A Stranger at the Door (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Read online

  Being a parent meant keeping your children safe at all costs. Even if they hated you for it.

  At three thirty, the first wave of students began to file out of the school. She could see kids skipping, running, chatting joyfully with friends. A sadness lanced her heart. Rachel had not seen that kind of carefree smile on her son’s face in a long, long time.

  As the kids spilled out of the school, Rachel watched from behind the dashboard, waiting for a glimpse of either her son or Benjamin Ruddock. The exodus began to thin. There was still no sign of them. It was possible Eric had gone to the bathroom. Stayed an extra couple of minutes to ask a teacher about an assignment. But then the trickle of students dried up. It was nearly three fifty. No way Eric would have stayed in school an extra twenty minutes. Once that bell rang, kids shot out of school like cannonballs. But not her son. Where was he?

  Three fifty turned to four and then four ten. Her heart was thumping. She texted Eric:

  How was school? When will you be home?

  She waited five minutes. There was no response. Panic began to set in. It was unlikely she had simply missed him. Rachel trusted her instincts and had scanned every student like the Terminator. Eric had not left the building.

  At least not through the front door.

  She pulled out her phone and opened the GPS-tracking app. Lucky for her, Eric had forgotten to turn tracking mode off. The little blue dot indicated that Eric was a good mile from the school. He must have slipped out a back exit. She cursed under her breath.

  Rachel pulled into traffic, watching Eric’s location on her cell.

  The blue dot was currently stopped on Sycamore Lane between Indigo and Beechwood. It took Rachel four minutes to get there. Lush, green dogwood trees lined the streets in front of family dwellings, all with two-car garages and manicured front lawns, many with metal basketball hoops mounted in their driveways. Rachel idled on the corner of Sycamore and Beechwood. According to the app, Eric was halfway down the block. She waited.

  She refreshed the app every thirty seconds. Finally Rachel saw her son. He left a house on Sycamore, walking with another boy. But this was no more a boy than Rachel was a squirrel. He stood around six one, considerably north of two hundred pounds. He was solidly built, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. He walked with a swagger, arms swinging by his sides. He looked like the kind of kid—broad shouldered and confident—that college football coaches would roll out the red carpet for during recruiting season. She recognized his face from the school directory. Benjamin Ruddock.

  And then there was Eric. Fourteen, looking like a salad fork next to Ruddock.

  Eric walked quickly to keep pace with Ruddock’s long strides. Rachel snapped pictures of the home and jotted down the house number—52 Sycamore Lane. Then she noticed something else.

  Nestled into the crook of Benjamin Ruddock’s right arm were several thin manila envelopes. When they reached the end of the driveway, Ruddock took the envelopes, unzipped his backpack, and slid them inside. Then he clapped Eric on the back and said three words, which Rachel could read on his lips. You did well.

  The boys walked down Sycamore and made a right on Indigo. Rachel eased to the corner and followed the blue dot as it continued down Indigo for three blocks, then made a left onto Murtagh Lane. After a right onto Mackey Drive and another left onto Riggs Way, the dot stopped.

  Rachel drove slowly. It appeared that Eric and Ruddock had entered a house at 415 Riggs Way. She pulled up across from the house and did a background search on her phone. The home was owned by a woman named Tabitha Pike. Before she’d had a chance to find out more, Eric and Ruddock had exited the house. Once again, Ruddock was holding a stack of manila envelopes, which he transferred to his backpack. Ruddock was smiling. Eric’s face was devoid of emotion.

  That was quick, Rachel thought. YourLife is all about selling products, but they weren’t inside long enough to do that. They weren’t there to sell anything. They were dropping something off.

  What was in those envelopes?

  Rachel stayed three-quarters of a block behind the boys. They did not give off any signs that they knew they were being followed. When they turned right onto Ivyhill Drive, Rachel waited two full minutes and then followed.

