Too Close to Home
Authors: Maureen Tan
Until the forensics report came in, I would avoid speculating about who the murder victim—and the murderer—might be. I would investigate this crime just as I’d investigate any other crime. I would work with Chad and we would build our case carefully and meticulously. Basing it on facts, likely circumstances and evidence.
And if the investigation pointed to someone I loved? Threatened to expose facts long buried?
My stomach did a half twist, destroying my sense of calm.
Just do your job, I told myself. The way you were taught. One step at a time. Follow the evidence wherever it leads.
Then deal with the consequences.
Dear Reader,
Have you been lost and alone in a forest at night?
During a search-and-rescue training exercise, I put myself in that situation, experiencing the disorientation and terror that real victims often feel. My imagination ran wild as small forest noises became threatening sounds and uneven darkness tricked me into seeing shadowy forms. At one point, I was sure that ticks were raining down on me from the trees overhead and I fought the impulse to run away screaming. You can imagine my relief when a young German shepherd crashed through the underbrush with his human handler fast at his heels.
That night and my love of dogs were the inspiration for
Too Close to Home
’s heroine, rookie cop and search-and-rescue volunteer Brooke Tyler. Brooke’s fictitious adventures play out against a real and often treacherous backdrop—the atmospheric Shawnee National Forest area of southern Illinois. From the murky water of a cypress swamp to towering river bluffs to forested hills cut with jagged ravines, Brooke must confront and overcome challenges.
An intriguing geography of the heart is as important to me as the story’s physical geography. Brooke’s world is complicated by her family’s commitment to helping abused women escape to safety. No sooner than she’s found the man she’ll love forever, she’s sacrificed that relationship to protect her family’s dangerous legacy. The question is, can she live with her heartbreaking decision and overcome perils that strike
Too Close to Home?
Maureen Tan
TOO CLOSE TO HOME
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Too Close to Home
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is a Marine Corps brat, the eldest of eight children and naturally bossy. She and her husband of thirty years have three adult children and two grandchildren. They currently share their century-old house with a dog, three cats, three fish and a rat. Much to his dismay, their elderly Appaloosa lives in the barn. Most of Maureen’s professional career has involved explaining science, engineering and medical research to the public. To keep her life from becoming boring, she has also worked in disaster areas as a FEMA public affairs officer and spent two years as a writer for an electronic games studio. Maureen’s first books,
AKA Jane
and
Run Jane Run,
detail the exploits of a female British agent.
For the kind and hospitable folks of Elizabethtown, Illinois. For my family and friends of all generations. For my mother, who taught me reading and courage and love. And especially for Peter, who still looks good in jeans.
I
was sixteen. Old enough that I no longer believed in story-book monsters. Young enough that, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, I didn’t quite believe in human monsters.
Dr. Porter changed that.
“I’m getting tired of waiting,” he called from the vicinity of the living room. “Come take your punishment like a good little wife.”
His coaxing, reasonable voice was accompanied by the rhythmic slapping of a leather strap against an open hand. The sound echoed off the glossy, hard surfaces of the expensive suburban home and carried clearly into the kitchen at the back of the house.
“Obviously, you’ve forgotten who your master is,” he continued. “You must be reminded.”
From where I stood, I couldn’t see Dr. Porter. Or the strap. But I’d seen the welts and bruises left by the strap. Left by
Dr. Porter on his wife’s flesh. So maybe that was why it was all too easy to imagine what
he
looked like. No matter that I knew better, that Aunt Lucy and Gran had more than once reminded me that appearance was a poor predictor of behavior, I couldn’t help but picture bulging muscles and twisted, lunatic features.
Nothing about his voice convinced me otherwise. And because my upbringing was Baptist and biblical, I imagined it was the same voice the serpent had used in the Garden of Eden. Low, vaguely seductive and absolutely evil.
“It will only be worse if I have to come get you, Missy.”
My name was Brooke. Not Missy. Missy Porter was gone. And monster or not, devil or not, I stood my ground and waited for her husband. Because that was what I’d promised Missy I would do.
Just moments earlier, when the lock had turned in the front door, she’d been standing beside me in the kitchen. I’d watched as the blood drained from her face and she began trembling.
Missy was terrified. With good reason. Earlier that day, her husband had come home unexpectedly and found her packing. Missy’s punishment began before he’d left the house and he’d promised to continue it when he returned. In the meantime, he’d taken their twin sons away with him, confident that she would never run away without her children.
When we’d first arrived, she hadn’t answered the door. Fearing that Dr. Porter’s escalating abuse had turned homicidal, Gran and I crept around the house trying to get a glimpse inside. We found an open window, shouted Missy’s name again, and heard a woman sobbing.
Right then, I’d seen in Gran’s face that she wished Aunt Lucy was at her side. But Aunt Lucy was home with a broken leg and—no matter that I was nothing more than a gawky ado
lescent girl with boring brown eyes and chopped-off brown curls—I was her replacement on this rescue. Mostly because, unlike Gran, I could see well enough to drive after dark. I was also undeniably more nimble than Gran. Reluctantly, she agreed that I should crawl inside. Without saying a word, she gave me the big leather handbag that concealed my grandfather’s gun.
