by Lisa Gardner
“Theft?” Shelly asked.
“Other than the kitchen, I can’t tell anything else in the house was disturbed. While we were told Aurora is out of town, Nash had no way of knowing that, so he probably kept himself on task. He grabbed some food, eating straight out of the containers, then was on his way again. It cost him some time, though—reconning the house to determine it was empty, finding the key, et cetera, et cetera. After eating, Nash exited Aurora’s house and headed across the street, no doubt attracted by the outbuilding, similar to George’s.
“Now, this is where things get interesting. The shed contains a four-wheeler, which we know Nash ended up stealing and using for his getaway. But he didn’t steal it straightaway. Instead, he reconned this house, too. Determined it was also empty. Then he broke in through an open window.
“The boy’s already eaten. He’s burned through some time. You’d think he’d want to be on his way. But no, for a seventeen-year-old supposedly acting on rage and impulse, this kid’s a thinker. House A provided sustenance. House B gave him supplies. This home belongs to a couple—”
“Joanne and Gabe Nelson,” Roy supplied. “Both at work today.”
“It appears Nash helped himself to some of Gabe’s clothing. Changed out his shirt, grabbed a baseball cap—there’s a box of hats pulled out of the closet, and a sweat-stained T-shirt left wadded on the floor. I also found open tins of black and brown shoe polish next to the bathroom sink. So either Gabe Nelson is in the habit of polishing his dress shoes in the bathroom, or, my personal guess, Nash painted his face. Either camouflage one-oh-one for the woods, or even random ‘dirt’ smears to make him less recognizable should he return to civilization.”
Shelly regarded the tracker and her sergeant. She didn’t like what she was hearing. “Meaning the boy is returning to town?”
“Meaning the boy’s a planner. I’m not the expert here, but when was the last time one of these spree shooters took time out to resupply and strategize? Aren’t these shootings supposed to be one long temper tantrum? ’Cause Nash is clearly up to something more, and he’s taking the steps to get it right.”
Shelly definitely didn’t like the sound of that.
“After eating and camouflaging, hell, maybe even catching a siesta given the amount of time that passed, Nash finally made his way to the Nelsons’ outbuilding. There, he found the four-wheeler. Unfortunately, he also became aware of our approach. The boy could’ve taken the ATV and fled. Instead, he reentered the house, took up a perch in a second-story window, and opened fire.”
Cal thinned his lips, stared at the ground hard. “You know what happened after that.”
Shelly nodded. They all knew what happened after that. She turned to Roy. “You said we had a witness? A neighbor who saw Telly crossing his yard?”
“Jack George. Also took some potshots at the search team. But now that he’s up to speed on what Telly did, Mr. George says he’s willing to help.”
“All right, let’s talk to him.”
She and Roy crossed the street. Cal fell in step behind them. Shelly didn’t wave the tracker off. Interviewing a witness wasn’t usually SAR’s domain, but she figured with everything that had happened, Cal now had a personal stake in the investigation. She didn’t blame him for wanting to know everything he could about their suspect.
The neighbor, Jack George, was standing outside, watching the show, as police combed the woods for signs of Telly Ray Nash’s activities. If Shelly had had support from other departments before, every investigator in the state was flooding her county now, given the shooting of a fellow officer and SAR volunteer. She definitely needed the manpower. On the other hand, the logistics of overseeing so many people, not to mention multiple crime scenes and multiple victims in such a short period of time, were rapidly approaching overwhelming. She was having to remind herself to breathe deeply and step methodically. This could all be done and would be done. She swore it.
George hooked his fingers through his red suspenders at their approach. He was an older gentleman, late sixties, early seventies would be her guess. But there was an alertness to his features Shelly appreciated in a witness. She got straight down to business.
She produced the image of Telly Ray Nash shooting out the EZ Gas security camera. “Jack George, Sheriff Shelly Atkins. Thank you for your cooperation. I understand you had a trespasser earlier this morning. Is this the boy?”
