Hide and Seek

by Burton, Mary

  The instant Turner had opened his front door, his expression had shifted from mild curiosity to pain. The man had understood immediately why Nevada was there.

  Tobi Turner hadn’t been Nevada’s first death notification, but as the old man had wept, he’d felt gutted and angry and prayed he could find the girl’s killer.

  “Sheriff, can you hold the plaque a little higher?” the student photographer asked.

  “Of course.” Nevada couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around kids who weren’t abused, beaten, or dead.

  As the kid took a dozen more pictures, Nevada kept smiling. He wanted this dog-and-pony show over.

  When the group finally broke up, he grabbed his gear, ready to change and get back to working the Turner case. The board of supervisor’s chairman, Sam Roche, cut off his exit. Sam was a retired university professor who’d settled in Deep Run and had been on the board five years.

  “Sheriff Nevada, how’s your investigation going?” Sam asked.

  “It’s progressing.”

  Sam frowned and dropped his voice a notch. “The board is concerned about this case. The optics aren’t good. Who’s going to send their son or daughter to the local university or relocate a business in Deep Run if we can’t promise law and order?”

  “Deputy Brooke Bennett and I have been in constant contact with the forensic lab in Roanoke, and I’ve also reached out to the FBI’s profiling team.”

  “FBI?” Sam asked.

  “If you want this case solved quickly, then we can’t ignore the truth. We had a serial offender who operated in this area in 2004.”

  “What’re the chances that this person is still here?” Sam asked.

  “I have no way of knowing,” Nevada replied. “I’m still trying to determine if we’ve identified all his victims.”

  Sam held up a hand. “There could be more?”

  The naive question would have been amusing if this weren’t so damn serious. “Not all women who are raped report the crime. Yes, there could be more.”

  Sam rubbed a hand over his thinning gray hair. “The media is calling me for a comment. I’m not sure what to say.”

  “I strongly advise you to not speak to them,” Nevada said. “The FBI agent will be here in a few hours, and she and I will coordinate communications to the public.”

  “What about Greene?”

  “What about him?” Nevada was still pissed about Greene’s inaction on the DNA kits. If the lazy, dumb son of a bitch had made an attempt to solve the rapes in the summer of ’04, he might have saved Tobi Turner’s life.

  “I don’t want the FBI taking over the case,” Sam said. “I don’t need the world thinking we can’t manage our own problems.”

  “The bureau doesn’t take over.” He’d never taken credit for the cases he’d solved. Instead, he’d always stood off to the side when local law enforcement had made an announcement to the media. Now Nevada was the local guy and was on the receiving end of the FBI’s help.

  “Just stay on top of this.”

  He would swallow every last bit of his pride and accept whatever help was offered to catch this killer. He owed that much to Tobi Turner and the rape victims. “I will.”

  “You’ve chased killers like this before?” Sam asked.

  “Too many.”

  “I never thought we’d see something like that here.”

  “No one does.”

  Men like Sam ran for the board because they cared about economic development, ribbon cuttings, and policy meetings. They never bargained for high-profile rape and murder cases. “Keep me updated, Sheriff Nevada.”

  “Will do, Supervisor Roche.” He strode out of the office and to his car. He checked his watch. A couple of hours left before Macy would arrive.

  Back at the station, he entered through the side door and headed straight to his office. He closed the door and swapped the uniform for jeans, a light-blue collared shirt, and work boots he’d had for over a decade.

  With the uniform back on its hanger behind the door, he scooped up the pile of pink message slips on his desk and made his way to Bennett’s office.

  Brooke Bennett was tall and lean, with an athletic build. Black hair coiled into a bun at the base of her neck highlighted high cheekbones and bright brown eyes. He had heard she had been a track phenom in high school, but all that had gone by the wayside when she had become pregnant with her son. The event could have derailed her life, but she went on to earn her college degree and then had joined the sheriff’s department after graduation. She was a dedicated single mom. Her son, Matt, was by all accounts a good kid.

  “How is the press release coming?” he asked.

  “It’s ready.” Bennett’s gaze lingered on the screen another moment before she hit “Send” and looked up. “It’s printing now for you to review.”

  The printer by her desk hummed and spat out the paper. The headline read GIRL MISSING FOR FIFTEEN YEARS FOUND. He wanted to keep a lid on this case for a couple more days, but the chances of a leak were too great. Dozens of cops had now put their hands on the case, and Turner wouldn’t, nor should he, be silent about the discovery of his daughter’s remains.

  “When will the agent be here?” Bennett asked.

  “Couple of hours.”

  Bennett shifted in her seat. “You reached out to them quickly. And yet we’ve barely had a crack at the case ourselves.”

  “You’re a solid investigator and a quick learner, but you’ve never worked a case like this before.”

  “But you’ve worked dozens.”

  “I have. And one of the reasons I asked for Agent Crow is because she’s very good with victims of sex crimes.”