  She wondered how many houses were on their route. Rachel was OK time-wise until 6:30 p.m.; then her part-time nanny had to leave. She prayed Eric would be done by then. And once he got home, she would pry the truth out of him. What were they doing in those homes? What was in the manila envelopes? How can I help you?

  This was not the first time Rachel had surveilled someone. But it tore her heart out doing it to her own child.

  “We’re being followed,” Ruddock said, as calmly as if he were commenting on the weather. Eric’s eyes widened. “Brown sedan. Don’t look. Don’t turn around.”

  Eric felt fear. More fear than he’d felt so far that day. Even though he did not fully trust Benjamin Ruddock, he felt oddly safe while with the older boy. Ruddock’s confidence was contagious. Every home they visited, he was in complete control. He shook hands, then introduced Eric as a YourLife trainee (“Handpicked by Mr. Brice himself!”). Then he would hand over a manila envelope. Eric did not know what was in the envelopes. And he knew well enough not to ask.

  He did find it odd that at each home, Ruddock was invited in without hesitation. And the thin smiles the owners gave him had the faintest traces of fear. As though they didn’t feel they had a choice but to invite him into their homes.

  Ruddock took a cell phone from his pocket and dialed. After a moment, he said, “Sorry to call, but we have a tail. I’m on Violet Road heading to see Mr. Meyerson. You can track me. It’s a brown four-door. Don’t know make or model. Let me see what I can do.”

  Ruddock opened the phone’s camera app and switched it to a front-facing view. Then he held the camera up until the brown car was in the viewfinder and snapped a photo burst. Ruddock then texted the photos to a number Eric could not see.

  “Just sent you some pics of the car. You’ll send help? OK, cool.”

  Ruddock ended the call, put the phone back in his pocket, and smiled at Eric.

  “All taken care of. On to the next one.”

  Eric quickly glanced behind him and wondered who Ruddock had called. He thought about the sound of Darren Reznick’s arm breaking and wondered just what this “help” was going to do to the person in the car.

  Rachel watched Ruddock take a cell phone from his bag and make a call. She felt a sneeze and quickly ducked beneath the dashboard so she wouldn’t draw their attention. When she came back up, Ruddock was putting the phone back into his bag.

  She followed them for several more blocks until they entered a driveway at 98 Violet Road, a three-story colonial painted a light gray with white trim. Half a dozen redbrick steps bracketed by wrought iron railings led to the front door, which was adorned with Corinthian-style columns. The lawn was trimmed to a neat emerald green. The bricks had been power washed and treated. The limestone columns looked like they had been recently washed with stone cleaners and microfiber.

  Rachel parked down the street and pulled up the GPS app. And waited.

  And waited.

  She pulled up a property listing for 98 Violet Road. The owners, Harold and Wanda Meyerson, had purchased it seven years ago for $3.2 million. They obviously had money—why would they need a couple of teenage boys to come to their home to sell them trinkets?

  After fifteen minutes, Rachel began to grow concerned. The boys had spent no more than five to ten minutes in each of the previous homes. Could she have lost them? The GPS tracker still marked the blue dot at the current location, but something about this didn’t feel right.

  She texted Eric:

  Hey hon, can you let me know when you’ll be home? Ballpark ETA?

  Nothing. Not even the three dots letting her know a response was coming.

  Five minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. It was nearly five thirty. She needed to see if the boys were still there
. She needed to be home for Megan in an hour but couldn’t leave without knowing for certain what was happening to her son.

  Rachel killed the engine and stepped outside. The street was quiet.

  She walked toward the home at 98 Violet Road. Then Rachel heard a sound behind her. It registered in a millisecond, the crunching of footsteps on dried leaves, with a pace that suggested the person was running rather than walking. She reacted instantaneously.

  Rachel whipped around to see someone wearing a Michael Myers Halloween mask and holding a black Smith & Wesson M&P pistol.

  And it was pointed at Rachel’s head.

  A high-pitched voice said, “Don’t mo—”

  But Rachel moved faster than his words could come out.

