by Alex Kava
For weeks they had been spending a lot of time together either in cramped offices back at Quantico or on the road. Somehow they managed to remain patient with each other’s habits and quirks. Maggie knew Tully was just as tired as she was of highway motels and rental cars, both of which smelled of someone else’s perfume or aftershave and fast food.
Their search had started about a month ago after discovering a woman’s body. She had been left in an alley next to a District warehouse that had been set on fire. But the victim, Gloria Dobson—a wife, a mother of three, a breast cancer survivor—had no connection to the warehouse fire. In fact, just days earlier, Dobson had traveled from Columbia, Missouri, to attend a sales conference in Baltimore. She never made it to the conference.
Virginia State Patrol recovered her vehicle at a rest area off the interstate. In the woods behind that rest area, Maggie and Tully found Dobson’s traveling companion, a young business colleague named Zach Lester. Maggie had seen her share of gruesome scenes in her ten years as a field agent, but the viciousness of this one surprised both her and Tully. Lester’s body had been left at the base of a tree. He had been decapitated, his body sliced open and his intestines strung up in the lower branches.
It wasn’t just the nature of the murders but also the fact that the killer had taken on both Dobson and Lester—two apparently strong, healthy, and intelligent business travelers—and succeeded. That’s what convinced Maggie and Tully that this killer had done this before. Their boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, agreed and assigned them to the FBI’s Highway Serial Killings Initiative.
The initiative had been started several years earlier, creating a national database that collected, assessed, and made available details of murder victims found along the United States’ highways and interstates. Not a small task. There were currently more than five hundred victims logged into the system. The database allowed local law enforcement officers a way to check to see if bodies discovered in their jurisdictions could possibly be related to other murders in different states.
Maggie had easily bought into the project’s core belief that many of these murders were the work of serial killers who used the interstate systems. Tully jokingly called it a serial killer’s paradise. The rest areas and truck stops that provided safe havens for exhausted travelers also provided perfect targets for experienced killers. Though most were well lit, they were surrounded by woods or other isolated areas, and they provided a quick, easy escape route. In a matter of hours the killer could cross over into another jurisdiction undetected.
Bolstering the initiative, one killer had already been captured in 2007. Bruce Mendenhall, a long-haul truck driver, had been convicted of murdering a woman he picked up at a truck stop. He was suspected of killing five others from as many as four states.
The brutal murders of Gloria Dobson and Zach Lester led them to believe that they had stumbled across another highway killer. But their murders were only part of the reason Maggie and Tully had ended up in the Midwest. The killer had actually left Maggie a map. Just when they had finished solving the warehouse arsons in the District, Maggie discovered the map on the burned remnants of her kitchen counter. Her beautiful Tudor house, her sanctuary, had been set on fire. Her brother, Patrick, and her dogs had almost died inside.
But this highway killer had nothing to do with the fires. He had only taken advantage of them. The warehouse fires had been an opportunity for him to dump Gloria Dobson’s body in the alley. And the blaze that almost destroyed Maggie’s home was another opportunity. This one allowed him to invade her privacy. He had walked right into the ashes after everyone was gone and set the map on the granite countertop, anchoring it down with a rock from the ravine behind her backyard. The map was his invitation to a scavenger hunt.
The crude, hand-drawn diagram included wavy lines labeled “MissRiver” running parallel to more lines that looked like an interstate highway, complete with exits. Nothing else was marked other than north and south, east and west.
A young agent at the FBI’s crime lab, a data genius named Antonio Alonzo, had discovered the “MissRiver” was the Missouri River after he discounted all possibilities of it being the Mississippi. Then he insisted that the stretch of highway had to be Interstate 29. That narrowed Maggie and Tully’s search to seven hundred miles and thirty-two rest areas. Still a daunting amount of miles to cover.
Also on the killer’s map was a rest area, drawn out in geometric shapes precisely penned to indicate the buildings, picnic shelters, and a parking lot with slots for cars and trucks. A kidney-shaped road swirled around it, connecting it to the interstate exits. Squiggle shapes—what Agent Alonzo determined were woods—separated the rest area from the river. More squiggles—supposedly more woods—stretched on the other side of the river, fading out to a series of X’s, one after another, perhaps shorthand for more terrain.
That was Agent Alonzo’s theory. Maggie suspected that the X’s marked the spaces where he had dumped dead bodies.
Using aerial photos from truckers’ websites and Google Earth, Agent Alonzo had narrowed down the rest areas to three in Iowa, one in Kansas, and two in South Dakota. Maggie and Tully had been on the road for only a couple of hours when Agent Alonzo called. Human bones had been discovered the day before on a farmstead. The property backed to an interstate rest area. One of the rest areas on their list.
Now Maggie was anxious to see just how close the rest area was to this farmstead. Maybe this was just another detour on their wild goose chase. The skull and femurs could be an odd and unfortunate coincidence, depending on how old they were. She knew this was Indian territory once upon a time. The farm’s buildings were almost a century old. It was possible they could have been built over an Indian burial ground.
