by Alex Kava
“If you were able to ID him, his name is Tyler Gates.”
She heard a hiss of air. Jacks was clearly not happy.
“How the hell do you know this? We haven’t released anything about the second hit.”
“You already suspect the two are connected?”
“That neighborhood is not exactly known for random execution-style murders. But we haven’t been able to connect the dots yet. You care to fill me in?”
Execution-style.
Hannah had told Maggie that Frankie Russo was still hoping her friend and co-worker had been injured. That maybe he was unconscious and in an emergency room somewhere. Or in surgery.
“How did you ID Gates?”
“Wallet was still in his jacket pocket. Cell phone is missing. We’re still trying to see if any cameras in the area might have captured it or caught an image of the perpetrators.”
Maggie sat forward, elbows on her desk. Frankie Russo had told Hannah that she and Tyler were video-chatting when two men approached him. She got a look at one of them, but she feared that he also got a good look at her. Maggie now realized it didn’t matter whether or not the man saw her. He had something even better to identity her than a quick peek over the device’s small screen. As long as he had Gate’s phone, he had access to much more, including her home address and possibly her texts and emails.
“So what gives, O’Dell?”
She’d almost forgotten about Jacks.
“The two men were friends,” Maggie told her. “They might have hacked into a computer system and found something they weren’t supposed to find.”
There was a long pause.
“Okay,” the detective said. “I think you better start telling me everything you know before I share anything more.”
22
NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE
Frankie felt the adrenaline drain. Coffee no longer helped. It just made her have to pee, and she didn’t want to stop unless she needed to fill the tank. Which meant gas station toilets and gas station coffee.
Earlier, she’d called Hannah using one of the burner phones to tell her she was driving down instead. Frankie told her about the men at the airport, how recognized the one by the scar on his neck.
“Hannah, they knew exactly what gate. How is that possible?”
Hannah was one of the calmest, steadiest people Frankie knew, but she could hear the worry wrapped tight in Hannah’s words.
“Just come on home, girl,” she told Frankie. “Be careful. Be smart. We’ll figure this out. And please, just let me know where you are. Even if it’s a quick text.”
For the first four hours Frankie constantly checked her rearview mirrors. She took unnecessary exits only to loop back onto the interstate, the whole time watching to see if any vehicles stayed with her. She kept telling herself it was crazy to think they could have followed her from the airport. But then they had shown up inside the exact terminal at her flight’s gate. Was it possible they had access to her credit card information? That still didn’t explain how they knew what flight she’d booked. Who the hell were these guys?
She shook her head and as if he could still hear her, she said out loud, “Tyler, what the hell did you get yourself into?”
Maybe they’d laugh about it someday.
She met her eyes in the rearview mirror and shook her head, again.
You know he’s not okay. Why lie to yourself?
Maybe because she had too many hours alone on the road still to go. How did she not remember that it was a fourteen-hour drive from Chicago to the panhandle of Florida? In her defense, it had been over a decade since she’d driven the route. The rare times she went down to visit her father she had taken a flight that amounted to a couple of hours.
Her rental car didn’t have a GPS. Her mistake. In her hurry, she’d forgotten to ask. She was just grateful to have a black Ford Escape waiting for her, right in stall I-24 with the key FOB and papers on the driver’s seat. When she got to the exit booth and handed the printout along with her driver’s license, the attendant barely glanced at it.
For the first time since Tyler’s phone call she felt like she could breathe, again.
But it was short-lived. She had barely left the maze of rental car companies and felt like she was driving in circles, not sure what exit was needed to escape the swirl of interstate junctions to O’Hare. Quickly, she realized she needed directions. She had pulled off into a fast food parking lot and tucked her smaller vehicle between two large SUVs. She’d never used a burner phone before and panicked when she realized it didn’t have Internet access and couldn’t even connect to Wi-Fi. She caved in and turned on her cell phone after she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t. But she desperately needed GPS just to get out of Chicago.
