The River's Secret

by Peggy Dulle

  I slid my arm out of his reach and brought my attention back to the job at hand. “My granddad and his lot full of broken down cars.”

  William cocked his brow at me, obviously finally realizing why I had pulled away, then refocused his eyes on John and continued, “And a great place to hide a kidnapped woman.”

  “I'll call Jack and send him and Ed over to Lou's. It's close to the hotel. We can take Clark's as soon as we're done with the press conference,” John said as he headed for the door. “I'll ask the local cops to split up and help in the searches, too.”

  William walked over to the board. “What's this about secrets, bullshit, and liars?”

  “I don't like them either,” I said over my shoulder, as I went through the door. “I'm going to freshen up for the press.”

  He glared at me. “I've got to make a few calls, anyway.”

  Chapter 22

  I lingered in the bathroom just long enough to avoid having another conversation with William. Was he in the conference room calling his beautiful fiancée? Did he use her as a sounding board the way he had done with me? When he was out of town and needed to talk out a case, he used to call me back in D.C. and we’d discuss it. It always helped him solidify his thinking.

  When I came out, John and William waited in the hallway for me. I smiled and walked toward the front of the station, where we were joined by Riverbend's police chief, Captain Roberts. He was a foreboding man, well over six feet tall and at least 250 pounds.

  Outside, a podium was set up, surrounded by reporters and cameramen. The red lights on the cameras flashed as soon as we came out and reporters started shouting questions.

  Captain Roberts walked up to the podium, held up his hands, and the crowd quieted. He told them about Jane and Sarah and sent condolences out to their families. He didn't introduce us but pointed to William, John and me and told the reporters the FBI had been called in after the second victim was found. Then he asked for questions.

  The first few were the usual questions about forensics at the crime scenes and possible suspects. The next reporter, a man wearing blue jeans, a white t-shirt, and a San Francisco Giants jacket held his hand up. Roberts called on him.

  “I've got a question for one of the Feds.”

  The chief glanced back at us. “Sure, which one?”

  “The woman, of course,” he grinned.

  “You're such a chauvinist, Ben.” The chief shook his head.

  “You wouldn't want me to change, would you, Chief?”

  The chief shook his head and stepped back, as I moved forward and said, “What do you want to know?”

  The reporter turned to a man next to him, also dressed in baseball attire, including a baseball cap that obscured his face. It must be one of the chief's officers feeding the reporter the questions we wanted asked. Then Ben said, “How does it feel to have the Jackal pulling your strings?”

  The rest of the reporters began to shout all at once, “This is a Jackal case?”

  The chief stood next to me and said, “It has not been confirmed that these deaths are the work of the Jackal.”

  Ben laughed. “You want us to believe that it's just a coincidence that we have two dead women and Connie Davenport, the only Jackal victim that ever got away, in the same place? She doesn't even work for the FBI anymore.”

  This was definitely the man that I asked to have planted with the rest of the reporters. His remark spurred another barrage of questions from the crowd.

  Taking a cue from the chief, I put my hands up. The reporters stopped shouting. “Ben's right. My name is Connie Davenport. And I no longer work for the FBI. This is a Jackal case.”

  The man leaned over and whispered in Ben's ear. Ben smiled. “How does it feel to be responsible for two deaths?”

  “It feels pretty crappy, Ben.”

  “What do you mean you're responsible?” another reporter shouted.

  “The Jackal tried to get to me by using the women of your city as bait. But that's over. The Jackal is a sick perp and a complete liar. He brought me here to find some kidnapped women, but he'd already killed them. And there aren't two, there are four. I can't tell you their names because their next-of-kin haven't been notified yet.”

  William stepped to the mike, next to me. His tone was back to being angry and mean. “And his latest kidnap victim is Sheryl Reynolds. She is an FBI agent. And we will find her. That's if the Jackal knows how to play a game without cheating and lying. If not, I'll find him anyway.”

  I noticed the man who fed Ben the questions was gone. He had done a great job. I nodded to the chief who acknowledged it with a nod of his own. The four of us turned away from the mike. We could hear the reporters shout to us as we walked back toward the station.

  That was when we heard a helicopter. We stopped and watched as it landed in the parking lot. The side doors flew open, and a dozen men dressed in black piled out. Each carried an M-16 automatic machine gun.

  The chief turned to us. “What the hell?”

  William grinned. “I'm just making good on my promise.”

  John explained to the chief about William using all his money and resources to find Sheryl.

  The chief frowned. “Tell them not to get in my guys' way. I've sent all of my available officers into the two junkyards to search for your agent.”

  “Thanks,” John said. “I've got two agents at Lou's and we're headed over to Clark's.”

  “Let my people know when you get there.”

  “I will.” John shook the chief's hand and turned to William. “Are you with us or staying here?”

  “Lou's is the largest of the junkyards. It's over fifty acres. I think I'll join the men I paid for and start there.”