George eyed the photo. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What time again?”
“I’d say around eight thirty, nine A.M.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How would you describe him?”
“Well, I mean, he looked just like he does in that photo. Except he wasn’t wearing a black sweatshirt. He had on a short-sleeved shirt. I didn’t see the front. Maybe it was navy blue in color? But he was wearing a backpack. That’s mostly what I saw.”
“How big a pack?” Shelly asked.
George motioned with his head toward Cal. “Roughly the size of that guy’s pack.”
“Day pack,” Cal supplied for Shelly and Roy. “Would hold basic supplies and handguns. It’s not long enough for a rifle, though.”
Shelly returned her attention to the neighbor. “You happen to notice any firearms on the trespasser? Maybe he was carrying a rifle?”
“I didn’t see anything. But like I said, I mostly saw him from the back. If I’d known he was carrying a rifle, I might’ve thought twice about shooting at him.” The man paused. “Or taken better aim.”
Shelly truly wished he had. “You ever see him before around these parts?”
“Sure, at the EZ Gas. Is Erin really dead?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. She and another customer were shot, we believe by this suspect, early this morning. Now, you’re saying you’ve seen Telly Ray Nash at the EZ Gas?”
“Yes, ma’am. This time of year, with all the tourists, it’s too much work to drive into town. So mostly I head to the EZ Gas for my morning paper, milk, and bread, that sort of thing. I saw Erin just this morning.” The elderly man’s lips trembled. “I teased her about being too pretty to be holed up in such a dingy place. Told her she should run away with me instead. She laughed. She was that kind of girl. Nice to an old man. Is that what this is about? This kid, he like a jilted boyfriend or something?”
“We don’t know. How often did you see him at the EZ Gas?”
“Once or twice before.”
“Was he talking to Erin?”
“No, last time was in the afternoon. She wasn’t working.”
“And when was this?”
“I’m not sure.” George scratched his thinning gray hair. “Maybe two weeks ago?”
“Was he alone?” Roy spoke up.
“Nah, he had a friend with him. Another young man. Maybe early twenties. They walked in together. They were looking at sodas when I left.”
“Can you describe the other man?” Shelly asked, as this was the first time they’d heard of Telly’s having an associate.
“Um. White. Short dark hair. I don’t know. Just a kid. Dressed in T-shirt, shorts, hiking boots. I remember thinking his feet must be hot in boots like that. Maybe he had brown eyes? I didn’t really pay much attention.”
“Did they talk to each other?” Cal spoke up. “Maybe one of them called the other by name?”
“Uh . . .” George appeared to be thinking hard. “I can’t recall. I’m sorry. I just needed some milk. That’s all.”
Roy was jotting down notes.
Jack George turned his attention to Cal. “Your friends, are they gonna be all right?”
“Two were hit, one’s in critical condition,” Cal said shortly.
“I’m sorry. I know I took my own shots at you earlier, but I swear I was aiming over your head. You have my deepest apologies. If I had known .
. . I’m sorry, sir. I really truly am.”
“It’s okay,” Cal said. The tracker was staring at the ground. He was still upset. Shelly didn’t blame him. It had been that kind of day. But she appreciated his renewed effort. She could tell he was one of those guys for whom setbacks only made him work harder. For all of his “thinking” this afternoon, Telly Ray Nash had made a major mistake when he’d opened fire on a search team. No way any police officer in the state was going to let this go. Let alone a tracker like Cal, who was now doubly determined to get the job done.
She handed over her card to Jack George.
“You see or think of anything more, please give us a call. And should Telly Ray Nash return, please contact us immediately. I understand you have some skills with your own rifle,” she said, thinking it was best to acknowledge it, “but as you can tell, this fugitive is armed and dangerous. We want him. Let us do the hard part.”