  Rachel did three things almost simultaneously. The first thing she knew to do when a gun was pointed at your head was to get out of the line of fire. She ducked slightly down so that the top of her head was well below the muzzle.

  At the same time, she brought both of her hands up lightning quick, gripping the gunman’s wrists. She pushed them upward so the gun was pointed at a forty-five-degree angle into the sky, ensuring the line of fire was not directed at her or any bystanders.

  Concurrently to that, she stomped her left foot into the side of the assailant’s knee.

  Hard.

  The gunman howled and collapsed to the ground, holding his injured knee. Rachel was able to rip away the Smith & Wesson without a shot being fired. It was over in less than two seconds.

  Rachel drew the slide back and ejected the cartridge from the barrel chamber, then removed the magazine. She put the gun, cartridge, and mag into her purse, took out her cell phone, and zipped the bag back up. Then she approached the downed man as she dialed 911.

  A wave of horror hit her like a slap. The gunman was small. Too small to be an adult. And the scream . . . it was not the scream of an adult male.

  What had she done?

  Rachel knelt down and ripped the mask off. Then she gasped, stood up, and took a step back.

  Staring back at her from the ground was a boy, barely older than her own son. He had dirty-blond hair, freckles, and the wisps of a teenage mustache. His eyes were wide and terrified. Tears streaked down his cheeks as he clutched his injured leg.

  “My knee,” he said. His voice was high, so high. She had injured a boy. A boy who was aiming a loaded weapon at her head, but still . . .

  “Who are you?” she said. Then the 911 dispatcher picked up.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  She said, “My name is Rachel Marin. There’s an injured boy who needs medical attention. We’re at 98 Violet Road, and . . .”

  With her attention fully focused on the downed boy, Rachel did not hear the other man come from behind.

  All she felt was a hard thump against her temple, and everything went dark.

  CHAPTER 24

  Years Ago

  “Mommy, Daddy, look!” the young girl said. Her voice was an excited whisper, trying to properly convey her unabashed excitement while not scaring her incredible discovery away.

  Twenty feet in front of her, a small rabbit had bounced onto the stone path. Its fur was gray, with a hint of brown speckled throughout like cinnamon. The girl immediately held out her hands, warning her parents not to take another step lest they frighten the wondrous creature.

  The family had spent the morning wandering the nature preserve, stopping every few feet to match the flowers, fauna, and animals to their descriptions in the guidebook. The girl bounced around the park with pure joy as her parents held hands, basking in their daughter’s happiness. She careened from discovery to discovery, blonde hair trailing behind her in a tangled mess, as her parents watched her, hearts swelling. A year earlier they hadn’t known if they would ever travel as a family of three again. They were going to sop up every moment and not leave until the sun went down.

  “Mommy, lookit,” she whispered, pointing again to the tiny creature.

  “It’s beautiful,” her mother said. She knelt down next to the girl and pressed their cheeks together. The girl took her hand, and her mommy squeezed it, gently, as she did not have the strength she used to.

  “It’s so small,” the girl said, her voice fearful, as though something might happen to the bunny as she watched.

  “I think it’s a baby,” her mother replied.

  “Looks like a jackrabbit,” her father said. He knelt down with them. Her daddy was tall, and the girl could hear his knees creaking. She could feel his stubble scratch against her cheek, and she giggled.

  “That tickles, Daddy,” she said. He put his arm around her and pointed.

  “Look at that coloring,” he said. “Beautiful, right?”

  “It’s so, so cute,” the girl said, looking at her mother with pleading eyes. Her mommy smiled, knowing exactly what was coming next.

  “That’s a wild rabbit, sweetie,” she said. “We can’t take it home.”

  The girl lowered her head.

  “Please?”

  “Sweetie, not every animal is meant to be kept inside. Some need to be free, so they can run around out in the wild.”

  “Like that rabbit?” she asked.

  “Like that rabbit,” her mommy replied.

  “Is it a girl rabbit, Daddy?”

  “I’m not sure,” her father said. “I forgot to renew my veterinary license.”