At one of her first gas station stops she asked the clerk if they had any road maps. He stared at her as though she were a Martian. Finally he told her “no.” Then he added that the McDonalds up the road had free Wi-Fi access. She simply said, “thanks,” not wanting to see the look he’d give her if she told him she couldn’t use her cell phone. Despite her screw-ups, she knew the last thing she needed was to be memorable in case someone did come along behind her.
Now here Frankie was, seven hours outside of Chicago. She passed an exit for Nashville. Signs announced there would be more exits for the city in the next several miles. Ordinarily, there’d be a few more hours of sunlight, but dark clouds were rolling in from the west. Frankie had noticed the temperature and humidity raised a notch with each stop for gas, fogging up her sunglasses as soon as she got out of the car. Only halfway to her destination, and exhaustion had begun to seep into veins.
“Face it, Frankie,” she told herself in the rearview mirror. With the darkening sky, she’d removed the sunglasses and could see her puffy eyes. “You don’t have the energy to drive through thunderstorms.”
Back at the gas station where she’d asked about maps—just outside of Indianapolis—she’d taken the clerk’s advice and stopped at the McDonalds. She hadn’t eaten anything except a protein bar back at the airport. She had backed into spot under a tree where ate and watched every vehicle that came into the McDonald’s parking lot. Someone driving into the lot and not getting food would stand out. Or so she told herself.
The comfort food had not only settled the acid in her stomach from too much coffee, but it had also tamped down her anxiety. Enough so, that she had dug out her cell phone charger and plugged it in. She turned on the phone, again, no longer admonishing herself. But this time, she had looked up the rest of her route and jotted down notes including cities, exits and how many miles in between. It was a straight shot down I-65. That shouldn’t have been difficult to remember, and yet, she felt more vulnerable without the GPS to direct her. Before she left the parking lot, she had sent Hannah a quick text:
JUST OUTSIDE INDIANPOLIS. SO FAR, SO GOOD. XXOO
Now Frankie glanced at her watch, ignored that the stupid thing was telling her how many steps she was behind. Indianapolis was five hours ago. No wonder she was tired and hungry.
She started looking for exits with hotels. Not a motel, she decided. It had to be someplace with more than the one door that her vehicle was parked in front of, telegraphing exactly where she was. Perhaps off the interstate but with an easy escape route. And someplace with more security than a guy at a front desk. Room service would be nice. She didn’t want too much in and out for someone who might be watching to identify her. And just in case they were tracking her credit card, she still had Gordon’s.
“Be smart,” Hannah had told her.
Frankie followed the signs and took an exit. Slowed down and watched to see who exited with her. Only one white car and when Frankie turned left, it turned right. Still, she drove a short ways and got back on the Interstate. She took the next exit and relief washed over her when in the near distance she saw a sign for a luxury hotel brand she recognized. Six stories, a swanky lobby, room service, security cameras and keycard entrances.
Everything she wanted to feel comforted and yet, her eyes darted to the rearview and side mirrors.
“Are you back there and I just can’t see you?”
23
SOUTHERN ALABAMA
The first site the response team wanted Creed and Grace to search no longer looked like a vehicle. It had been thrown about 500 feet off the Interstate. A state trooper and Sheriff Norwich led the way. They could reach the wreckage only by foot. Much of the way was flooded by ankle-deep water, and Creed hiked Grace up under his arm. Debris floated along the oily surface that glistened with shattered glass. He took careful steps over splintered wood and shredded metal. The scent of diesel permeated the air even this far away from the ruptured fuel lines at the gas station.
As they got closer, Creed could see that all but one of the car’s tires had been sheared off. The hood and trunk were smashed in like a car crusher had prepared it for a garbage heap. The windows were gone and in places even the paint had been peeled away. As Creed stood over the wreck he could see the roof looked like a huge claw had dragged over the top, cutting into the metal.
