“Find out if the 20 gauge found in the field belonged to the Doyles,” Santos told the deputy.
They slowly made their way up the stairs, careful not to touch anything. Randolph noted the smudges of blood smeared across the wall next to the staircase. “Could have been left behind by one of the victims or the perpetrator. They also could have been from Josie Doyle’s injured arm when she came looking for her family.”
Santos and Randolph stepped into the master bedroom. They focused their eyes on Lynne Doyle. The wound to her chest was massive. “Up close and personal,” Randolph said.
Sweat dripped down Santos’s face but she resisted the urge to shed her suit jacket. It was even hotter in the bedroom than downstairs. “Is the heat on?” Santos asked, moving toward a vent in the floor. Warm air blew lightly on her fingers. “You were right,” she told Randolph. “The son of bitch turned on the heat.”
They moved on to Josie’s bedroom where William Doyle lay in the doorway. “Find anything interesting?” Santos asked a crime scene tech.
“We dusted for prints,” the tech said. “Found several different sets. Lots of fibers—won’t know if there’s anything significant about them for a while.”
That wasn’t much. “Nothing else?” Randolph asked.
“I was saving the best for last,” the tech said with a grin. “We found two different kinds of shells in here. Two shotgun shells from a 20 gauge and one from a 9 mm. We almost missed the shell from the 9 mm.”
Santos stood over William Doyle’s body and processed this information while Randolph moved on to look at Ethan Doyle’s bedroom. Two guns. Did that mean there were two intruders? They would have to wait for the medical examiner’s report to see exactly how many gunshots were fired into the Doyles and what kinds of guns were used.
The house wasn’t ransacked. It didn’t appear that any valuables had been taken in the murders, so robbery wasn’t a likely motive.
“Hey,” Randolph said, interrupting her thoughts. He handed her a five-by-seven gold picture frame that held a photo of Ethan Doyle standing next to his grandfather. Ethan was proudly holding up a shotgun with a camouflage finish.
Forensics would have to confirm it, but it looked very much like the shotgun found in the cornfield belonged to Ethan Doyle. But where was he now? And what happened to Becky Allen?
24
Present Day
Wylie kept a flashlight focused on the woman and did her best to assess the woman’s injuries as she dozed. One eye was swollen completely shut, her cheek bulged eggplant purple and her lip needed stitches. Her nose was off-center and blisters dotted the tips of her ears. Frostbite. The woman somehow managed to make it to the toolshed and then to the house—that was a good sign, but she needed medical help.
The dark and cold were all-encompassing but the boy wouldn’t leave his mother’s side. He curled up next to her, once in a while murmuring softly in her ear. So the child could talk, Wylie thought. She had done her best to get more information from the boy by peppering him with questions. What’s your mom’s name? What’s your name? Are you running from something?
Wylie aimed the flashlight at her own face. “Look at me,” she ordered. “I mean it, look at me.” The boy reluctantly lifted his eyes toward Wylie. “Have I hurt you?” He didn’t respond. “Even after you pointed a gun at me and hit me with a poker, have I done anything to make you think I was going to hurt you?”
After a moment the boy cautiously shook his head.
“Right,” Wylie said. “And I’m not going to hurt your mother either. I promise you.”
The boy remained tight-lipped and after a while, Wylie gave up and went to the kitchen. It was freezing. She taped over the broken window with cardboard, and gathered the wood that she had dropped outside. She added several pieces to the fireplace until the flames grew. It would take a while before the room grew warm again. Wylie sat down across from the boy.
Wylie tried to ignore the sharp whistle and pop of the old pipes freezing. The wind continued to scream, rattling the windows.
“I really need your help,” Wylie said softly. “You have to tell me who you are, where you’ve come from.”
They sat in silence for a moment, both listening to the woman’s ragged breathing and watching the weak puffs of white air appear then fade from her swollen lips.
“If you’re running from someone, I can help you—I can help protect you, but you have to talk to me,” Wylie begged.