by Lisa Gardner
I didn’t know what to say.
“Telly,” he explained patiently, “no one is ready to be all alone in the big world. And no one should have to be. Okay? So here we are. Twelve months to get to know you, twelve months for you to get to know us. Make some sense?”
I still didn’t know what to say.
He nodded, seeming to understand. “All right. How about shooting? Would you like to go shooting again?”
I nodded.
He rapped the tailgate of the truck, then headed for the driver’s door. “Sounds like a plan. Gotta say, nice work today. You’re a real natural, Telly. Calm and controlled. Keep this up, and next time, I’ll bring the rifles.”
Chapter 7
RAINIE KNEW IT WAS BAD the moment Quincy walked out of the house. It wasn’t so much the expression on his face—Quincy prided himself on his New England reserve—as the set of his jaw. Tight. Grim. A man working on the best way to say something he didn’t want to say.
She noticed dark splotches on his navy blue polo. Sweat stains from the unbearable heat. To spy such a human element on her notoriously composed husband unnerved her.
“Is the family dead?” she asked softly as he came to a stop before her.
“The foster parents, Frank and Sandra Duvall. Both shot in the bedroom.”
“Their son?”
“No. He’s in Beaverton, some kind of work-study program. Rainie, the Duvalls’ foster son, our suspected shooter, is Telly Ray Nash.”
It took her a moment to understand. She found herself thinking in confusion, But that’s Sharlah’s last name. Then the pieces of the puzzle fell into place and she felt a curious sinking sensation in her stomach.
“Sharlah’s older brother,” she stated.
“Has she had any contact with him? Mentioned him at all?” When troubled, Sharlah was more likely to confide in Rainie than Quincy, and they both knew it. Having said that, Sharlah wasn’t that likely to confide. We are a family of loners, Rainie thought, not for the first time.
“She’s never talked about him. Quincy, he killed their parents.”
“I know. Baseball bat, not a gun.”
“He broke Sharlah’s arm.”
“I know.”
“She’s not supposed to have any contact with him. Says so in her file. And severing family ties, that’s not something DHS does lightly.”
Quincy nodded.
“He killed the Duvalls first, didn’t he?” Rainie filled in.
“Yes.”
Rainie had been working with Quincy long enough to know the rest. “Telly Ray Nash is on a spree.”
“Did you know there’s a new term being suggested? Rampage killer.” Quincy tucked his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t looking at Rainie but staring off in the distance, at the grove of fir trees. Calming himself with logic, Rainie recognized. If he could define and analyze what was going on, then he could control it. And like any parent, Quincy didn’t want to feel out of control when it came to his daughter.
“Spree killers and mass murderers are driven by the same psychological need,” Quincy continued. “A feeling of isolation, a desire to get revenge on the society that rejected them. Mass murderers confine their violence to one location—a school, a cinema, their former employer. Whereas spree killers by definition kill at more than one location in a short period of time.”
“Mass murderers on the go.”
“Exactly. But there have been some cases with overlap. Kip Kinkel, who murdered his parents before proceeding on to his high school. Adam Lanza, who shot his mother before attacking Sandy Hook. Are they spree shooters, given that their crimes took place at more than one location? Or are they mass murderers, given that the bulk of their crimes occurred at a single target?”
Rainie waited for Quincy to answer his own question.
“Criminologists like to define,” he murmured. “If we can define, then we can understand. Hence the proposal of a third label—rampage killer—to cover both spree and mass murderers.”
“The gas station isn’t a school or former employer,” Rainie said. “As far as we know, it was a random target.”
“Spree,” Quincy said.
“He isn’t done.”
“Spree killings only end when the shooter himself is killed.”
“I need to pick up Sharlah.” Rainie’s voice was tight, not quite herself. “What do we tell her?”
“This will be on the news. Such a high-profile manhunt? It will be the talk of the town.”
“In other words, we need to be the ones to break it to her first.”
“She should stay inside for a bit,” Quincy said. “Keep Luka close.”
Rainie nodded. He wasn’t saying anything she didn’t know. And yet she still felt curiously unanchored. Hours ago, she’d been taking her daughter to swim camp, then joining her husband for a local police consult, and now . . .
Her daughter’s estranged brother was a suspected spree/rampage killer. Where in the foster training was that class? How exactly did she look into her daughter’s eyes and shatter her world yet again?
The antidote to fear and anxiety was strength and self-reliance. Rainie knew that much about basic psychology, and that was before all the parenting classes. A child with Sharlah’s history did not want coddling or platitudes. She already knew the worst could happen. What she needed was information, guidance, and reassurance of her own fortitude. Sharlah was strong and Rainie’s job was to remind her of her strength.
Which meant, of course, Rainie needed to muster her own. Quickly. “And you?” she asked her husband now.
“I told Sheriff Atkins I’d assist with a profile. But also . . . I want to see if I can find more information on Sharlah’s parents’ deaths.”
“You think what Telly did eight years ago might be relevant to what’s happening now.” Quincy nodded. A criminal’s history always mattered. “But I thought no charges were filed. Given that, are there even records to unseal, check?” Rainie asked.
