Willing to Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“I’ll catch her when I get to the station.”

“You’re going there now?” Watershed asked.

“Soon. First we need to stop in town at the Long Museum.”

She didn’t wait for any further arguments and, as Mays was exiting the garage, Watershed had his hands full.

They climbed into Santana’s truck. His face set and grim, Santana drove into town, motoring as fast as he could down the county road and into the upper tier of Grizzly Falls where traffic was heavier. With each passing mile, Pescoli felt her anxiety ramp up a notch, her heart thud painfully.

Was Santana right?

Would they find Tucker there?

Would he be safe?

“I’m going to kill Lucky,” she said as they turned down the street to the Long Museum.

“Not if I get to him first.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I. Between what he did to Bianca and now this? However he’s involved I’d like to—”

“String him up by his balls,” she finished for him. “And that would just be for starters. Trust me, all that torture on Game of Thrones wouldn’t hold a candle to what I’ll do to him if anything happens to Tucker. Anything.”

“No arguments from me.”

As Santana found a spot to park on the street, she watched other cars pass, moving slowly, drivers on their way to their own lives, their own problems, not a clue that her world had stopped.

The gates to the old estate were locked, the museum closed, but Santana, as caretaker for the Long estate, had secured a set of keys and was allowed on the property for some maintenance. He was always supposed to let the board of directors know before he visited, but not today. He parked across the street, and even before he cut the engine Pescoli was out of the passenger side and cutting across the slow-moving traffic to the fenced property. Santana followed quickly, working a key into the lock of the ornate wrought-iron gate, and they slipped through.

The snow was undisturbed, the manor rising above the frozen grounds, the blanket of white pristine, no sign of footsteps. “I hope this isn’t a wild goose chase,” she said under her breath.

“Got any better ideas?”

That was the problem. If this didn’t work, if they didn’t find Tucker here, today, when would they?

Don’t think that way.

Be a cop. Not a mother.

But it was impossible, and as they walked to the side of the property and let themselves in to what had once been a servants’ entrance, she was fueled by fear for Tucker. The blood pulsed in her ears. She drew her weapon. Through the kitchen they moved, past a marble counter, its top covered with utensils from a bygone era, past a stove that looked to be a hundred years old, and into a butler’s pantry. Behind the glass doors of the cupboard were stacks of white dinnerware, still on display though no one would ever use one of those plates again.

She thought of Garrett Mays and wondered about him. Was he really Brady Long’s son, Padgett Long’s nephew? Would he someday lay claim to all of these artifacts, challenge his family’s gift to the city?

She felt a breath of cold air and shivered, wondering if, as local lore claimed, the ghosts of the long dead walked through these rooms.

Ridiculous.

Or was it?

They fanned out in the dining room with its long antique table, then came back together through a music room, where a spinet was gathering dust. Beyond the mullioned windows, past a few low-lying shrubs, was a view of the river with the lower tier of Grizzly Falls sprawled upon its shores. Lights winked in the darkness, brilliant specks lining the shore of the dark wedge that was the river.

Inside, there was no sign of Padgett, nor of Little Tucker.

Please, please, please that she could find him. Alive. Well.

Santana nudged her and they kept moving.