I’d found Missy in the kitchen, sitting naked on the stool where her husband had ordered her to stay, urine puddling on the floor beneath her. Horrified and unsure of what to do or say, I ran to the kitchen door and let Gran in. Valuable time passed as she convinced Missy to leave the stool, to escape as planned. Then Gran stood guard on the front porch and I waited inside as Missy got dressed.
We were almost to the foyer when the doorbell rang three times. A warning that Dr. Porter was approaching. Gran’s usual tactic—posing as a neighbor in search of a lost cat—bought us enough time to backtrack to the kitchen. And in that time, Missy lost her nerve.
As her husband bellowed for her from the front of the house, she stood, indecisive, unable to chose between the promise of escape and the certainty of abuse, between the risk of directing her own life and the terror of letting her husband control it. With her children in the balance, the decision was agony. And it was hers alone. In the end—with the sound of her husband’s heavy steps echoing down the hallway toward us—she chose survival.
“Run to the blue van parked down the street,” I whispered just before she bolted out the kitchen door. “I’ll slow him down, give you time to get away.”
I pulled my grandfather’s gun from the handbag.
I waited for the monster to come get me.
Dr. Porter’s cool tone warmed with growing anger.
I flinched at the obscenities he thought he was directing at his helpless wife, used both hands to support the weight of the bulky Smith & Wesson Victory revolver and waited for him. His breath, I was certain, would smell like rotting meat. His face would have flaring nostrils and pointed teeth. His eyes would be reddened by bloodlust and fury. It was the stuff of horror flicks and nightmares and novels by Koontz and King. But it was happening to me.
He screamed as he rushed through the doorway.
“You little bitch! I’ll drag your fuc—”
The sight of me and my gun brought him slamming to a halt.
“Missy’s not home,” I said into the sudden silence.
Between us was the polished granite counter, six empty plastic water bottles and the stool where he’d left his wife sitting for several agonizing hours. He’d compelled her to drink every bottle, then ordered her to remain on the stool until he returned. After years of being battered into submission, she’d done exactly as he’d said.
The revolver trembled in my hands as I pointed it past the water bottles to a spot where a blue silk tie was framed by the V of his gray vest. His light brown eyes stretched wide as his lips formed a moist O surrounded by the short, wiry hairs of his beard.
I returned his stare, as surprised by his appearance as he was by mine. He was ordinary. Absolutely, horrifyingly ordinary. Medium height, slightly pudgy and dressed in a three-piece suit. Mouse-colored hair had receded enough to make his forehead look tall, and his neatly trimmed mustache and beard were shot through with gray. His right shoulder was slightly humped, but not so much that he
would stand out in a crowd of other middle-aged, average-looking men.
No matter how he looked, I told myself, he was still a monster. A threat to Missy. And to me.
“Drop the belt,” I said.
He surprised me again by immediately opening his hand and releasing the thick leather strap. Its buckle clattered noisily against the tiled floor, but he didn’t take his eyes from me and the gun I held. The bright spot of the task light above the counter glinted off a string of spittle at the corner of his mouth.
It was then, suddenly, that I realized the monster was terrified. Of me. And that I—Brooke Tyler—was utterly in control.
My hands steadied as my fear was replaced by an awareness of my own power. And the power of the weapon I held. With just the slightest pressure of my right index finger, I could kill this monster who looked human but took pleasure in torture and pain and humiliation. I could keep him from hurting Missy—or any other woman—ever again.
It wouldn’t be murder, wouldn’t be a sin. It would be justice.
Something in my expression told him what I intended.
He raised his hands in front of his face, arms crossed at the wrist and palms faced outward as if they could shield his face from the impact of a .38 caliber bullet. And he whimpered.
Maybe that very human reaction saved his life. Or maybe it was the sound of a horn blaring outside. Three times, then twice again. The signal that Missy was safely inside the van. A reminder of the promise I’d made on the family Bible on my last birthday. With Gran, Aunt Lucy and my seventeen-year-old sister, Katie, as witnesses, I’d placed my hand on the worn leather cover and sworn to protect the Underground. To keep its work secret. To continue our family’s legacy, begun during the Civil War, of aiding the helpless and abused.
Killing Dr. Porter could betray us all.
Missy would surely be blamed for the murder, but a police investigation might expose the Underground, forcing our network of safe houses to shut down. Jeopardizing the women we were supposed to be helping.
In the space of a heartbeat, reason supplanted rage. Or, at least, controlled it. But part of me still lusted for a small measure of revenge. That, as much as the desire to escape town unimpeded by Dr. Porter, inspired me.
I ordered him to strip.
Without the tailoring of his suit coat to hide it, the curve in his back and the hunch in his shoulder were even more obvious. But I felt not a moment of sympathy for this hateful, ordinary man.
