They filed their joint reports and spoke with prosecutors, who assured them that while Myron and his accomplice faced extradition hearings from South Carolina, that a full range of theft and fraud charges would be brought against each of them, as well as a charge for possession of a significant amount of marijuana, convictions for which guaranteed at least twenty years behind bars before there was any hope of parole.
The media frenzy increased throughout the week as the national news media picked up the story. Images of items being carted out of Rachel’s house were broadcast over and over again.
With all the media attention, Flynn didn’t want to go to her house and draw more. Nevertheless, he tried to ring Rachel, of course he tried, but she hung up—rather, slammed the phone down—refusing to talk to him. And then she had her phone disconnected altogether.
Flynn busied himself with the smaller but important case details that had to be attended, biding his time until he could find a way to reach her.
His superiors hoped he might track down the things Dagne Delaney had sold on eBay, which took a bit of time. And there was the thorough examination of the contents of Rachel’s house. While Flynn did not attend the gutting of her house, he did examine the items in an RIHPS warehouse. He believed, as he told his superiors in London, that they would be able to recover most, if not all of the items.
There was the media, too, which had yet to complete their feeding on this particular story. It wasn’t until the end of that extraordinary week that Flynn was certain no media was following him around and that things were secure enough to drive to Rachel’s house. He arrived on a gray Sunday afternoon, parked in the drive, just behind her car. He walked up the porch steps and knocked on her door.
Before she could possibly answer, her neighbor was instantly at the side of the yard. “Are you a policeman?” he called out to Flynn.
Flynn glanced impatiently at the man “Why do you ask?”
“Oh . . . you’re the Englishman!” he said, smiling now. “I hope a policeman comes, because I got more things to tell them.”
Now Flynn turned fully and looked at him with all the disgust he felt. “Do you, indeed? What sort of things?”
“Well, I am suing her because she won’t move the tree,” he said, gesturing wildly toward the back of her house. “And she has this friend, and they do some strange things at night. I’ve seen them.”
“Go on, Flynn said as he walked down the porch steps to where the man was standing.
“I saw her carry some things to the garage, too. I think it’s stolen property.”
Flynn stopped just inches from the worm. “What’s your name?”
“Tony Valicielo.”
“Tony Valicielo, let me offer you a bit of friendly advice, if I may,” he said pleasantly, then roughly grabbed him by the collar, hauled him up to his tiptoes.
“Hey!” Valicielo yelped.
“I am still quite involved in this case, and if I hear you or hear of you saying even the slightest thing against Miss Lear, I will personally come to your house and beat the living shit out of you.”
Tony Valicielo blinked.
“Just so that we are perfectly clear, I do mean the living shit out of you. And furthermore, if you do not cease and desist in your spying on Miss Lear, I shall personally have you arrested and thrown into a jail cell where you will promptly be forgotten for all eternity.”
Valicielo swallowed so hard that his Adam’s apple dipped almost to his waist.
“Now sod off you wretched little nancy boy. Go and tidy up your plastic zoo.”
Mr. Valicielo opened his mouth, but quickly shut it again and stomped back to his house.
“Ridiculous,” Flynn muttered, and turned around, and was startled by the sight of Rachel standing on the porch wrapped in her lavender shawl, her arms tightly around her, looking at him. Staring emptily, rather—he instantly noticed the spark in her eyes was gone. Her gorgeous eyes had been replaced by eyes that were lifeless and dull.
“Rachel,” he said, walking toward her. “I wasn’t certain you’d speak to me.”
She said nothing, just kept staring at him with those wretched eyes. She looked drawn; there were dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was wound in some sort of haphazard knot and secured with a pencil. She didn’t seem to be the same Rachel, and it pained him.
Flynn paused at the bottom step of the porch. “It’s ah . . . it’s rather hard to know where to begin.”
“Then don’t,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“I gathered as much,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “But I rather hoped you’d at least give me a chance to explain everything.”