Still, she wanted to see for herself. She excused herself from the sheriff and his deputies, gave a knowing look to Tully, and left them. The long driveway had been blocked off by a single black-and-white sheriff’s SUV. One deputy sat bored in the driver’s seat. Maggie could hear the talk radio station. She nodded at him and noticed he shifted expectantly but she didn’t stop. She continued walking past a hedge of lilac bushes. Their flowers were only starting to open, but Maggie could already smell them.
Geese honked overhead. A grove thick with river maples, elms, and cottonwoods surrounded the farm on three sides, cradling it from any view of the road as well as muffling all outside noises. In fact, if she and Tully hadn’t taken the interstate to get here, Maggie would never have guessed that an ongoing flow of traffic passed so close to the property.
She found an overgrown footpath behind the barn that took her into the woods. Buds had only started to appear, an eruption of bright green spots on otherwise bare and stark black branches. Last fall’s pine needles and old leaves, now soggy and clumped together, covered the ground. Maggie took careful steps to keep from slipping and sliding.
The path quickly narrowed and started a gradual incline. Twigs whipped into her face even as she grabbed at the branches in front of her. Thorny vines snagged her pant legs. Sunlight filtered down in streaks. Birds provided flashes of color and song—bright yellow finches, red-winged blackbirds, a cardinal. That they were singing—continuing their spring mating calls—calmed Maggie. The last time she and Tully made their way through a thick forest like this they had been following birds that had been circling, leading them to Zach Lester’s body.
Maggie climbed to a clearing at the top of the incline. Below her a shallow stream zigzagged through the brush. On the other side, the woods continued. But from above Maggie could see in the distance the ribbon of interstate traffic. And she could now hear its faint but steady hum. What attracted her attention was the rest area nestled down in the woods.
She reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out the folded map she had been carrying around with her. This was a copy. The original remained in a protective evidence bag back at Quantico’s crime lab.
She had memorized the geometric shapes, the parallel and
intersecting lines. She held up the eight-by-eleven sheet in front of her to one side. Then she glanced back and forth from the map to the scenery below, eyes darting, searching, and not quite believing. She felt a chill as the realization came over her. The roads around the rest area looked like the kidney-shaped sketch on the map. The inked geometric patterns matched those below: building, picnic shelters, even the parking slots had been precisely drawn.
This was it. The scavenger hunt was over. This was exactly where the killer had led them.
“Maggie.”
She startled despite R. J. Tully’s attempt to whisper. He was breathing hard and she knew it was from anxiety, not exertion. He was in good physical shape. She waited for him to climb the last steps and stand beside her.
She held up the map and pointed down below.
“This is it,” she told him.
Tully gave it only a glance. He wiped a hand over his face and Maggie could see his jaw clenched tight when he said, “The hunt might be over but the nightmare’s just beginning. We found a black garbage bag.”
He met her eyes and added, “I think there’s a body inside.”
CHAPTER 3
Maggie could see only a section of the garbage bag that bulged out from under the chunks of dirt. The black plastic still had a glossy newness despite the mud and the smell. On their hike back, Tully had explained how he had hunted down the foul smell, which convinced him the bulging plastic bag might contain a body, although most of the bag remained underneath the pile of dirt.
The first thing Maggie noticed was that this burial plot—if it was, indeed, that—wasn’t close to the crater that had produced the skull and femurs. The mound of earth was set at the edge of the woods, at least a hundred feet away from the farmhouse.
“We tore up this area yesterday morning,” the construction foreman said. “We thought it was just garbage. That’s what it smelled like. We didn’t think much about it. A lot of country folks bury their trash instead of burning it. They sort of make their own personal landfills. We just left it alone.”
“You didn’t think it was odd that there wasn’t any other garbage?” Tully asked.
The foreman, who had introduced himself only as Buzz, shrugged. He kept his hard hat low over his brow, and his mirrored sunglasses made it difficult to see whether he was concerned or simply impatient with the delays.
The sheriff and his deputies, along with the construction crew, now surrounded the pile of dirt that stood about seven feet tall and spread over about fifteen feet. The equipment had left tracks and gashes in the ground, including a three-foot-deep trench with claw marks. Yet, Tully seemed adamant that it was a crime scene and he even attempted to back off the men.
He asked them to stay at least ten feet away, which Maggie thought was senseless. Any evidence had already been run over, dug up, or washed away. At this point, a few more footprints wouldn’t make a difference. Besides, none of the men looked anxious to poke or prod at the garbage bag. They appeared more wary of it than curious.
Tully took a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, removed his sports jacket, and handed it to Maggie.
“What are you doing?” she asked him.
“I’m just going to check it out.”
“Shouldn’t we wait?” Sheriff Uniss wanted to know.
Tully glanced back at him. “Wait for who? The FBI?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie saw the sheriff’s face grow crimson.
“It might just be a bag of garbage,” Tully said, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “You want to call a mobile crime lab out here and have them open it only to find someone’s rotting leftovers?”
No one answered. The younger deputy shifted his weight and Maggie could see the discomfort on his face. She recognized that look. First murder case. First dead body. It was hard not to be excited while trying to hide the shock and a bit of nausea. He swiped at his chin and his eyes darted around.
