by Mary Stone
“Thank you,” Noah replied with a pleasant smile.
Winter’s blue eyes shifted over to him, and he merely nodded at her unasked question. A less astute observer might have missed the tremor in her hand as she reached out to pick up the folder.
“What questions can I answer for you today? Bowling Green isn’t an awfully big town, so visits from any kind of law enforcement are rare, much less from FBI agents. Is Jaime all right?” A flicker of concern passed behind her dark eyes as she glanced from him to Winter and back.
“We aren’t sure.”
He broke his gaze away from the principal’s just long enough to catch a glimpse of what he assumed was Justin Black’s senior picture. He had stared at photos of the young man for long enough that he didn’t need to see a color picture to know the youth’s eyes were the same vivid shade of blue as his sister’s.
“Jaime was a great student,” Principal Williamson began and fiddled with one of the many ink pens on her desk.
“I saw that. Impressive grades. Did he talk about where he wanted to go to school? He could have gotten into some pretty good colleges.” Noah finally pried his eyes away from the black and white copies and back to the principal’s worried gaze.
“Not to me,” she answered. “I might have heard something about Notre Dame, but I can’t honestly remember if that was Jaime or one of his friends.”
“Are any of his friends still enrolled that we could talk to?” Noah asked.
Before he finished the question, Principal Williamson shook her head. “No, they’ve all graduated. We don’t have very big classes, usually only around fifteen to twenty kids. I included the names of the boys I saw him around the most often. His schedule is in there, too, so you’ll have the names of his teachers. Small school or not, I’ve got a lot of hormonal teenagers I’ve got to keep an eye on, so I don’t usually get to know the students as well as some of my faculty. But, well, you know how teenagers are, right? It’s not like they usually share a lot with their teachers, at least not in high school.”
“A fair point.” He flashed her another grin as he reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. The formal wear wasn’t ideal for a summer day in the state of Virginia, but it beat military dress blues.
“Could you tell us a little bit about what he was like?” Winter asked before he had unlocked the screen of his phone.
Some of the anxiety dissipated from Principal Williamson’s face, and she nodded. “Of course. Well, you already know he was a great student. He was a smart young man, and not just book smart, either. I’ve never been a big fan of the term, but a couple of the faculty here referred to him as an old soul. He was never much for social media, and I’m not even sure that he had a smartphone.”
“Is that unusual?” Noah asked.
The principal nodded. “Very. But he was outgoing, and I don’t know that there was anyone in his class who didn’t like him. He might not have been into all the same music and online stuff that his classmates were, but that didn’t keep him from making friends.”
Winter’s smile was wistful as she turned her attention to the transcripts in her lap.
“What about his parents?” Noah wanted to offer Winter words of reassurance, but he would have to wait until after they had returned to the parking lot.
“I can’t say I ever remember meeting them,” Principal Williamson replied. “And I can only really recall him mentioning them in passing. But that’s not all that unusual. Unless they’re complaining, I don’t think there are a lot of high school kids who talk to their classmates about their parents.”
“I know I never did.” Despite the pinpricks of adrenaline on the back of his neck, Noah kept his expression pleasant as he set his phone on the desk. Pushing it toward the principal with an index finger, he kept his attention on the woman and away from the DMV photo of Douglas Kilroy.
“How about this fellow? He familiar at all?” He had to make a concerted effort to refer to Kilroy as a “fellow” rather than a “sick sack of shit” or an “evil bastard.”
Lips pursed, Amanda tapped her chin as she considered the picture. “You know, yeah, he is familiar. I can’t remember his name, but he did some odd jobs around the building a couple summers ago. Southern accent, sort of soft-spoken, seemed nice enough.”
Noah fought against a reflexive recoil at the reference to Douglas Kilroy, the fucking Preacher, as “nice enough.”
If you only knew, lady. You’re lucky to be sitting here right now. Lucky he didn’t decide to paint the walls of your room with your blood after he raped you and carved your body up beyond recognition.
The flash of anger surprised him.
She didn’t know any better. It wasn’t Amanda Williamson’s fault that Douglas Kilroy had wreaked havoc on the American South for the better part of three decades.
He swallowed the rage before he dared to speak again. “Do you ever remember seeing him around Ju…” He cleared his throat. “Around Jaime?”
“No, I can’t say I do.” With a hapless shrug, she pushed the smartphone back to him.
Noah turned to Winter, and she nodded her agreement to the unspoken question.
“Okay, Mrs. Williamson,” Winter started, producing a card from the inside of her blazer. “That’s my card. If you remember anything else about Jaime or about that man, please let us know as soon as you get a chance. Otherwise, if we’ve got any other questions, we’ll be in touch.”
Pushing herself to stand, the woman nodded. “Of course, agents. I hope I was at least a little helpful.”
“Absolutely,” Noah replied.
“Yes, thank you for everything,” Winter put in. “And please, any little bit of information helps. Even if you think it’s something insignificant, just shoot me an email.”
“Of course.” A trace of the pleasant smile returned to Amanda’s face as she reached out for a parting handshake.
