by Ed Markham
David looked at his father, and saw that Martin was already flipping back through his notebook.
“Gloria Ganther told us she hadn’t heard from Ian in a couple weeks,” David said, “but that not hearing from him was nothing strange.”
Martin held up a finger. When he found the right page, he read, “G. Ganther says she’s not spoken to son in ‘a few weeks,’ and ‘he doesn’t call me as much as I’d like.’ Also says her son ‘has had troubles in his life.’ ”
“So Ian calls twice a week,” David said, “and Gloria doesn’t find it strange when a few weeks pass without word from him.” He shook his head and turned back to Omar.
“Before you ask,” Omar said, “I’ve already put in a warrant request for a search of Gloria Ganther’s property.”
“Good,” David said. “That’s our next stop. Any more on Ian Ganther?”
“A little. He wasn’t fired from his job at the plastics company. He quit. We spoke with a few of his old colleagues, and they all said they were surprised by his resignation, though they knew he’d been through a lot emotionally after his wife’s death and his son’s disappearance. To a person, they described him as ‘friendly’ and ‘likeable’ but also ‘a little peculiar.’ A recurring theme in their statements is that Ian’s personality and behavior was erratic. I have a few comments here similar to, ‘You could never get a bead on him,’ and, ‘He was hard to read.’ ”
“What reason did he give for quitting?” David asked.
“None, according to the company’s HR people. He left and started working in the sporting goods store part-time. He also worked as a referee for a kids’ indoor soccer league.”
Martin sat up in his chair. “He was a soccer ref?”
Omar nodded. “Only for one season. Last year.”
David looked at his father, and then at Omar. “We need a list of all the kids who played in that league while he was a ref.”
Omar nodded and made a note of this.
“Bank account records?” David asked.
“He stockpiled almost fifteen grand before withdrawing all of it in late August. Since then no activity. Also, we spoke to the New York Times subscription service office, and they said they cancelled Ian’s home delivery about a month before the murders started. At Ian’s request.”
David sat back in his chair. “Is that all?” he asked Omar.
“Almost. We had two men drop by Phil Ganther’s this morning as you requested. They said they didn’t notice anything suspicious. He was home, and spoke to them for several minutes. They said he acted normally, and told them he’d be available if we had more questions.”
David laced his fingers on top of his head. He started to speak, but as he did the door to the conference room burst open. He saw Serwer standing in the doorway, breathing heavily.
The big man ran a hand over his face and looked from David to his father.
“What is it?” Martin asked, standing up from the table.
Serwer started to answer but then shook his head. “You better come look.”
Chapter 56
WHEN CARSON HEARD Josh’s watch start to beep, it had been nearly two hours since the two boys had last spoken to each other.
Carson jumped a little when he heard the watch, and then exhaled audibly. Josh, who was sitting next to him on the green couch, pressed a button to stop the alarm.
After their morning argument, Carson had watched him play video games by himself for a while. Twice, the other boy had asked him if he wanted to play too. Both times, Carson had refused.
When he’d become bored of playing by himself, Josh had stood and put a DVD in the player—something Carson had never seen called The Goonies. The two had watched half the movie in silence before Josh turned to him and said, “Why aren’t you talking to me? What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing,” Carson had said. “I just feel like being alone.” He found that he didn’t even want to look at Josh. Every time he did he was reminded of the flash of anger that had twisted the older boy’s face—the wide eyes and bared teeth, the fist poised above his shoulder. It gave him the creeps.
“You called me a loser,” Josh reminded him.
“Sorry,” Carson said, not really feeling sorry about it.
He knew his apology didn’t sound convincing, but he didn’t care. He missed his family and his life, his friends and his cell phone. He just wanted to be out of the basement and away from this strange kid who acted like everything was cool and playing video games or watching movies would solve all of their problems. He also wanted Josh to leave so he could explore the loose wall panel in the bathroom.
After turning off his watch alarm, Josh stood and walked to the basement stairs. He stopped and said over his shoulder, “That was pretty mean, you know. To ignore me this whole time.” He turned slightly but didn’t look directly at Carson. “You’re going to miss me when I’m not here.”
He sniffled once and wiped at his nose with the cuff of his sweater, and then he walked up the stairs.
Carson heard him knock twice. A few seconds of silence passed, and then he heard the electronic locks slide in their tracks, and the basement door opened.
After he heard the basement door close, Carson waited for what seemed like a very long time, but was probably only ten minutes. He wanted to be sure the man upstairs wasn’t going to send Josh back down with more food.
When he was certain the other boy wasn’t coming back, he stood from the couch and withdrew the air hockey puck he’d kept tucked away in his pocket since the previous night. He walked to the bathroom and kneeled in front of the toilet, holding his hand up near the gap in the wall panels. He felt the draft, and he wedged the edge of the puck into the space. It fit.
Worried about making too much noise, Carson pulled gently at first, using the puck as a lever to yank on the sharp-edged panel. It creaked slightly but barely moved. He pulled harder, and the panel creaked more. Still, it wouldn’t come free.