  They watched the small bunny, the girl transfixed. The father took out his camera, a bulky, cumbersome thing.

  “Shh, Daddy, don’t scare it!”

  “I won’t, hon.”

  He put the camera to his face and clicked a button several times. The girl held her breath, praying her dad wouldn’t scare off her new friend.

  “There. All done. I got some good ones.”

  “Can I see?” the girl said.

  “Not yet, silly,” he said. “I have to get them developed. I think there’s a Fotomat near the hotel with twenty-four-hour service.”

  “But I want to see the pictures now,” she whined.

  “I just took them, hon,” her dad said. “You can’t expect to take a picture and get to see it right away.”

  The girl made a hmph noise, irritated she would have to wait so long to see the photos.

  “You don’t need pictures,” her mother said. “Look. It’s right there in front of you. In real life.”

  “I know. But it won’t be there forever.”

  The bunny turned, as though noticing the family’s presence for the first time. The girl smiled and waved at it.

  “Hi, bunny!” she said. The bunny’s nose twitched. The girl took a step toward the bunny, and it sprang off into the brush. “Bye, bunny,” she said dejectedly. “Mommy, where do you think it went?”

  “I think the bunny went to go spend time with its own family,” her mother said. She stood up and lifted the girl into the air. She giggled and thrust her arms out like a soaring airplane. Daddy laughed and took more pictures. The girl could hear Mommy breathing heavily.

  The girl remembered how, not so long ago, her mother had been sick, so sick, thinner than a Popsicle stick, sleeping all day and all night. But her mommy promised that as soon as she got better, they would take a vacation as a family. And when Mommy started to get better, they booked the trip to the Bay Area. For months they talked about how they wanted to go hiking along nature trails and lie on sandy beaches, feeling the water nip at their toes. They couldn’t wait to fill every moment with new experiences and tastes and joys. To feel like a family again.

  And now here they were. The girl marveled at the woods, wonders all around her, like she had been taken from her former life and plunked into a magical world where there were no cares, nothing to be afraid of, no doctors or smells of medicine—just beauty occupying every inch of her horizon.

  The girl was happier than she could ever remember being in her whole life.

  The girl knew her parents would take her even if she didn’t ask, but she had to be
a hundred, a thousand, a million percent sure.

  “Can we go to the gift shop?” she said, pleading, as though they had already turned her down and she had to make a case for it.

  Her father smiled and took her hand.

  “We wouldn’t miss it. I need a snow globe for my collection.”

  “Daddy, why do you have so many snow globes?” she said.

  “They remind me of everywhere I’ve been,” he said. He squeezed his daughter’s hand and then his wife’s hand. They both smiled. “And they remind me of all the places I haven’t been yet but want to go to. With both my girls.”

  He gazed lovingly at his wife. She leaned over, and they kissed ever so gently. The girl made an ick face and stuck her tongue out.

  “Ew, gross. Neither of you have brushed your teeth since this morning.”

  “One day you’ll understand,” her mother said.

  “I don’t think so,” the girl replied. She looked into her mother’s face. The hollows under her eyes were starting to fill in. The gray was leaving, pink hues spreading over her skin like the final moments of a sunset. When she was sick, she had lost so much weight the girl wondered if it would ever come back. But even though her mother looked better than she had in a long time, the girl could tell how much energy she had expended just walking through the preserve. She looked tired, her legs beginning to buckle under her. More than once, she’d had to stop and sit, then sip from a bottle of water before continuing on.

  “Let’s go back to the hotel,” her father said. “I don’t want you to push yourself too hard. We have more days here.”

  The mother nodded remorsefully, as though she wanted to continue but knew her body would resist.

  “Still getting my strength back,” she said. “I’ll be OK tomorrow.”

  The girl’s father looked at her. “You OK with heading back, sweetie?”

  The girl saw concern in her father’s eyes. It scared her.

  “OK, Dad,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

  “Not just yet,” the mom said. “We said we’d go to the gift shop, and so we’re going to the gift shop.”