Noah didn’t need Winter’s sixth sense to know they had gotten all the information they could get from Amanda Williamson and Bowling Green High.
He could only hope some of the names she’d provided would have a better idea of Justin Black’s extracurricular activities.
10
So many thoughts and feelings had whipped through Winter’s head since she arrived at work that morning, she had almost forgotten about the odd phone call from Dr. Robert Ladwig. The conversation didn’t even cross her mind until Noah pulled the giant pickup into the parking garage. Winter didn’t believe in coincidences, and the man’s bizarre inquiry hung in the back of her head like a leftover Christmas decoration.
“Hey…” She worried her bottom lip, wanting to bring this up the right way.
“What’s up?” His green eyes flicked to her as he shifted the truck into park.
That’s how I wanted to sound earlier, she thought to herself. Brushing aside the awkward memory, she straightened and unfastened her seatbelt.
“I think I got a weird call from Dr. Ladwig earlier. And no, I’m not trying to dredge anything up. That’s all done and over with.” For emphasis, she waved a dismissive hand.
“Okay?” He turned to face her. “But what do you mean you think you got a call from him?”
“Is that what I said? That’s not how I meant it. I meant that I think it’s weird. The fact that he’d call me at all is pretty weird, but he was saying shit about my brother and trying to tell me he hoped I’d found peace or something now that Kilroy’s dead.”
“That’s a little weird, yeah. But I don’t know. He was your shrink for a few years, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, but it’s not like we were close.”
“Maybe not, but darlin’, you tend to leave an impression on people.”
Almost half a year had passed since she had seen the mischievous twinkle in this man’s eyes, and she’d forgotten how much she loved it. In the ensuing moment of quiet, she almost forgot what in the hell they were talking about. She tried to mask her low-key infatuation with feigned ire, but she could te
ll by the look on his face that she was unsuccessful.
As a last resort, she threw a playful jab at his upper arm.
“Damn it, Dalton,” she muttered. “I was starting to think there was this big conspiracy going on, but you had to go and ruin it all by making sense.”
“I’m sorry.” He laughed. “I’ll take your feedback into consideration and try to be more of a dumbass next time.”
“You’d better.” Despite the stressful events of the day so far, she snickered at the sarcastic comment.
Noah had a knack for lightening her darker moods, and she suddenly realized she had only ever given him grief for it. Before the wave of guilt could wash over her, she reminded herself that she didn’t have to succumb to the sensation.
She could do better. She would do better. She would be a better friend because, of all the people she’d crossed paths with throughout her life, Noah Dalton deserved a better friend.
“Thank you,” she finally said. “For being such an awesome friend, and for always being here to crack a joke and make me laugh when I’m about to cry or just lose my mind or something. I don’t think I tell you that enough, so thank you.”
The corners of his eyes creased as a warm smile overtook his handsome face. “Don’t say it too much, though. We don’t need it to go to my head.” For emphasis, he tapped his temple.
“Of course not.” She snickered as she reached for the door handle. “You coming in?” Brows raised, she glanced over to him.
“Nope. I’ve got an optometrist appointment in about a half-hour.”
“An eye doctor?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.
“Have you seriously not noticed that? After all the staredowns we’ve had, you haven’t noticed that I wear contacts?” By the time he finished the question, he had lapsed back into a fit of laughter. “My god, Winter. You might be the least observant FBI agent I’ve ever met.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Okay, now you’re just being mean. I don’t have to put up with this shit.” She raised her middle finger as she pushed open the passenger side door.
“Oh, now who’s being mean, huh?”
“Shut up and go get your eyes fixed, Dalton,” she shot back. Despite the hostile words, the tinge of amusement was unmistakable.
By the time four o’clock rolled around, Winter was tired of phone calls. On any given day, she was indifferent about outbound calls, but when she reached the end of Principal Williamson’s list of names, she wanted to throw her phone against a wall.
Since Noah was out for the day, Winter and Bree had divided up the names—Bree contacted the teachers while Winter contacted the friends. Winter had scribbled out notes during her discussion with each person, and even though she could now say who had taken math or history with Justin, or who sat at the table with him during lunch, or who had always been on his team during gym class, she was no closer to pinning down his location. Or his current state of mind.
With a groan, she squeezed her eyes closed as she massaged her temples. She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of a vision since Douglas Kilroy’s death.
Her senses had not dulled, though, and a few weeks ago, she’d seen a glimmer of red between the cushions of her grandparents’ couch after she misplaced her car keys.
Despite her frustration, she had almost laughed aloud at the unmistakable red glow. Maybe stress was the key, or if not stress, a sense of urgency. How else would her brain know which items to direct her toward?
Before she could nod off, she snapped open her eyes and stretched both arms above her head. Suppressing another groan, she glanced to the clock in the bottom corner of her computer monitor. Quarter after four.
She and Bree planned to meet up to compare notes at four-thirty, but Winter suspected that Bree’s search had been as unhelpful as hers. Chances were, if Bree had come across a piece of helpful information, she would have already come to Winter.
As she turned her focus to the list of crossed out names, she frowned.