After nearly five minutes of trying to work the puck up the length of the gap and doing everything he could think of to pry loose the board, Carson could feel wet tears streaking his cheeks, and his breathing was becoming choppy. He was able to work the panel a half an inch farther from the wall, but no more. He’d tried to peer in but could see nothing, although the draft blew coolly across his face.
“Please,” he whispered, wedging the puck into the panel a little desperately now. “Please, please work.” After another thirty seconds he slammed the puck down on the floor and left the bathroom, sobbing audibly. He fell on the couch and buried his face in his arms.
He cried for a long time.
Chapter 57
DAVID SWITCHED ON his turn signal as he approached the interstate exit leading to Cartwright, Pennsylvania. In his rearview mirror he could see the two vans that had tailed him from downtown Philadelphia. Both held members of the Bureau’s search unit.
After exiting the highway, the caravan he and Martin were leading passed the same small schoolyard and strip of bars and dime stores that they’d driven by the day before when they’d stopped in Cartwright to talk with Gloria Ganther.
David checked the clock in his car’s dashboard and saw it was after two o’clock. Ninety minutes earlier, he’d leaned out of a window to have a look at James Ganther’s lifeless body, which lay at the concrete base of a loading ramp four stories below.
“I don’t know how this happened,” the holding facility orderly, Serwer, had said, standing with his hands in the pockets of his gray trousers and his dark eyes on David’s. “We gave him a big enough dose of Versed to knock him out for at least an hour. I didn’t want to overdo it. I knew you needed to talk to him. But there’s no way he should have been able to do this.”
David had learned that the holding facility’s staff hadn’t handcuffed Ganther to the gurney they placed him on in order to transport him back to his room. They stopped with him outside of one of the employee break rooms, and slipped in to grab coffees. T
hey came out in time to see Ganther tumble headfirst through the corridor’s open window.
On their way to Cartwright, David had called Phil Ganther to let him know that his brother had died. There hadn’t been any answer, and he’d left a message and asked for a call back. He’d also received a call from Omar Ghafari, which he put on speaker so his father could listen in as they drove.
“Bad news on the rosters from Ganther’s soccer league,” Omar said.
“Go on,” David said.
“There aren’t any—at least not from that winter when he was a ref. The league trashes them as soon as a new season begins. But I spoke with one of the refs who worked with Ganther—a man named Jamie Whiting. He said Ian was quiet and kept to himself. Seemed really interested in the kids, but didn’t interact much with anyone else. Whiting knew Ian’s son had disappeared, and he figured Ian just liked being around boys who reminded him of Christopher. Said he thought it was a little masochistic, but he understood it.”
David slowed his vehicle as he approached Gloria Ganther’s house. He parked at the curb, and as he climbed out he saw the search unit’s transport vans stop down the block and out of sight of Ganther’s home, per his orders. He didn’t want her to see the search team until she’d opened her front door; he worried she might take the opportunity to hide something or try to contact her son.
Standing next to his father at the front door, David knocked and took a step back. After a few seconds, he heard the door creak in its casing, as it had before. He knew someone was leaning against it and looking at them through the peephole. He was prepared to kick down the door if the person didn’t answer immediately, but then he heard the locks twist and saw Gloria Ganther’s haggard features staring at him from the other side of the threshold.
She was dressed just as she had been the day before—in jeans and a cream colored sweatshirt. And again, David smelled the earth-and-cigarette stench of her moldy dwelling.
“What now?” she said, a look of weary annoyance yanking down her already sagging cheeks.
“Mrs. Ganther,” he said. “I have a warrant to search your home.”
As he spoke, Martin waved down the street to the search unit vehicles, which immediately began to pull forward.
Gloria looked in the direction Martin had waved. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” she said before abruptly turning her back to David. She waved her hand over her shoulder at him dismissively and walked quickly toward the back of her house.
“Gloria, STOP,” David said. He raised a hand to his hip and unlatched the case holding his Sig Sauer P226. He detected something almost frantic in her movements—something she was trying to disguise with annoyance.
She ignored the command. “Do what you’re gonna do,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m having a damn cigarette.”
In two steps, David was behind her and had a forearm wrapped over her front and around her shoulders, his sidearm out and pointed at the ground. She smelled of sweat and dead skin, and he had to fight the urge to let her go.
She screamed in shock, and then tried to push his arm away.
He held her fast, and looked from side to side to be sure she wasn’t going for a weapon. To his right he saw a carpeted staircase. To his left was a small room containing a few pieces of ragged furniture, an oxygen tank on wheels, and a TV playing an afternoon talk show. The room’s lone bookshelf was filled with figurines of small animals—bunnies and kittens, mostly. David also saw his father, standing to one side with his hand on his old Smith & Wesson.
“Let me loose!” Gloria shouted as she yanked feebly at David’s arm.
“I told you to stop,” he said, his voice calm. “Now hold still. I’ll let you go in a few seconds.”
She seemed to mellow at the sound of his voice, and David could feel her heart beating beneath his forearm. A moment later, the three of them were joined by several members of the Bureau’s search unit. One of the men stepped around David and completed a quick search of the hallway. He moved into the kitchen as several other men examined the TV room and staircase.