  He joined the group of men from the chopper. I stopped and watched him shake hands with one of them. Reporters had formed a gauntlet between the podium and the helicopter and they shouted questions at William but he ignored them as he climbed into the helicopter and flew away.

  John shook his head. “He had a big enough head before. There'll be no living with him now.”

  John and I got into his sedan and drove to Clark's Tow and Stow. At least ten cop cars were parked in front, along with an ambulance, EMT unit, and coroner's van. They were prepared for anything. The cops were already searching the junkyard.

  We joined the search. One cop gave John a walkie-talkie to use if we found anything. It felt strange to wander around the junked cars, just like I had done when I was a small girl on my granddad's property. You could hide in lots of places in a car. The trunk was an obvious choice, but the floor behind the front seat was the best. You could hide there for a long time before anyone would find you.

  John and I looked through a car and then crossed it off of the grid they had provided us. We worked in silence because it was important to hear the sounds someone trapped might make. If you talked, you might miss them altogether.

  We had checked half of our grid when John stopped. He held up his hand.

  “What's up?” I whispered.

  “I hear something.”

  I stopped and listened. I picked up a faint sound in the wind. “It sounds like the cops talking.”

  John frowned and whispered, “They should know better.”

  We took a few more steps toward the sound.

  John shrugged. “Maybe it's the wind whistling over the cars.”

  I shook my head. “It's definitely a voice. The wind makes a more metallic sound when it rustles over the cars.”

  John raised his eyebrows.

  “My granddad collects cars,” I explained. “He says he's going to fix them but he never does, they just pile up in his yard.”

  “It's the connection to you.”

  “Yes.”

  We walked toward the sound. It could be an animal. Occasionally cats, squirrels, or other small animals would get trapped in my granddad's cars and the sound was similar to that. If it was Sheryl, she would scream for help. She would have to be injured or drugged
to make such a low moaning sound.

  We kept walking, our weapons drawn, while the sounds got louder. We used the cars as covers. As we rounded a stack of cars we saw them: two officers lay on the ground. The sound came from a large and muscular officer who was tucked into a fetal position, arms wrapped around his chest. The other, a skinny short officer, lay face up. He wasn't moving or making any sounds.

  John ran to the moaning officer while I checked the other. His pulse was slow and steady but his breathing seemed shallow.

  “He's out but still alive,” I said to John.

  “So is this one. It looks like they were hit with a stun gun.” John used the walkie-talkie to call it in.

  Within seconds, two officers ran toward us with several more behind them. Two EMTs ran up to attend the injured officers. The moaning officer sat up and held his head. I remembered the excruciating headache that followed the disorientation and then unconsciousness I had experienced after I was hit with the Jackal's stun gun. The shorter officer was, probably due to his smaller stature, not coming around at all. John and I stepped aside and let the EMTs do their job.

  “If Sheryl was here, she's gone now,” I told John.

  “We haven't checked all the cars, yet,” John said. “Maybe this is a ploy to make us leave the yard.”

  “If this was still the Jackal that we first encountered years ago, I'd agree because back then it was about the kill. But now, it's about the game. In order to keep the game on, he has to move the prize.”

  John nodded. “Okay, let's get back to the station and see if we can figure out where he'd take her next.”

  As we walked out of the junkyard, my phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Connie,” the Jackal said. “Do all of those military looking men belong to William?”

  “Yes.”

  “The junkyards were a good choice. I barely got Sheryl out of there. That was quick work, Connie.”

  “Okay, so what's the next clue?”

  “I don't think you need one. You found the junkyard without any help.”

  “That's because we knew she'd be somewhere that was related to me. Now you could have moved her anywhere.”

  “That's true. It was more fun playing the game with you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Okay, here's the clue. Potato chips.”

  “What the hell kind of clue is that?”

  “The only kind you'll get. You have five hours to find her or she'll be dead.”

  “William will hunt you down and kill you if anything happens to Sheryl." I hoped the threat might shake him a little bit.

  It didn't. “Connie, if you're good enough, you'll find her. And if you're not, you'll never find me.”

  The call ended. I replayed the conversation for John as we walked toward the entry gate to the junk yard.

  As we came through the gate, I heard the blades of the helicopter. It landed in the parking lot and William and the man I had seen him shake hands with got out and walked over to us.

  William introduced his new friend. “This is Dick Samberg.”

  John and I shook his hand.

  “I'm sure he's already called,” William said to me.

  I nodded.

  “What's the new clue?”

  “Potato chips,” I told them.

  Dick's eyes widened with confusion. He wasn't the only one who thought it was a stupid clue. I agreed. Potato chips would be found in any store in the town, as well as all of the mini-marts and gas stations. If it was a specific kind of chip, that wouldn't help either. There had to be at least fifty different kinds.

  “It's not much of a clue,” John said as he motioned to a few of the Riverbend police officers. They came over.

  “He called and said he's already moved her. Is there any reason that potato chips would have anything to do with this town? Maybe a factory?”

  They both shook their heads. The older of the two men said, “I'll let the chief know that we should stop the search and pull back to the station.”