Eleven kids, and not a single one had so much as an inkling of where Jaime Peterson had gone. According to each of them, they had simply lost contact with Jaime after he graduated. No one thought the loss of communication was abnormal, especially considering Jaime’s penchant for avoiding social media.
Pushing aside the piece of legal paper, a tinge of red caught her eye.
“Speak of the devil,” she muttered to herself, the words barely audible.
The only pen she’d used to keep track of her progress—or lack thereof—was black, and she knew she hadn’t outlined any of the text in red.
Peterson.
Why was “Peterson” important? They’d already looked through public records, criminal records, even financial records in an effort to find a hint of a nineteen-year-old named Jaime Peterson, but their search had turned up nothing.
So why was the surname so familiar? Had she merely stared at the name for so long that it now seemed familiar?
No, the nagging sensation in the back of her mind was more significant. Peterson was familiar for a reason, but the only case in which she had been involved over the last six months was Douglas Kilroy’s. Was Peterson associated with Kilroy?
Scooting her office chair forward, Winter brushed aside the documents and notes as she pulled up the FBI database of closed cases.
She gritted her teeth as Kilroy’s DMV photo appeared on the screen, but pushed past the knee-jerk anger as she scrolled down to view the details. Douglas Kilroy, born November twenty-second, 1949. His postal address had been listed in McCook, though the house to which it belonged had been condemned five years earlier. He had a P.O. box, but that too had been empty.
The man had as many aliases as Winter’s grandmother had shoes.
Douglas Kilroy, also known as Barney Fife in Harrisonburg, Jared Kingston in North Carolina, George Brooks in Lynchburg, Alan Jefferson in Lynchburg and Norfolk, Harold Lee in Richmond, Robert Young in Richmond, and…
Her breath caught in her throat as she reached the seventh in the list. Thomas Peterson, referred to by friends and neighbors as Tommy.
According to the case file, he had used the alias in and around Savannah, Georgia, back during the 1990s. Tommy had worked as a locksmith, and there were a handful of his personal details available from his year and a half of employment.
Winter scribbled down the name and the social security number, her heart pounding in her chest. She typed the information into a new search bar, and though she half-expected a blank page of results, the screen was soon populated by a list of addresses and phone numbers.
A Thomas Peterson now lived in the same house in Quinton, Virginia and had done so for the past decade. The man was ten years younger than Douglas Kilroy, and he had been married for thirty-five years.
With all the questions flashing through her mind, Winter was surprised she managed to coherently write down the man’s current address and phone number.
Was it possible?
Had Thomas Peterson, the real Thomas Peterson raised Justin? Did Thomas know Kilroy? Had Kilroy pawned Justin off on them after he murdered her parents, or had they come across Justin in another way?
The link was slim, but she needed answers, and the desperation to know Thomas Peterson’s involvement in her brother’s life was so strong that her breathing had become labored.
The township of Quinton wasn’t far outside Richmond, but before she went to get Bree to leave for a face-to-face meeting with Thomas Peterson, she needed to pull herself together. Right now, she would be surprised if she could form a sentence that didn’t make her sound like a caveman.
As she took a deep breath in through her nose, she counted to four, held still for a few seconds, and then slowly exhaled through her mouth.
What was important was that Justin was alive and healthy. All the people who had known him said he was personable, friendly, and kind. It was possible that the boy could have survived The Preacher’s machinations, growing into a reasonably stab
le adult. Right?
Had he gone to study at a college overseas? Or had he simply moved to a more rural area to avoid the everyday hassles of the cities?
Either was a viable scenario, and in either case, he would turn up.
Once she was satisfied that the moment of blind panic had abated, she folded up the slip of paper with Thomas’s address, pushed herself to stand, and started off toward Bree’s cubicle at the other end of the room.
And with each step she took, she knew she was kidding herself.
But she had to try.
11
By quarter ‘til four, Dr. Robert Ladwig had finally gotten a call back from a former patient, who also happened to work for the FBI. Though taken aback by his request for information on the Kilroy case, his informant had actually seemed touched that the good doctor wanted to help.
After the call with Sandra Evans, he had rescheduled all but one of his appointments for the day. Holed away in his office, Ladwig had been holding his breath until the phone rang. If this little former emotional cutter turned FBI secretary didn’t come through, he would be at a loss as to how he would ever fulfill Dr. Evan’s request.
He was sweating bullets.
Over the course of the afternoon, he’d been gathering his passport and important papers. He’d even been preparing to transfer money from his numerous accounts into multiple accounts overseas. He’d been ready to run when his phone rang, and his little secretary came through.
Two words were all that had been said. Two words had been all it took.
Jaime Peterson.
While he’d been waiting for that call, Ladwig had been sifting through all Douglas Kilroy’s known aliases, at least the ones the media had splashed over every headline the past few months. The name the secretary gave him sounded familiar. Flipping back through his notes, he found what he was looking for…Thomas Peterson.
He ran the surname through any medical database he could find. He filtered the searches by age, gender, ethnicity, and even eye color. Less than an hour later, he had stumbled across Jaime Peterson of Bowling Green, Virginia.
