He didn’t want to wait until daylight to pose these questions to Gillette. He would wake him up and go at him hard. People dragged from bed were groggy and disoriented and more likely t
o make mistakes, like giving up information they wouldn’t ordinarily disclose.
But when he arrived at Gillette’s house and saw that it was lit up inside like a Christmas tree, Crawford felt a tingle of apprehension. A veteran Marine might be in the habit of rising early, but this early?
Crawford got out of his car and went up the walkway. The front door was standing ajar. He pulled his service weapon from its holster. “Mr. Gillette?”
Getting no answer, he tapped on the front door with the barrel of his pistol and, when that received no response, pushed the door open and stepped into a living room that looked like a cyclone had gone through it. Drops and smears of blood showed up bright red on the beige carpeting.
In the center of the room, securely taped to a straight chair, was Stan Gillette. His head was bowed low over his chest. He appeared to be unconscious. Or dead. Moving quickly but carefully around the bloodstains, Crawford made his way toward him, calling his name.
The man let out a moan and raised his head just as Crawford reached him. “Is anyone else in the house?” the deputy whispered.
Gillette shook his head and replied hoarsely, “They left.”
“They?”
“Coburn and Honor.”
Crawford reached for his cell phone.
“What are you doing?” Gillette asked.
“Calling this in.”
“Forget it. Hang up. I won’t have my daughter-in-law arrested like a common criminal.”
“You need an ambulance.”
“I said forget it. I’m okay.”
“Coburn beat you?”
“He looks worse.”
“Mrs. Gillette was complicit?”
His lips hardened into a firm, straight line. “She had her reasons.”
“Honest ones?”
“She thinks so.”
“What do you think?”
“Are you going to get me out of this chair or not?”
Crawford replaced his pistol in the holster. As he sawed through the tape with the sharp point of his pocketknife, Gillette filled him in on what had taken place. By the time he’d finished with his story, he was free from the chair, stamping to restore feeling to his feet, flexing and extending his fingers to increase circulation.
“They took the USB key with them?” Crawford asked.
“As well as the soccer ball.”
“What was on that key?”
“They refused to tell me.”
“Well, it had to be something significant or your late son wouldn’t have gone to such great lengths to hide it.”