“I’m going to let go now,” David said into Gloria’s dandruff-salted hair. “Don’t move from this spot until I say it’s all right.”
He released her and she leaned against the wall of the hallway, her hands at her throat, breathing heavily.
“I need my oxygen,” she said.
David holstered his firearm. He didn’t answer her until he received a thumbs-up from the search agents in the TV room and kitchen.
“All right,” he said. “Go ahead and get your oxygen.”
He watched as she shuffled into the small TV room and pulled the rubber loop of her oxygen tube over her head. She twisted the knob at the top of the oxygen tank and stood taking deep breaths in through her nose.
“Why don’t you sit down here,” he said, indicating the room’s couch.
“I still want my cigarettes,” she said. “And I only smoke in the kitchen.”
He nodded to her and motioned for her to lead the way. He and Martin followed her down the short hallway to the kitchen, where she lowered herself into a chair at a small dining table and reached for a pack of Marlboro Lights. She muttered to herself as she lit the cigarette, her eyes darting from side to side.
The kitchen was filled with empty food containers and dirty dishes. The countertops and range were filthy, and the table where Gloria sat smoking was covered with newspapers, clipped coupons, and bills, along with a Minnie Mouse-shaped ashtray overflowing with smoked-to-the-filter butts. Below the table and chairs was a stain-marked circular rug.
David looked to one of the search unit members, and the man said, “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
Returning to the front of the house, he and his father joined the other agents as they completed their sweep. It didn’t take long. The place had no basement and only four rooms, not including the single bathroom upstairs, which contained a clinic’s worth of medical supplies.
In the room next to Gloria’s cluttered bedroom they found stacks of moth-eaten clothes and boxes, one of which was filled with books. Among the dime store mysteries and romances, David found six black-and-white journals. The name “Ian Ganther” was printed on the inside cover of two of them.
Carrying the journals, David and Martin returned to the kitchen, where they found Gloria still taking simultaneous drags from both her oxygen tank and a cigarette. She didn’t speak or look at either of them, but she shifted in her chair when she saw the journals in David’s hand.
He took the seat beside her at the table and looked at her for a few seconds, then he set the journals on top of her stack of newspapers.
“When was the last time you spoke with Ian,” he asked her.
She exhaled smoke and said, “Like I told you yesterday, it’s been a few weeks.”
Martin asked her, “Is it normal for you to go that long without talking to him?”
She shrugged. “He don’t call me much, so there ain’t nothing strange about it.”
David said, “We have call records from Ian’s cell phone that show he usually calls you at least twice a week. Those calls stopped a month ago. So I believe half of what you’re telling me.”
Gloria Ganther shrugged again. “Sometimes he calls me a lot, other times he hardly calls at all.” She stubbed out her cigarette and looked at David, and then her eyes fell to the journals. She shook her head and scowled. “You ought to leave my poor boy alone. He’s had hardships, you know.” She paused and reached for another cigarette. “He had to grow up without a daddy, and then his poor little wife got herself killed. Life hasn’t been very fair to him.”
“You forgot to mention that he lost his son,” Martin said.
Gloria looked at him but didn’t say anything. She just lit her cigarette and stared at the walls of the kitchen.
“What can you tell me about Chrissy’s disappearance,” David said, referring to Gloria’s grandson the same way she had the day before.
“Nothing to tell. Bo
y just disappeared.”
David leaned forward, forcing Ganther to look at him. “You’re not telling me everything, Gloria.”
She looked back at him, then shifted her eyes to Martin’s and winced before taking another drag from her cigarette. She said nothing.
“You know Ian is killing young boys?” Martin said to her. “Three so far, and we think he’s got a fourth now who he may kill today unless we stop him. All of them have been around your grandson’s age.” He paused, then added, “He shoots them in the heart, and then he covers their faces with white masks.”
As he spoke, Gloria Ganther’s shoulders sagged and the hand holding her cigarette fell onto the tabletop. Her eyes were lost on the far side of the room, and she hardly seemed to be breathing.
“Gloria—,” David started to say.
But she interrupted him. “I got nothing to say to you about my boy. And I want a lawyer.”
She looked from father to son, and then her eyes fell to the stain-covered rug at her feet, which she regarded briefly before shifting her eyes to the far side of the kitchen.
David sat back in his chair and watched Gloria wordlessly for a full minute. When the head of his search unit entered the kitchen, he held a hand up to silence him, his eyes never leaving Gloria’s. Something about the way her gaze had moved around the kitchen had grabbed his attention.
Then he understood.
He stood up from the table and looked at Gloria and at the rug beneath their chairs.
“Agent Hunt,” he said to the search unit leader. “Have your men escort Mrs. Ganther to the front of the house. I think there’s something under this kitchen floor—here, beneath this rug.”
As he said this, Gloria Ganther began to moan. She pitched her cigarette away onto the linoleum floor, and bent forward, her shoulders bobbing as she sucked in air.
“David?” Martin said as two of the agents took Ganther by the arms and led her down the hallway.