  John nodded. “Thanks.”

  I looked at William. “Why don't you have your soldiers do a quick sweep through the yard? They might as well earn their keep, just in case the Jackal is lying again.”

  William nodded at Dick, who went into the junkyard and talked on the walkie-talkie attached to the top of his shoulder. A few seconds later, the helicopter doors opened and the rest of the men filed out and into the junkyard.

  “Let's get back to the station to Sheryl's files on Riverbend and the computer. There's got to be something about potato chips in one of them. If the Jackal could find it, then we can too.” John checked his watch. “We've got four hours and forty-five minutes to find her.”

  I turned to William. “Are you with us or staying with your new friends?”

  “I'm with you. I'll call them when we need them to deploy to the next place.”

  “Oh.” I deliberately physically shuddered. “Deploy sounds so military.”

  John cleared his throat and I didn't need to look at him to know he had a frown on his face. Sheryl was missing and I was busy baiting William? The same man who once kept me focused, now was a distraction!

  The three of us got into John's sedan. John called Jake and told him what we found at the junkyard and the latest clue. The rest of the trip back to the station was quiet. I felt like a scolded school girl. Seeing William with his fiancée had brought out the worst in me, and I needed to concentrate on finding Sheryl.

  Jake and Ed were flipping through Sheryl's file when we came through the door.

  “Did you find anything?” John asked.

  “No, no mention of any potato chips in the file at all,” Ed said.

  “Great.” John shook his head.

  “I like your little soldiers,” Jake said to William. “They landed, jumped out of their helicopter, and started to search. They never even said hello.”

  “They're not being paid to say hello,” William said. “They're being paid to work.”

  “Who's paying for them?” Ed asked.

  “I am.” William went over to the computer where John typed on the keyboard.

  Ed raised his eyebrows at me and tilted his head toward William. Then he mouthed the words, “He is?”

  I mouthed back, “Trust fund.”

  “I can hear you,” William said.

  Jake and I took another computer and started our own search. Ed went to another office and did the same thing. Officers all over the station tried to find the connection between potato chips and Riverbend. We spent the next two hours reading everything we could find on the Internet. And still nothing.

  I got up and erased everything from the whiteboards.

  Jake joined me. “What are you doing?”

  “I've stared at the screen so long the words have all melted together. Besides, we haven't found anything.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Maybe it's not potato chips, maybe it's something about them or how they're made,” I suggested.

  “Okay, let's go with that.” He wrote the word potato chips on the whiteboard.

  I picked up a marker and drew a line from potato and wrote: plant, root, French fries, steak fries, and Tater Tots.

  Jake drew a line from chip and wrote: poker, greasy, flat, Ruffles, Doritos, Lays, Lowry, and dips.

  John and William joined us. I explained what we had done and they each picked up a marker and started to draw lines and write words.

  Another hour went by while we filled the whiteboard and pondered the words. There were so many lines and words on the board they started to melt together, too. A little less than two hours left.

  My phone rang.

  “Hello, Connie. Have you figured it out yet?”

  “We're close,” I lied.

  “Time is ticking away from you and her.”

  “I'll find her, damn it!” I slammed the phone shut. “He's such an ass. He says time is ticking away from her.”

  “B
astard!” Jake said.

  “Wait.” William held up his hand.

  “What?” John asked.

  “Ticking time, ticking time, ticking time…” William began to pace around the room, repeating the phrase over and over.

  “Is he going crazy?” Jake asked.

  I shook my head. “That's the way he works. I avoid looking at him. His pacing makes me nuts.”

  William walked over to the whiteboard where we had written all the words. He circled Lowry. It was the name of a company, but didn't mean anything to me. He went to the computer and started to type.

  Jake and I went back to the board and added more words. In any case, Lowry was only a potato chip company. John went to talk to Captain Roberts about having his men search for Sheryl as soon as we had a possible location.

  A few minutes later, Jake started toward William and I grabbed his arm. “He works better alone.”

  “No one is better alone, Connie.” Jake leaned toward me and whispered, “Not him, not you.”

  “He's not alone,” I whispered back.

  Jake raised his eyebrows. “He's not?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  Jake smiled. “Then you and he?”

  I shook my head again. Jake frowned and stared intently at me.

  William stood up. “I've got it.”

  I broke eye contact from Jake and we raced over. “What?”

  He held up his hand. “Wait,” then dialed his phone. “Dick. It's Lowric Locksmith on Main Street downtown. There's a huge clock in the window. Find her.”

  “I'll let John know.” Jake left the room.

  “Are you sure, William?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said with confidence. “The ticking clue did it for me.”

  “Do you think he'll honor the time frame this time?” I asked.

  “It's hard to say.” William shook his head. “He's never honored it in the past.”

  “I think he might this time.”

  “Why?”

  “On some level, he always expects me to play fair even if he doesn't. But he's not so sure about you, especially with all your mercenary friends.”

  “They're not mercenaries.”