“Yes, ma’am,” George said. He took her card, then shook her hand. His grip was firm. Again, no doddering old man here. She felt good having him on their side.
Roy took down the man’s contact information. Then they left his property, walking once more across the street to the Nelsons’ house, now cordoned off with crime scene tape.
“We need the name of the second male,” she muttered to no one in particular. “Whoever was with Telly in the EZ Gas.”
“A BOLO on a white male with dark hair, dark eyes would generate too many hits,” Roy said. “We could go back to the EZ Gas. See if there’s a security recording from two weeks back.”
“Assign an officer. Maybe Deputy Mitchell. He get any leads from Walmart?”
“He interviewed the morning cashiers,” Roy reported. “None of them remembered anyone matching Telly’s description in the store this morning. And between seven and eight A.M., store traffic was pretty slow. They felt confident one of them would know if he’d been there.”
“And the cameras from downtown? Any luck retracing Telly’s route first thing this morning?”
“A downtown ATM camera caught a photo of the Duvalls’ truck passing by around seven thirty. Image isn’t good enough to see the driver’s face or if there’s a passenger, but there appears to be something in the back of the truck. Maybe a black duffel bag.”
“The firearms?” Cal asked. He was still standing beside them. The tracker didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. With Telly now traveling on a four-wheeler, Cal’s job was essentially done. And yet clearly the tracker didn’t consider it finished.
“Could be,” Roy said now. “We still haven’t found any trace of the firearms, and if Telly is wearing only a day pack—”
“No way he has three long guns on him,” Cal finished for him. He looked at Shelly. “Maybe he has himself a hidey-hole. Given the kid’s actions, nothing about these shootings is as random as it first appears, especially if Jack George is correct and Telly has been at the EZ Gas before. Maybe his foster parents, the convenience store, these were all predetermined targets. In fact, the only thing unplanned about the day was his vehicle breaking down. That threw him for a loop, forced Nash to improvise. Now that he has a mode of transportation again, the four-wheeler, he’s back on track.”
Shelly nodded. “Could be. So what’s his plan? Who’s Telly’s friend from the EZ Gas and what’s Telly really up to?”
“Something involving his sister?” Roy guessed. “The photos we found on his phone have got to mean something.”
“Rainie and Quincy insist Sharlah’s had no contact with her brother and never even knew the photos were taken. So if she’s part of his to-do list, it’s coming from him, not her.”
“If I could suggest?” Cal said hesitantly.
“Sure.” Shelly spread her hands expansively. “Be my guest.”
“I’m no detective. But my job, it’s to think like a target, right? Normally, I do that by looking at signs, thinking of the logistics of life on the run, navigating a trail. In this case, however, maybe if I could visit the house, check out the boy’s room? I’m a good observer. I might see something, pick up on something. I don’t know.” The tracker sighed, shook his head. “I don’t mean to overstep; I know you guys are working hard. But that was my team. What happened . . . I can’t exactly go home, wait for the phone to ring. So if I could be of use, any use, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
Shelly studied the man. For an SAR volunteer to return to a suspect’s house was unusual. And yet, Cal was right. He was observant. And she did understand where he was coming from.
“We haven’t developed a full victim profile,” she said to Roy. “Nor have we had the time to thoroughly search Telly’s room. With all these shootings, he’s kept us in reactive mode. What Cal suggests, stepping back, trying to climb into the boy’s head . . .”
“I like it,” Roy assured her.
“And now that we know our loner has been spotted with at least one associate, we have something more specific to look for,” Shelly continued, thinking out loud. She turned to Cal. “Okay. I’m in. I’ll take you there. I wouldn’t mind a second look myself.”
“In the meantime?” Roy asked her.
“Update the BOLO with the four-wheeler information. See if we can get Mr. Nelson to identify which shirt, which hat of his might be missing. Then we’ll let the search choppers work their magic. Sooner or later, the aerial sweeps, ground patrol, a random civilian, someone’s going to see something. No one can hide forever. Not even Telly Ray Nash.”