Maggie was surprised at Tully. It wasn’t like him to jump in. Of the two of them, he was the cautious one. He waited for the appropriate authorities. He played by the rules. It was Maggie who often leaped headfirst.
But she shared his impatience. That a rest area backed up to this property could be a mere coincidence, except that it matched the hand-drawn map, almost line for squiggly line. Factor in that this farm had been vacant for almost ten years. They had been searching for this highway killer’s dumping grounds for more than three weeks now. Maggie could feel Tully’s restlessness. The land was technically federal property. They had jurisdiction.
She didn’t say a word when Tully glanced back at her. He was looking for her to stop him. But she wanted to see what was inside the plastic bag, too. She nodded her agreement.
Tully stepped carefully, gauging the best method of approach. The only two options were wading through the muddy trench and reaching up to the bag or going around the side and climbing the pile of dirt to get to the bag. Tully chose to climb.
The chunks of dirt held his weight but it looked like one wrong move and he’d start a mudslide. He’d made it within arm’s length of the garbage bag when he slipped, almost losing his balance. He replanted his feet and his right shoe sank down. Maggie heard him groan but he stayed put. He was close enough to bend down and touch the bulging plastic.
He pushed up his rolled shirtsleeves. Then he reached out with a gloved hand and gently swiped off a chunk of dirt. He waited as if he expected the plastic to burst open. Maggie glanced around at the men from the construction crew and the deputies. All of them appeared to be holding their breath. No one dared fidget or shift.
Tully took another swipe and then another. A large chunk of dirt came loose and skidded down the pile, revealing more of the black bag. That’s when a piece of the plastic flapped open. It had already been torn but the dirt had kept it sealed.
Tully carefully peeled it open. Suddenly he jerked away just as a foot slipped out from the plastic. An orange sock dangled from the toes.
Maggie heard several of the men gasp as they watched the pale skin change to dark red in a matter of seconds. She had seen it happen once before. A strange and eerie phenomenon that sometimes occurred when encased decaying flesh is first exposed to air and sun. It almost looked as if the body were coming back to life, trying to kick out of the sock and the bag.
“I think we can call the crime techs now,” Tully said.
Then Maggie heard someone start to gag. Without looking she knew it was the poor young deputy. He finally had his first dead body.
CHAPTER 4
OUTSIDE MANHATTAN, KANSAS
OFF INTERSTATE 70
Noah had no idea how long he had been lying under the pine tree. Nor had he noticed how close he was to the back of the small brick building. Somewhere he heard the buzz of electrical machines and the hum of traffic. It all came to him muffled, like he had cotton wadded up in his ears. His breathing came in rasps and hitches. His chest hurt, as if he hadn’t stopped running. His heartbeat continued to gallop and refused to slow back down to normal. Whatever normal was.
“Eleanor, there’s a young man here.”
Noah heard the voice, though he stayed in his fetal position, not even attempting to see if the person was close by or referring to him.
Please don’t see me. Please just walk on by.
“He looks like he’s bleeding.”
Busted.
But he didn’t have the strength to crawl out of sight. He couldn’t crawl. He couldn’t move. His muscles had given up. All he knew was that the last time he tried to sit up, it hurt too much. He’d curled up into a ball, trying to make himself small. Trying to make himself disappear. Dark had turned into day. Cold into warm. But his mind had shut off. He had to shut it off.
“No, stay back, Eleanor.”
The man was close but he was keeping a safe distance.
“He doesn’t have any clothes on.”
He took them. He took everything.
“Good God, there’s so much bl
ood. I think he’s hurt pretty bad.”
Noah didn’t have the energy to tell the man that it wasn’t his blood. It was Ethan’s. Or what was left of Ethan.
Don’t think about it. Can’t think about it. Stop thinking about it. Just breathe.
“Go call 911, Eleanor.”
No, just leave me here.
Noah tried to block out the man’s voice. Somewhere above, a hawk screeched. A breeze swished through the branches. Other birds chirped and tweeted. He couldn’t identify them. Leaves skittered. He wanted to fill his head with any sound as long as it might block out Ethan’s screams.
CHAPTER 5
“Where’s the closest FBI field office?” Tully asked Maggie.
She had joined him at the top of the dirt pile. Both of them were ankle-deep in mud. From this close, the smell was overpowering, even though they had shifted and climbed a bit higher so they could look down at the protruding garbage bag and be upwind. The sheriff, his deputies, and the construction crew kept their distance, staying on the other side of the trench. They had even backed away without being asked. It also put them out of earshot of Tully and Maggie’s conversation.
“I’m guessing Minneapolis is four or five hours away,” Maggie said after some thought. “I don’t think we have a field office in Iowa or South Dakota.”
“Omaha’s probably the closest. Do you know anyone there?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not in the FBI office. But they have a regional crime lab that’s first class.”
They stood side by side, so close Maggie’s shoulder brushed against Tully’s arm. They were perched five feet above with a perfect view of the grounds. Maggie took it all in, assessing how large the property was. It would be an overwhelming task to start digging it up. And that didn’t count the woods and riverbed behind the property. She knew Tully was thinking exactly what she was.