  Her mouth tightened in annoyance. “When the media finds out about the untested kits and links it to Tobi Turner, it’s going to be a shit storm.”

  “Yes, it will.” He had never asked who in this department had tipped him and the media off about the kits, but he suspected it had been Bennett. Though he understood the reasoning behind the leak, future disclosures would not be forgiven. “Eventually I’ll confirm the connection but not yet.”

  “They’re already saying we blew it.”

  “Because we did. The heat is only going to get worse. Accept it.” He read the release. “Looks good. Issue the press release. Post it on social media. The world needs to know Tobi was found, but not the connection between the rapes and murder. Assume the killer is paying attention to us. He doesn’t need to see all our cards.”

  Her brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Understood.”

  He checked his watch. “I’m returning to the barn. I want to have a look at the place now that it’s quiet.”

  When Sherman had opened that hay chute, Tobi Turner’s bones had scattered in a dozen directions. Every crack and crevice had been scoured by the state forensic team, who had been determined to find every fragment of bone and evidence. It had taken the better part of several hours for the team, working on hands and knees, to sift through the dirt and dust.

  “Do you want me to come along?” Bennett asked.

  “Not this time.”

  “I want to learn from her.”

  “And you will.”

  Frustration flashed and vanished in the blink of an eye. “Before you go, I received a call about an hour ago from Martha Roberson. She believes her daughter, Debbie, is missing.”

  He remembered Martha Roberson. She had campaigned against him and had gone so far as to suggest his bid for sheriff was a vendetta against Greene, who had arrested Nevada for trespassing as a teenager. “How old is Debbie Roberson?” he asked.

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Are there any risk factors?”

  “No. She broke up with her boyfriend last year, but he is now married and living in Roanoke.”

  “Is Martha worried about him?”

  “No. But Martha insists Debbie is not the type to take off.” Bennett tapped a few keys on her keyboard, pulled up Debbie Roberson’s DMV picture, and turned the sc
reen toward Nevada. Debbie was pretty with dark hair.

  “Drive by Debbie’s house and have a look around. Let me know if you see a problem.”

  “I’ll also speak to Debbie’s neighbors and see what they know.”

  “Good.”

  Nevada left during the lunch hour rush. When he had lived in Northern Virginia, this kind of traffic would have been considered laughable. But five months in Deep Run had lowered his tolerance. He caught himself cursing the four-car backup at the stop sign. “You’re losing your edge, Nevada.”

  He worked his way free of the historic downtown area and drove west. After turning off the main road, he followed smaller country roads until he reached the washed-out gravel driveway to the barn.

  He parked and, climbing out of his vehicle, stared up at the barn and a stunning backdrop of endless blue sky, white clouds, and orange leaves.

  Places like this were perfect spots for teenagers to party. Greene had arrested Nevada in a setting very similar to this one. He had been fifteen and jacked by a football victory. With liquor stolen from his grandfather’s cabinet, he and his football buddies had sat under the full moon by his family’s barn and gotten plowed. Greene had come out of nowhere, arrested them, and tossed the lot in jail. His grandfather had waited until morning to bail him out.

  When Nevada had become sheriff, he had pulled his case file and for the first time had learned Pop had filed the trespassing complaint with Greene. His grandfather could be a hard-ass, but when Nevada had needed a home, the old man had stepped up.

  Nevada clicked on his flashlight and strode into the barn. The crime scene tape strung six days ago had drooped, and gusts of wind had tipped over several evidence tents marking the locations of the bones.

  He cast his light toward the centuries-old hand-hewed ladder and the hayloft. A year ago, he might have theorized Tobi’s death had been an accident. Kids explored a barn and one fell. No one spoke up because they were afraid.

  But DNA linked three rapes to Tobi’s death. He needed the medical examiner’s confirmation, but he would bet a year’s salary she was murdered.

  How did the killer get Tobi up a wooden ladder? Though it was in good shape, carrying an unconscious or unwilling girl would have been damn near impossible.

  Had Tobi’s killer forced her at gun- or knifepoint? Or had she gone willingly, never realizing what awaited her? A young, naive girl was ripe for the picking.

  Nevada climbed the ladder Dave Sherman had left behind. Sherman was anxious to dismantle the barn, but Nevada refused to release the scene until Macy saw it.

  Nevada couldn’t straighten to his full height of six foot three inches in the loft and was forced to duck slightly as he moved toward the chute.

  The forensic team had swept the loft, searching for any evidence that explained Tobi’s death. They had found a knotted strand of red rope among the scattered bones on the first floor but nothing in the loft. Not surprising. Fifteen years erased a lot of evidence.

  He stared down the now-three-sided shaft. He theorized the girl had been murdered up here. Best guess, this killing hadn’t been planned, had maybe been his first. After the adrenaline had eased, the killer had panicked. He had needed to dispose of Tobi, so he had tossed her pack and small body down the chute to avoid the ladder. Maybe the plan had been to take her somewhere else and bury her.