Chapter 19
THE TRICK TO COOKING ANY MEAT is to sear it on the outside, locking in the juices, then bake it in the oven. For really cheap cuts, you can marinate the meat overnight in salad dressing to help tenderize it, or, of course, beat it with a rolling pin. For baking, three fifty is always a good temperature. You can’t mess up at three fifty.”
Sandra moved to the kitchen sink. I obediently followed her. Frank was away this weekend. Some kind of school commitment. He wasn’t the kind of husband who explained his actions and Sandra wasn’t the kind of wife who questioned him. He’d announced this morning he’d be gone till Sunday night, so Sandra had decided we should spend the day on cooking lessons. More life skills I would need for the future ahead.
I hardly spent any time with my foster mom. I still wasn’t sure what to make of her. She moved around the kitchen briskly enough. But she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Now, as she approached the wrapped chicken sitting next to the kitchen sink, I could see her hands were shaking.
She was nervous. Did I make her nervous? Was she thinking she was all alone with a kid who’d killed his own parents?
She was small. I’d never really noticed that before. But she was barely over five foot two. I practically towered over her. And my own hands, compared to hers, were massive. The kind of hands that could wield a baseball bat.
Sandra picked up a butcher knife.
“Couple of things you need to know about chicken,” she said, still not looking at me. “It’s cheaper to buy a whole roaster. Messier, as you have to deal with the innards. But cost matters. Frank and I lived on discounted chicken and nearly expired chuck roast for our entire first year of marriage. And rice, of course. I’ll show you how to make a side dish, rice and beans. It’s cheap, easy, and you can eat it as an entire meal in a pinch.”
I didn’t say anything. I watched as she took the knife, used it to tear into the chicken’s plastic shrink-wrap. Her hands were still shaking.
“You have to be careful when handling raw chicken. It can contain harmful bacteria, so you definitely want to cook it through. But also, you should never place raw chicken in your kitchen sink. Instead, put the chicken in a colander, place the colander in the sink, and then rinse. Afterward, you can wash the colander with bleach to sanitize it. Otherwise, you risk contaminating your sink; then, if you, say, set fruit in the same sink, now you have salmonella on your fruit.
“A
lso, never use a wooden cutting board with chicken. You want plastic, which you can bleach afterward. Or sanitize in the dishwasher, assuming you have a dishwasher. But you know, twenty-five years of marriage later, I don’t even have one of those.”
She smiled, apologetically, self-consciously. I couldn’t tell. But her nervousness was now making me nervous. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, where to look. I didn’t want to be in the kitchen anymore. Sandra was too small, too delicate. I wished I was out in the woods with Frank, shooting guns.
He’d taken me twice more. I was starting to like the rifle. It felt more and more natural in my hands.
“You should do this part,” Sandra said. She pointed the knife at me. I stared.
“What?”
“Prepare the chicken. You need to reach into the center cavity. All the innards are in a bag. Pull it right out. Then chicken goes into the colander, colander goes in the sink. Rinse, pat dry with a paper towel.”
She was still pointing the knife at me. Did she know she was doing it? I often wondered about her and Frank. Sandra seemed quiet compared to him. Submissive. Frank had ideas. Frank knew what we should have for dinner, what we should do for the weekend. Sandra seemed to go along for the ride. Cook her husband’s favorite meal, gaze proudly at the shooting target while Frank repeated the story of our day for the hundredth time.
I wondered if Sandra had even wanted a foster son. Maybe that was another one of Frank’s big ideas. And Sandra was once more along for the ride, sharing her home with a troubled seventeen-year-old boy known for his explosive temper.
Maybe she was right to be nervous. Considering all these months later I still didn’t know her at all, maybe I had a right to be nervous, too.
“Frank says you like libraries.”
I stared at her. The knife trembling in her hand. “What?”