Though they had walked through running water to get to the vehicle, this section was dry. The tall grass around the smashed heap looked undisturbed. Creed examined the ground before he put Grace down and was surprised to find no pink insulation or shredded steel—not even a single piece of broken glass—tangled or deposited in the grass. It was as though the storm had sucked up the vehicle, chewed and battered and swallowed the pieces then spit out the empty hull. Creed realized that probably included the car’s passengers.
“There’s a body inside,” the state trooper told Creed as if reading his mind.
The man had introduced himself as Jim Sykes. He was as tall as Creed with a sun-weathered face, unflinching eyes and a confident gait that gave Creed the impression he had seen things as gruesome as today’s findings.
“It’s still strapped in.”
Creed lowered Grace to the ground, holding tight to her leash. She had on her vest that signaled they’d be searching for people—no drugs, no bird flu, no C. diff. Although if Grace detected any of those, she would most likely still alert Creed. Multi-task dogs couldn’t help themselves. It wasn’t a credit to the trainer as much as the skill of the dog. In Grace’s case, Creed knew he was simply her anchor, protecting her and keeping her safe while she did her job. He’d never had a dog quite like Grace.
“What makes you think there was anyone else in the car?” Creed asked, keeping his eyes on Grace. Her nose was up, sniffing and twitching. She had been testing the air the whole time he carried her, but now she was already working a scent. It was probably the body inside. Even Creed could smell the ripe decomp already beginning in the sun-baked heat.
The trooper hadn’t answered yet, and Creed glanced up at him.
“The body’s strapped in on the passenger side.”
Norwich bent down to look inside the vehicle then jerked back and shook her head.
“I’ve seen plenty of car accidents in my day,” she said, “but I don’t think I’ll stop being horrified by what a tornado can do to a person.”
Creed looked inside and didn’t flinch. He expected the mangled corpse to resemble the victims he’d seen after IEDs. But this surprised him. The man’s seatbelt was still in place keeping him in place. The airbags hadn’t even had a chance to inflate. The man’s shirt had been sucked off. Only the band of fabric around his neck was left, identifying that he had been wearing a blue crewneck T-shirt. His chest and face had been pelted with debris. Leaves and pine needles stuck to his skin. Pieces of glass and gravel were embedded like shrapnel. Something white like cotton had tangled into his hair. Streams of blood, now dried, had run from his ears and his nose.
The eyes were always what haunted Creed. Wide open, they conveyed the shock and horror of those last seconds.
“His wallet was still in his pocket,” Trooper Sykes told them. “We usually take digital phones, just of the face to make it easier on the families. But it’s always easier if we have driver’s license.”
“Have you done that yet?”
“No, not until we’re finished. Or you tell us we’re finished.”
Creed glanced back into the vehicle. As if reading his mind, Trooper Sykes added, “Don’t worry. I’ll close his eyes.”
Grace tugged at the end of her leash. She was getting impatient at being ignored. Creed glanced down at her as he unzipped his daypack for her toy. He needed to praise his dog. If one of his dogs found any blood or decomp material, even it wasn’t exactly what they’d been looking for, he rewarded the dog. It reinforced her effort to continue searching. For the dog it was a game. If a handler wanted the dog to continue playing the game then it was important to not change the rules.
His fingers found Grace’s reward—her pink, squeaky elephant—inside the pack, but before he could pull it out he realized Grace wasn’t alerting to the remains in the vehicle. She didn’t have time for the easy gimme. Grace had already moved on to another scent, and she wanted to go follow it...now.
“We’ve walked this entire area,” the trooper told Creed when he noticed Grace with her nose poking up. “You think she already smells something?”
“In a situation like this there’s a lot of scatter.”
“Scatter?”
Creed focused on Grace. Her whiskers were twitching. Her head bobbed, sampling the air. The sun beat down, warming the air and making it rise but the humidity would make it heavy, trapping it.
