This search wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about Carolyn. It was about Jenna Hughes and protecting her. And he’d come up empty-handed.
So far.
Yet he couldn’t leave the pictures of Carolyn lying there. Silently telling himself he was a damned fool, he pocketed the full set of shots. Let Wes discover them missing. What could he do? Come down to the station and accuse Carter of the theft of snapshots of his wife?
>
Without second-guessing himself, he made his way downstairs and nearly jumped out of his skin as a grandfather clock near the front door began to chime the hour. He looked in every closet and cupboard and bookcase as he made his way to the back door and locked it behind him. Get a move on. There isn’t much time. Don’t push your luck.
On the porch, he pulled on boots and walked outside. He spied the cellar entrance, an exterior door that led to the basement. Locked. With a path of broken snow leading toward it.
He’d noticed a set of keys in a drawer by the back door.
Though time was ticking off quickly, he couldn’t come this far, take this much of a risk, and not follow through. As swiftly as possible, Carter retraced his steps, grabbed the key ring, and made his way to the cellar door. In all the years he’d known Wes Allen, he’d never once crossed this threshold.
Carter tried six keys before the seventh slid into the lock and it sprang open. Using the beam of his flashlight as his guide, he stepped carefully inside, pulled the doors shut, and started down the ancient wooden steps to a dank, brick-lined basement just deep enough for him to stand. The thin beam of his flashlight exposed old jars, tools, unused hunting and fishing gear, rubber waders, a canoe that had seen better days.
Nothing.
He stepped farther inside, breathing slowly, trying not to consider the seconds ticking by. He swept the flashlight slowly into every cranny, the yellow beam washing over cobweb-laden beams, crumbling mortar, and around a corner to another door, this one padlocked.
What the hell?
Carter checked his watch. His time was up. More than up. But he couldn’t stop now. It took several tries, but he found the right key, the lock gave way, and he pushed open the door and flipped on a light switch near the door.
He felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.
Got ya, he thought, with a needle-sharp sense of satisfaction. This small room was a shrine, a goddamned altar to Jenna Hughes.
As dirty as the rest of the cellar was, this room was pristine, the walls recently Sheetrocked and painted a soft gold, the floor carpeted, a television mounted in one wall, a VCR and DVD set up with surround sound, video camera, tripod, digital camera, a space heater set on the floor near a bookcase filled with videos, DVDs, and pictures of Jenna Hughes. Everywhere. In frames, or pinned to the wall, between candles, and among bracelets and necklaces, hair clips and garters. A short black wig was mounted on a Styrofoam head. Earrings glittered on the arm of the only piece of furniture in the room, a red leather recliner, facing the screen.
Using his handkerchief, he picked up a tiara. It looked familiar. Had Jenna worn something like this in Innocence Lost, when she’d played the teenaged prostitute? Were the earrings like those that had sparkled in the ears of Paris Knowlton, the role Jenna had played in Beneath the Shadows?
Carter had seen enough of her movies recently. He should remember. He checked his watch and frowned. He’d stayed too late.
He started to leave, the beam of his flashlight illuminating the videos and DVDs, titles he equated with porn or Jenna Hughes. Wes Allen’s very private theater. Carter hated to think what Wes did while he watched.
He was about to leave when the beam of his flashlight slid over a black video case that didn’t have a printed spine. His gut slammed hard against his diaphragm. A labeler had been used to identify the homemade film: CAROLYN.
“Shit!” Carter reached for the video, intent on putting it into his pocket or smashing it into a million pieces. But he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to nail Wes, and damn it, he wanted to nail Wes Allen in the worst possible way. If for nothing else, then the pornography. Curiosity about what was on the damn tape burned through his brain and his guts ground.
He couldn’t compromise the collar. Couldn’t.
But he slipped the video into his pocket.
It was time to get the hell out of here.
A sound pierced the silence. The deep, rumbling sound of a truck’s engine. Getting closer.
Hell!
He quickly slipped out of the room, slapped the light switch off with a gloved hand, closed the door behind him, and managed to click the lock closed. He was halfway across the basement when he stopped short. The truck was close, the engine growling ever louder. Through the crack in the cellar door, he saw lights flashing. Headlights sweeping across the exterior of the farmhouse. From Wes Allen’s truck.
Carter froze.
Pressed himself back against the wall.
He heard the engine die, the pickup’s door creak open, and the sound of Wes trudging through the snow toward the house.