There were two large crystal water pitchers in the buffet. I made him fill them before he took Missy’s place on the kitchen stool, then kept my grandfather’s gun pointed squarely at him as I demanded that he drink both pitchers dry. And I watched, unmoved, as he gagged in his haste to please me.
“I’ll be right back,” I said and had no problem matching the menace I’d heard in his voice. I simply imagined the way he’d spoken to Missy hours earlier. “If you move from that stool or if you mess yourself—” I stepped behind him, pressed the tip of the gun against the bare flesh where his spine twisted just below his shoulder blades “—you will be punished. I swear.”
Then I backed out of the kitchen.
The engine was running and Katie had just crawled over into the passenger’s seat when I yanked the van’s driver-side door open. I climbed inside, dropped the purse that concealed my grandfather’s gun on the floor between me and Katie, and glanced over my shoulder.
Gran was seated behind me. An empty row separated her from Missy, who huddled into the corner of the bench seat at the very back of the boxy van. There was more metal frame than window there—a comforting location for someone who wanted to hide.
I flashed a smile at my grandmother and my sister. Success, I thought. My very first solo extraction for the Underground and everything had gone right. Before long, our van would blend into the heavy interstate traffic moving away from the St. Louis metro area. Away from Dr. Porter.
I couldn’t help feeling a bit self-satisfied. Within hours, Missy would be tucked into one of the guest rooms at the Cherokee Rose Hotel, our family home. Our family’s business. Within days, she would continue her journey along the Underground network, moving from one privately owned hotel or bed-and-breakfast to another until she reached her final destination. There, she’d be given a new identity, a job and a safe place to live. And we’d arrange for her children to be snatched from their father and returned to her.
Before I could pull away from the curb, Katie tugged at my arm.
“Where are the little boys?” she said urgently.
“They weren’t at home,” I said simply.
“So she just abandoned them?”
Katie made no effort to keep her voice down or to disguise her outrage. And there was no doubt that what she said carried clearly because Missy began sobbing.
I looked over my shoulder in time to see her struggle up from her seat, move forward past the empty row of seats, reach for the handle that opened the van’s side door. Then Gran’s hand darted out and I saw the sinewy muscle beneath her leathery skin flex with effort as her long, bony fingers caught Missy’s wrist and held it captive.
A fit, lean sixty-three years old, Gran was undoubtedly strong enough to force Missy back into her seat. But that would turn a rescue into a kidnapping and we, like Dr. Porter, would be denying Missy control of her own life. If her life was to change, Missy had to make her own decision.
The van was already running, so I shifted it into Drive. But I kept my foot on the brake, my hands on the steering wheel, and my attention split between the rear of the van and the front door of the Porter home. I couldn’t help wondering how long fear would control Dr. Porter’s fury, how long he would remain where I’d left him.
A frozen eternity passed as Gran simply looked at Missy, her expression one of utter sadness. She shook her head slowly and I knew that the intensity of her pale blue eyes would be magnified by the thick lenses she always wore. She lifted her hand away from Missy’s hand as she spoke. Missy leaned forward just enough to grasp the door handle but she didn’t pull it.
“You did what you had to do, Missy. You escaped,” Gran said. “You’re no good to your children if you’re dead. Or horribly injured. We have to get you to safety. First. Then we’ll get your babies back.”
Tears were streaming down Missy’s cheeks, but she nodded. Maybe it was the strength of Gran’s voice and the utter conviction of her words that returned Missy to her seat. Or maybe it was the sight of her husband—red-faced, barefoot and dressed only in his trousers—emerging from the house. He saw the van and raced across the lawn toward us.
I pulled away from the curb and the tires squealed as I floored the gas pedal. Inside the van, my passengers huddled down in their seats. Outside, Dr. Porter stood screaming obscenities in a cloud of exhaust smoke. There was nothing he could do to bring his wife back except, perhaps, call the
police. But then he might have to explain why she’d fled. And I doubted he’d want to do that.
I rounded a corner, putting Dr. Porter out of sight. Another stretch of residential street, another quick turn, and I joined the heavier traffic on a main thoroughfare and headed for the interstate.
A glance in the rearview mirror briefly revealed Missy’s blotchy, tearstained face. Then she covered her face with her hands. I changed lanes, then checked the mirror again, seeking Gran’s eyes. But I was distracted by a quick movement beside me as my sister turned back around in her seat to stare at Missy. Her golden hair framed a face twisted ugly with anger. Her hazel eyes were narrowed, and her full bow lips were pressed into a tight line. Then she opened her mouth.
“Hey, you! Missy Porter!” she said, her usually soft, breathy voice sounding tight.
Certain that she would say something we all would regret, I reached quickly for the dashboard, cranked the volume setting on the radio up to maximum and turned on the power. Noise blasted through the van’s interior and drowned out Katie’s shrill yelp as I pinched her hard.
“Behave,” I mouthed as she jerked her head in my direction.
Katie surprised me by doing as I said. She faced forward again, sat rigidly with her hazel eyes fixed on the view out the front window. The muscles along her jaw flexed as she gritted her teeth.
