Gone (Michael Bennett)

MYSELF TOGETHER by the time Parker arrived behind me. I raced with her around the pool and around the dead guy on the deck, into the house.
    “Down! Freeze!” cops were yelling. From somewhere a woman was crying.
    As we passed a bathroom, Parker tapped me on the back.
    “Mike! Oh, shit, Mike! It’s him!”
    “Who? Perrine? Where?”
    I turned. It wasn’t Perrine. It was Scanlon. I recognized him from his passport photo. Barely. He was on his back in the tub, on top of the torn shower curtain. His hands were handcuffed behind him, and his throat was cut to the bone.
    We scoured the house for another twenty minutes before one of the ATF SWAT guys found the trick door in the wine cellar. Beyond it was a steep set of circular stairs, with faux castle walls and candelabra, leading toward a Gothic, dungeonlike door on the bottom.
    “What the hell is this?” Emily said as one of the hostage rescue guys in front of us pushed it open.
    “They left this out on Realtor dot com,” I said.
    The door led to a large octagonal room with benches along the crimson walls and a huge platform bed in the middle of it. Strapped on the bloodred silk moiré walls were lots of very interesting objects. Whips, handcuffs, leather hoods, and other assorted adult devices that, when bought off the Internet, probably arrived in plain brown packages. There was a sophisticated sound system and even a mounted camera in the ceiling.
    “Now I think I know why the previous owner got a divorce,” I said.
    One of the commandos pushed open yet another door, on the other side of the room. There was another long corridor behind it. It dead-ended at a brick wall with a little ladder bolted into it. At the top of the ladder was a hatch. An open hatch.
    I poked my head out. The escape hatch opened up onto the trail, not twenty feet from where we’d been stationed behind the house. I shook my head. Then pounded my thigh with my fist.
    No! If we’d still been in position, we would have heard Perrine escaping. Now Perrine could be anywhere.
    “He’s in the woods behind the house,” one of the commandos called into his radio. “Get the chopper! Light the park south and east of the target house, and, dammit, get K-nine into the park!”
    When I went back into the underground sex chamber, Bassman was standing there, examining one of the curios on the wall. I just stared at the jackass, about as pissed off at anyone as I’d ever been in my life.
    He finally noticed me staring. No wonder he made detective , I thought.
    “Can the eyeballing, Bennett,” he said, puffing up his already pretty puffed-up self. “You need to get something off your chest, open your trap.”
    Actually, I did need to get something off my chest. But I forgot to use my words. I took two steps forward and punched him as hard as I could in the mouth.
    He grunted as his head snapped to the side. Then he screamed as he rushed forward and rammed his shoulder into my chest, knocking out my breath as he bulled me backward. He was about to get me down when I wrapped a leg around the back of his ankle and spun us both sideways. Bassman landed hard on his back, beside the bed, with me on top of him. I punched him three times quick again in his face before two of the SWAT guys could peel me off him.
    “What are you, crazy?” Bassman yelled, thumbing blood on his lip.
    “We could have had him!” I screamed back, going berserk. “He was here! We had him! But you had to charge the hill, didn’t you? Had to screw things up like the two-bit flake that you are!”
    “Screw you, Bennett!” he screamed. “You’re full of shit! Screw you!”
    “You already did it for me,” I told the dumbass. “Don’t worry, Bassman. You already royally did.”

PART THREE
    TROUBLE ON THE HOME FRONT
     

CHAPTER 55
     
    IN THE MORNING, MARY Catherine left Trent in charge of pouring the pancakes and went down into the cellar to find another apron. Rummaging through a packing box, she glanced up as she heard soft footsteps coming down from one of the upstairs bedrooms.
    “Hey, Chrissy,” she heard Trent say.
    Oh, boy, let the games begin , Mary Catherine thought, moving some Christmas ornaments over to get at another U-Haul box. Trent was at the age when his goal in life, the very purpose of his existence, in fact, seemed to be teasing the girls as much as he possibly could. And Chrissy, being the youngest, was his favorite target.
    “Good morning, little sister,” Trent continued sweetly. “So