the color coding. Red meant pass the buoy on its port side; green meant pass the buoy on its starboard side. If Jamie Gainsford went around the buoy on the wrong side, he'd run straight onto rock.

Last summer Nick's father had taken him along this coast on his yacht, pointing out the shoals. Nick had zoned out. It was only when his father started talking about smugglers and rum-running that Nick paid attention. “There's a secret passage,” Randall had told Nick, his eyes gleaming. “It's called Rogue's Roost.”

He pointed at an island. It looked like many of the islands around Prospect: boulder-shaped cliffs of granite, dotted with sturdy spruce trees. “That's Roost Island.” A few cormorants dried themselves in the sun.

Didn't look very exciting. “Is that where we're going?”

Randall shook his head. “No. The anchorage is behind it. But I'm going to need your help. If we don't follow the chart exactly, we'll hit rock.”

It was one of the most exciting experiences Nick had shared with his father in a long time. To get to the famed anchorage of Rogue's Roost—where it was rumored that smugglers used to hide—the boat had to navigate a very narrow channel between the rocky islands. Yet Rogue's Roost was a popular spot—partly for the thrill of triumphing over the shoals sitting just feet away from the hull, partly for the illicit history the roost was famous for and partly for the sheltered anchorage it provided from the winds that beat the coast.

Jamie Gainsford didn't know it, but he was heading the boat to Rogue's Roost.

And that's when Nick had the idea. He'd knock Gainsford overboard, steer the boat into Rogue's Roost and hopefully find some other yachts that could radio for help. Even if there were no boats there, he and Lucy could wait out the fog and swells in relative safety.

All he had to do was get Gainsford off the boat.