‘All I remember is being passed from foster home to foster home as quickly as it took me to set fire to something or get into a fight. When I was seventeen I ran away. Spent a year living on the streets in Geneva. I was this close to the edge…’
Tom had always known that Dominique had a darker side. That she was a little wild. This, however, was totally unexpected.
‘But those stories about your family, about studying Fine Art, about going to finishing school in Lausanne – you made that stuff up?’
‘We all have our secrets,’ she said softly, her eyes locking with his. ‘Our own ways of blocking out the things we’re trying to forget.’
‘Did my father know?’ He picked up a knife and began to slice some vegetables distractedly.
‘I first saw him at a taxi stand one night. I think he’d just been to the cinema. A re-release of Citizen Kane or something. I never expected him to see me. Normally people would be halfway home before they’d notice their wallet was gone. But not your father. He was so quick.’
‘You stole his wallet?’ Tom hoped that his voice didn’t betray the fact that he was not so much shocked as impressed.
‘Tried to. But he caught me with my hand still inside his jacket. And the amazing thing was that, rather than call the police, he just told me to keep it.’
‘He did what?’ Tom couldn’t help smiling as he pictured the scene.
‘He told me I could keep it. But if I wanted a fresh start in life, I should bring it back to him at his shop and he would help me. I stared at that damned wallet for four days, desperately wanting to open it and take the money, but knowing that, if I did, I might lose my one chance to get out. And then on the fifth day I went to see him. Just as he’d promised, he took me in. Gave me a job working in his shop, taught me everything I know. He never asked for anything in return. I wouldn’t be here today without him.’
For a few seconds Tom was silent. Dominique’s confession certainly explained some of the contradictions in her character that he had never quite been able to put his finger on before. Less clear, was his father’s motivation in helping her, or indeed his reasons for keeping it a secret. Every time Tom thought he was beginning to understand him, a new revelation seemed to draw yet another veil between them.
‘He should have told me,’ Tom said, unconsciously gripping the knife he had been slicing the vegetables with until the tips of his fingers were white. ‘You both should.’
‘You’re probably right,’ she said. ‘But he was worried about what you might say. I think we both were. I’m only telling you now because I think that today, of all days, you should know that, all the time he was with me, he was trying to make up for not being with you. He knew that he would never be able to forgive himself for what he had done. But he always hoped that, one day, you’d understand and not hate him so much.’
There was a long silence, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the throb of the oven. Abruptly, Tom threw the knife down with a clatter.
‘I think we should have a drink. A toast. To him. What do you think? There’s a bottle of Grey Goose in the freezer.’
‘Good idea.’ She gave him a brave smile and swiped a finger across the corners of her eyes. Then, standing up, she crossed to the refrigerator. The door to the freezer compartment came open with a wet, smacking noise.
She gave a short sharp scream.
Tom was across the room in an instant. She pointed into the freezer, the cold air swirling inside it like fog on a wet winter’s morning. Tom could just about make out what she was pointing at.
An arm. A human arm. And it was holding a rolled-up canvas.
Black Pine Mountains, nr Malta, Idaho
5th January – 2.09 p.m.
The large H-shaped farmhouse and its rambling assortment of outbuildings nestled in a wide clearing in the middle of the forest. A single dirt track, wide enough for one car, snaked its way over three miles back to the nearest metalled road. Here and there animal tracks materialised and then faded away again, hinting at life without ever fully confirming it, the forest’s muffled silence broken only by the call of an occasional eagle, knifing through the air far overhead before vanishing into the sun.
Bailey lay in the snow, hidden amongst the trees, the crisp blue vault of the sky just about visible through their dark, oily branches. He was already cold and now he could feel the moisture seeping in through the knees of his supposedly waterproof trousers. Viggiano was lying on one side of him, a pair of binoculars glued to his face, with Sheriff Hennessy on the other.
‘How many people did you say were in there?’ asked Viggiano.
‘Twenty to twenty-five,’ Bailey replied, shifting position to relieve the stiffness in his arms. ‘Each family’s got their own bedroom in the side extensions. They all eat and hang out together in the main building.’
‘Goddamned cousin-fuckers,’ Viggiano muttered. Bailey sensed Hennessy shift uneasily beside him.
Viggiano picked up his radio.
‘Okay, Vasquez – move in.’
Two teams of seven men rose from their hiding places along Phase Line Yellow, their final position for cover and concealment, and emerged running in single file from the trees at opposite ends of the outer perimeter. Still in formation, they vaulted over the low wooden fence and passed Phase Line Green, the point of no return, rapidly moving in on the front and rear entrances to the main building. Once there, they crouched along the side-walls to the left of each door.
Using his own set of binoculars, Bailey checked the farmhouse for signs of life from inside – a shadow or a twitching curtain or a hurriedly extinguished light – but detected nothing apart from a few flakes of white paint peeling from the window frames and fluttering in the wind.
Then he ran his binoculars along the two SWAT teams in their helmets, gas masks and bulletproof vests. Against the whiteness of the snow they looked like large black beetles, the visors on their helmets winking in the afternoon sun. In addition to submachine guns and pistols, one man in each unit was also equipped with a large metal battering ram.
‘Okay,’ came Vasquez’s voice over the radio. ‘Still no sign of activity inside. Alpha team, stand by.’
A voice amplified through a bullhorn rang out.
‘This is the FBI. You are surrounded. Come out with your hands up.’
‘I said to keep it low-key, Vasquez, you macho idiot,’ Viggiano muttered under his breath.
Silence from the farmstead. Again the amplified voice blared out.
‘I repeat, this is the FBI. You have ten seconds to show yourselves.’
Still nothing. Viggiano’s radio crackled.
‘Nothing doing, sir. It’s your call.’