He glanced at up to find both Trooper Sykes and Sheriff Norwich waiting for an explanation. Normally, he’d be more delicate in his response, but these two were seasoned law enforcement.
“Any time you have a case where a body is dragged, flung or possibly ripped apart, there’s what we call a scatter of scent. The dog’s smelling blood and decomposition but that doesn’t mean it’s a body.”
“Would it help if I pointed out what areas we’ve already walked?”
“Nope. Grace directs me,” Creed told him. “You’re both welcome to come with us, but I need you stay back ten to twenty feet.”
“Grace, find,” he said, though she didn’t need a search word. She was already keyed in on a scent.
She peddled hard, trying to pull Creed along. Out here, the trees were stripped of their leaves along with the kudzu, but at least, some of the trees were standing.
“Slow down, girl,” he told her.
There was hardly any shade, and the sun was relentless. Creed didn’t want Grace to get overheated. The temperature edged into the upper eighties and the humidity made it feel even warmer. Scenting dogs breathed in 140-200 times a minute compared to dog taking a walk and breathing in thirty times a minute. But it wasn’t just breathing. Grace was taking in air, sending it in different directions, separating and identifying the scents. She could get dehydrated quickly. She wouldn’t stop until she found her target. It was Creed’s number one job was to make sure his dog wouldn’t hurt herself.
He also needed to make sure the tall grass wasn’t hiding sharp objects. Grace had always fought him on wearing protective boots, but no footgear could prevent razor cuts from shards of glass or punctures from boards with nails. The storm had reduced everyday objects into a dangerous obstacle course. From what he could tell, most of the debris out in this field was contained to the solid heaps the storm had spit out.
Along the way, he saw dozens of soda cans, unopened but crushed. There were stray pieces of fabric and paper. Twice he bent to pick up a scattering of photographs. Smiling faces, family reunions, graduation, a wedding. He tucked them into his daypack.
At the far end of the field, a long line of pine trees had been laid on their sides, like dominos falling, one then another on top of each other. From what Creed could see they still had their pine needles. All the branches were intact. It looked like the wind had gently pushed them over. And that’s exactly where Grace was leading him.
He glanced back. Norwich and Sykes followed be
hind, keeping a good distance. What Creed wanted to see was how far back the vehicle with the missing driver was. It had to be 100 feet away.
Grace kept a steady pace, her breathing more rapid. She zig-zaggged and weaved, running perpendicular to line of downed pines. She had zeroed in on something, crossing in and out of the scent cone. Grace slowed to skim her nose over some scrubgrass and stopped to sniff a bush. Creed was about to offer her water, but then she started pulling him, again, angling toward the fallen pine trees.
He glanced back a second time. She was drawing him farther and farther away from the vehicle and any other debris. A breeze had picked up, and he realized they were downwind from the area Grace led him. That was a good thing and yet, Creed couldn’t see any signs of a target source. Was it possible she was smelling drugs or chemicals that were included in explosives? With all the stuff that had gotten ripped up and blown away, many of those toxic chemicals were undoubtedly in the air. He trusted Grace, but her ability to track multiple scents meant she could be leading him to a scent he hadn’t asked her to find.
Not finding the driver of the vehicle or even a piece of the person would nag at Creed. It was hard to explain, but finding a body—no matter how damaged—was actually easier than not finding the missing person. Coming up empty left questions. Did he miss something? Had Grace tried to tell him or lead him, and he hadn’t read his dog correctly.
Percentage-wise a good deal of searches ended with no victim. Sure, some finds were gruesome. Creed thought about the guy still strapped into the vehicle. The driver would most likely be in far worse condition. But no matter how gruesome, the find meant success and would bring an end to the search.
There was an old saying among K9 groups. Grief belongs to the families. Dread belongs to the handlers.
He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
Trust your dog, he reminded himself. Grace was rarely wrong.