“Maybe not. But a case that sensational, someone—the DA, investigating detectives, DHS caseworker—is bound to remember something.”
“All right. You talk to the experts and I’ll talk to Sharlah. She doesn’t like to revisit the past, though. And given her age at the time, I don’t know how much she even remembers.”
“Good luck,” Quincy said.
“Where do you think he’ll go next?” Rainie asked abruptly, referring to Telly Ray Nash.
“I don’t know, but I imagine we’ll hear about it soon enough.”
—
RAINIE ARRIVED OUTSIDE THE Y five minutes before pickup. Sharlah was already standing outside, a tall, gangly girl with wet hair dripping down her back and a bright yellow swim bag slung over her shoulder.
Much to Rainie’s surprise, her daughter—soon-to-be, close enough, she always thought—was not alone. A little girl of maybe six or seven stood beside Sharlah, talking in an animated manner. In contrast, Sharlah’s face was guarded, but she nodded at whatever the girl was saying.
Rainie pulled up, lowered the window.
“Is that your mom?” the little girl asked immediately. “She’s very pretty. Are you coming back tomorrow? I think you should come back tomorrow. You did very well today. We should have you swimming by the end of the week!”
“Good-bye,” Sharlah said. She opened the car door, slid inside, already leaning toward the blasting air-conditioning. Outside the girl waved madly.
“New swim coach?” Rainie asked, pulling away. She was tapping the steering wheel with her finger. She forced herself to stop, take a deep breath, be more focused.
“Something like that.”
“Was it as bad as you thought?”
“I can’t swim.”
“Sure you can. I’ve seen you in the ocean often enough.”
Sharlah
shook her head. “That’s not swimming. That’s floating. And . . . puttering. I can putter in water. But swim . . . Freestyle, breaststroke, backstroke. I don’t know any of that. Which means I was put in with the little kids. And most of them still swim better than I do.”
Rainie didn’t know what to say. Sharlah was talking swim camp, but all Rainie could picture was crime scenes. Her socially awkward child had had a rough morning. She was about to have an even worse afternoon.
Rainie found herself tapping the steering wheel again. Then noticed Sharlah noticing. Sharlah’s face smoothed out. She didn’t ask what was wrong, because that wasn’t her way. Instead, in a manner Rainie found much more heartbreaking, Sharlah tuned in to the fact that something was awry, then automatically steeled herself for the blow.
The process to become a foster-to-adopt family was as rigorous as most people suspected. The Oregon Department of Human Services, DHS, had subjected Rainie and Quincy to piles of paperwork. There had been home visits, reference checks, security clearance checks. And checklists. The adoption worker seemed to have an endless supply of department-issued checklists.
To receive their certificate of approval as foster parents, Rainie and Quincy also had to complete thirty hours of foundation training, covering everything from the foster child’s rights to the biological family’s rights to siblings’ rights. During this time, they’d learned Sharlah had an older brother, but he was out of the picture. There had been an incident. The kids’ father had gone on a drug-fueled rampage and attacked the family. Telly, the oldest sibling, had fought back with a baseball bat. At the end, both parents were dead and Sharlah had a shattered arm. The powers that be felt it would be best if Sharlah didn’t see her brother. For that matter, Telly had a note in his file saying he wasn’t to be placed in a household with younger children.
In the eight years since, Rainie supposed things could’ve changed. Counseling for Telly, therapy for Sharlah. The girl had spoken up in her brother’s defense, even with her broken arm, which seemed to imply she had some feelings for her older sibling.
But Rainie had never heard Sharlah say her brother’s name. And certainly, their phone had never rung with a repentant teenager on the other end.
For the first time, Rainie wished they’d pushed harder on the subject. As their foundation training instructor had lectured, sibling relationships were often the most important, if not only, stable relationships in many foster kids’ lives. She and Quincy should’ve asked more questions, of Sharlah, of DHS, even if both had elected to ignore them.
The truth was, Rainie and Quincy had liked having the brother out of the picture. They hadn’t wanted to deal with additional family members. Life had felt cleaner, simpler, with Sharlah all to themselves.
Now Rainie took a deep breath. Given that Sharlah was already on high alert, it was best to just dive in and keep things straightforward.
“There was an incident this morning,” Rainie said. “A double murder at a local gas station. Police have a video of the shooter. They tracked him to his foster family’s house, where, it turns out, he’d already shot and killed his foster parents.
“Sharlah, the shooter has been identified as Telly Ray Nash, your older brother.”
Sharlah turned. She sat back, stared out the windshield. “Okay,” she said.
Rainie waited. For the initial shock to pass, for Sharlah to ask questions. But the girl remained gazing ahead, face blank.
“Do you remember your brother?” Rainie asked.
“Yes.”
“Sharlah . . . do you remember your parents? What happened to them?”
“Yes.”
Sharlah moved finally; she started rubbing her left shoulder.
“Have you seen your brother since the incident? Spoken to him?”
