The garage—more of a barn or old carriage house—sagged slightly. It was old and bore the brunt of a century of coastal storms. Conor looked up at splintery rafters; a sheet of plywood had been laid between two and served as a makeshift platform to hold oars, sail bags, and an unrigged mast. The garage had room for three cars; a black Range Rover was parked in one space, and the other two were empty. The barn-style doors were closed, but late-day light streamed in through two sets of windows.
He glanced into the vehicle—it looked clean and empty, no sign of Claire. He circled around back, to the side closest to the wall and saw the blood: rust-colored smears on the concrete floor, the right doors of the Range Rover, and its right rear bumper—a coagulating pool just beside the tire.
He continued around front and found two broken pieces of two-by-four pine on the floor. A long white line—the kind used on boats—lay twisted beside them. One end was red with blood that looked fresher than the brownish splotches. The middle of the rope was cut clean through—no frayed edges. He tilted his head back, saw where the rafter had broken. He crouched down to examine the broken wood. Caught in the splinters were white fibers, as if the rope had snagged there. A blue-and-white-striped towel, soaked in blood, was crumpled under the vehicle.
There had been a violent assault; that much was clear. Griffin had said Claire was distracted. Had she walked into the garage, where a perpetrator was lying in wait, and not seen the attack coming? She had lost a lot of blood. He made a quick search for a knife, but he didn’t find one.
Conor heard voices coming through the kitchen. He walked toward them, again opened the door with his foot. He hadn’t touched one surface since arriving at the house. Griffin and Markham were about to enter the garage, but Conor stopped them. Griffin looked pale.
“You’re right,” Conor said. “Something happened.”
“Did you find her? I want to see her,” Griffin said. He tried to rush past, but Conor grabbed his shoulders.
“She’s not here, Griffin,” Conor said. “But there’s a lot of blood.”
Griffin touched the marble counter, then crouched down, as if his legs had gone out from under him. Markham leaned down to support Griffin.
“Ben, call this in,” Conor said to Markham.
Markham took his radio from its holster and called the state police dispatcher.
“Are you okay?” Conor asked Griffin, watching his reaction very carefully.
“No,” Griffin said, his voice barely a whisper.
Conor waited for a few seconds, then helped Griffin get to his feet. Griffin was beloved by the people of Connecticut, had the devotion of almost every cop Conor knew. His wife was missing, and he gave every appearance of being in shock. Conor saw him take his cell phone out of his pocket and turn his back and step away to make a call. That wasn’t unusual—not at all. But Conor had a strange feeling and couldn’t help wondering who was on the other end.
7
TOM
The Sallie B was named after Sallie Benson: a forty-two-year-old interior designer and the wife of Dan Benson, mother of Gwen and Charlie, and owner of Maggie the Yorkie. So far, only Dan and the dog had been found alive. US Coast Guard Commander Tom Reid was in the midst of a search and rescue (SAR) operation for Sallie, Gwen, and Charlie.
From the moment the Benson family members were reported missing, USCG vessels and aircraft had been deployed and SAR controllers had begun amassing data to create models to aid in the search. They analyzed factors such as debris from the vessel, tide, currents, air temperature, sea surface temperature, and wind speed and direction. They coordinated information offered to investigators by Jeanne and Bart Dunham and the very brief discussion with Dan Benson. He was in shock from his injuries and had been taken to Easterly Hospital.
A simulator wizard spit out computational algorithms to approximate drift and to aid in the development of the grid search pattern. The last known location of the Sallie B—a forty-two-foot Loring cabin cruiser—caused particular challenges because it was close to the spot where Long Island Sound met Fishers Island Sound, flowed into Block Island Sound, and from there into the Atlantic Ocean, creating a much larger search area. And now it was night.
Sunset occurred at 8:40 p.m. By that time, thirty minutes ago, the SAR had been underway for two hours. Tom was aboard the 270-foot USCG Cutter Nehantic. Joining the search were two rescue boats—measuring 45 feet each—from Coast Guard Station Port Twigg, Rhode Island, an HC-144 fixed-wing aircraft, and an MH-60 Jayhawk helicopter out of Air Station Cape Cod.
Although the day had been warm—with a high of 76 degrees, warmer than average for the end of May—the temperature at 9:10 p.m. had dipped to 59 degrees. The surface temperature of the water was 51.1 degrees. In those conditions, a person could survive for thirty to sixty minutes. Less if badly injured, very old, or very young.
Gwen was nine and Charlie was seven.
From what Tom had seen of the debris and heard about the USCG investigator’s short interview with Dan Benson, there had been a catastrophic explosion on board the Sallie B. Except for fragments of the hull and some personal items found floating nearby, the boat had sunk over a deep reef running perpendicular to the current, where the sea bottom rose sharply from 131 feet to 52 feet.
Dan Benson had hauled himself onto the base of bell buoy R 22 and was currently at Easterly Hospital being treated for hypothermia, second- and third-degree burns on his hands and forearms, and a punctured lung. He had been sedated, rushed into surgery to repair his lung. According to USCG Lieutenant Commander Alicia Gauthier, who had talked to the victim two hours earlier, Benson had been inconsolable—hysterical was the word Gauthier used—crying for his children, begging that they be found.
“What about Sallie?” Tom asked.
“He didn’t mention her,” Gauthier said. “Only the children.”
“Did you question him about that?” Tom asked, wondering exactly what Benson had seen, whether he had witnessed his wife dead or dying but not his children.
“He could barely talk. All I could get out of him was that Sallie had gone below to fix supper,” Gauthier said. “The kids had been playing in some kind of raft on deck. Sounded like a toy boat. Yellow. And he said they were wearing life jackets—family policy out on the water.”
“So they were on deck with him?”
“Near him. In the toy boat. Tom, what if they both got thrown clear, along with him?”
“It’s awfully cold out here,” Tom said, scanning the sea. “Thanks, Alicia.”
Tom wondered if the explosion had occurred when Sallie had been below. Had the propane stove malfunctioned? Had something on the burner caught fire? Or had fuel leaked into the bilge, ignited by a spark?
Searchlights illuminated the ocean and sky. What if Sallie and the children, like Dan and the dog, had escaped the flames? Even if they had, it would be unlikely that they could survive the cold water and night air. Some personal floatation devices had whistles and waterproof flashlights attached. It would be hard to see through the brightness of the searchlights, difficult to hear over the drone of ship and aircraft engines, but Tom knew every officer on the search was keeping a sharp lookout.
Tom’s cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. The call was from his stepdaughter Hunter Tyrone. Inspired by Tom’s younger brother, Conor, she had joined the Connecticut State Police and was an eager rookie. Tom hit the default message button: Can’t talk now. Two seconds later she texted back: Emergency. Pick up!