“No.”
“Would you like to speak to him? Do you miss him?”
Sharlah rubbed her shoulder harder.
“Honey, it’s our understanding that you defended your brother’s actions that night. According to your statement, he saved both of you from your father.”
“He had a knife.”
“Your father?”
“He had a knife. And he ran straight at us.”
Rainie didn’t say anything.
Then, a moment later, so softly Rainie could barely hear the words: “I gave Telly the bat. They were both running down the hall. My father, so close behind. I thought he would catch Telly. I thought he would kill him. So I gave Telly the bat.”
“And Telly hit you with the bat?”
“He didn’t mean to.”
“It was an accident.”
“He didn’t see me.”
“You were hiding? Or somehow got too close? He caught you with the backswing?”
Sharlah shook her head, her face still expressionless, gaze remote. “He couldn’t see me. I was there. But he couldn’t see me. He looked just like him, you know. Swinging the bat. He looked just like our dad.”
Rainie got it then. Her turn to look away. Eight years ago, Telly Ray would’ve been a scrawny nine-year-old boy. Overpumped on adrenaline and fear, suffering his own sort of out-of-body experience as he beat their father to a pulp. Rainie could only imagine what he must’ve looked like to a five-year-old girl. Telly’s actions that night meant both of them had lived. And yet neither of them had ever been the same.
“Sharlah, do you know what happened to your brother after that night?”
“The police took him away.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask about him? Request to see him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The girl shrugged, rubbed the top of her arm. She had a scar there. An incision mark where the doctors had had to go in and pin her bone back together. For a five-year-old to have her last memory of her parents, her brother, be colored by such pain . . . It didn’t surprise Rainie at all that Sharlah didn’t want to revisit the past.
“What do you remember most about Telly?” Rainie asked now.
“What do you mean?” Sharlah finally glanced at her.
“One memory. When I say his name, what’s the first image that pops into your head?”
“Cheerios.”
“Why Cheerios?”
Sharlah’s brow furrowed, the girl thinking hard. “He would get them down for me. Feed me breakfast.”
“And your parents?”
“Dunno.”
“Were they home?”
“Asleep. Gotta be quiet. Do Not Disturb.”
“Did your parents hit you, Sharlah?”
The girl turned away, which Rainie thought was answer enough.
“Did your brother hit you?” Rainie pressed.
A faint no.
“And your mom?”
“No.”
“So your father hit—”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Whatever happened today. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you miss your brother?” Rainie asked.
But the girl didn’t answer.
“If he reaches out to you now,” Rainie said, “tries to contact you in any way—phone calls, e-mails, texts—you need to let us know. Immediately.”
Sharlah didn’t say anything.
“And for the next few days, at least until we know more, it would be best if you stayed inside.”
“He killed his new parents?” Sharlah asked.
“We think so.”
“Past parents, future parents,” Sharlah murmured. Then: “Any new siblings?”
“The Duvalls had an older son. We think he’s all right.”
“Then he’s not done.”
“Why do you say that?”
Sharlah shook her head. “He’s not done,” she said again.
“Sharlah—”
“You have to stop him. He can’t stop himself. Someone else has to stop him.” She rubbed her shoulder. “That’s how it works. Someone else, you have to stop him, for him.”
“The police will find Telly, Sharlah. The police will stop him. This isn’t your problem anymore.”
But Rainie could already tell the girl didn’t believe her.
Chapter 8
CAL NOONAN HAD BEEN A MEMBER of the county’s sixty-person volunteer search-and-rescue team, SAR, for a dozen years. Trained in search techniques, land navigation, man tracking, rescue and recovery, and first aid, he was as comfortable in the wilds of his childhood as he was in his family room. Maybe more comfortable. Cal was one of those guys who itched when he spent too much time inside. It had always been that way. His mom had spent most of his youth exclaiming in exasperation, “Cal Noonan, go outside and play before you drive me crazy!” His father had given him his first fishing rod at five, BB gun at six.
It was only in high school that Cal had discovered his love of chemistry, which had led him, much to his parents’ surprise, into cooking of sorts. Living in the land of dairy, Cal had become fascinated by the science behind cheese production, yogurt manufacturing, the works. At the ripe old age of forty-seven, he was now the head cheese maker at the factory, overseeing the manufacturing and aging of one of the best high-quality boutique cheeses in the world. It kept him traveling more than he’d like, but pride in the job offered some consolation.
As well as the ability to live in Bakersville, with its rocky beaches, vast green fields, and, of course, towering coastal range. Weekends and holidays still found Cal roaming the woods, fishing the streams, or even strolling on a beach.
And, sometimes, called out as an SAR volunteer.
The sheriff’s department was looking for an armed fugitive. What they’d found so far was the suspect’s vehicle, abandoned just south of his last known shooting. A suspect on foot meant a good old-fashioned manhunt ranging from the blacktop of the coastal highway to the foothills of the jagged mountains. Some law enforcement officers would be intimidated by such a vast search area. Cal and his team, however, loved this game.