  But the pack had wedged between the wooden walls, and the body hadn’t jostled it free. They had both gotten stuck.

  Nevada walked toward the small window overlooking the valley behind the barn. This structure was off the beaten path, and he recalled the winter of 2004 had been bitterly cold. Her body wouldn’t have decomposed immediately, and anyone searching the barn wouldn’t have smelled death. No one had thought to look in the chute.

  Had the killer panicked when Tobi’s body had jammed up? Had he worried when the volunteers combed the countryside? Had he been grateful for the cold? Had he returned to the barn?

  Killing altered a person’s behavior. And Nevada hoped someone had noticed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Monday, November 18, 1:00 p.m.

  Vivid blue sky, white clouds, and golden fall leaves blanketed the Blue Ridge and Allegheny mountains and created a picture-perfect day in the valley. In Macy’s book, the beauty was wasted. If she had God’s ear, today would have been cold, overcast, and damp. Save the pretty days until she caught this killer.

  As she drove south down I-81, Macy mentally replayed her ten minutes of regional research. In the last couple of decades, the Shenandoah Valley’s population had ballooned thanks to a growing university, its proximity to Washington, DC, and a thriving tourism trade peddling vineyards, Civil War battlefields, and railroad museums. Filling in the economic gaps were warehouse distribution centers, chain hotels, and strip malls.

  The voice of Macy’s GPS cut through AC/DC’s Back in Black blasting from her playlist and instructed her to take the upcoming exit toward Deep Run. As she rolled onto Route 250, a sign for her go-to fast-food eatery gave her an excuse to stretch her legs before driving the remaining ten miles to the crime scene.

  After parking, she gingerly rose up out of the car. Her leg bitched and moaned. Stretches weren’t optional any more. She grabbed her ankle and pulled until the bunched muscles in her thigh released. After a quick walk around the lot, she made a beeline for the restaurant bathroom.

  She glanced into the mirror as she washed her hands. Even after five months, she still didn’t recognize the woman with the short hair and thin face.

  Nevada was in for a rude awakening.

  She wiped her face with a paper towel. “Macy Crow, you’re aboveground and headed in the right direction. That’s what counts.”

  At the counter, she ordered a supersize bucket of fries and a large soda. It wasn’t that she loved the food—okay, maybe she did love the fries—but the chain restaurant’s predictability and sameness were comforting after so many life changes.

  A few fries later, she was in her car and backing out of her space when her phone rang. Nevada’s number appeared. She cleared her throat and sat a little taller.

  “Agent Macy Crow,” she said.

  “Ramsey tells me you’re on your way. Where are you?”

  He was direct and rarely charming, and she always knew where she stood with him. “Fifteen minutes from the barn.”

  “I’m here now.”

  “See you soon,” she said.

  Their transition back into a working relationship looked like it was going to be effortless. Whatever they’d had personally was over and done. No hard feelings.

  En route on the interstate, she ate her fries and drained her soda. There were no guarantees on when the next meal would be.

  The last few miles took her down smaller roads until she spotted the driveway marked by stacked stones. Gravel crunched under her tires as she passed a freshly cleared field. Over the rise of a hill, she saw the old barn, encircled by yellow crime scene tape.

  When she had been researching the area, slogans such as “Best Quality of Life” and “Raise Your Family in Deep Run” had popped up on her computer screen. As she had read about the area, she had kept glancing toward the open case file filled with images of Tobi Turner’s scattered bones. Recent pictures had captured the barn surrounded by dozens of state and local law enforcement vehicles crammed side by side in the grassy field.

  Now as Macy parked, she noted that all the vehicles were gone expect for a lone black SUV. She grabbed her Glock from the glove compartment, holstered it, and stepped out of her car. Her worn hiking boots sloshed in the damp, muddy soil. She tugged on an FBI windbreaker and draped her credentials around her neck. As a stiff breeze blew a lingering chill and autumn scents, she checked her pockets for latex gloves, sunglasses, a small pocketknife, and a pendant light.

  Edginess and excitement fused as she strode toward the stretch of yellow tape and searched for Nevada. She ducked under the tape and stepped inside the barn.

  Sunlight
leaked through the thick rafters, shining down onto the beams, haylofts, and wide-planked floors worn smooth from generations’ worth of wear.

  During her convalescence, renovation shows had filled so many lost hours. Now she didn’t feel they had been so wasted as she studied the barn. A couple of hundred years old, the structure had been constructed of hand-hewed logs and likely had been used for horses or mules. Mumbling to herself, she said, “Now if I could just use what I learned from watching endless 1980s rock band television documentaries, I’ll be all set.”

  A generator started up and spotlights clicked on inside the barn, illuminating the dark corners. Nevada was close.

  The light drew her attention to the right corner, which was roped off with red crime scene tape. The forensic tech had designated this area as very sensitive because most of the bones and the backpack had fallen here. Inside the tape, the techs had shifted the dirt as they had searched for the last bits of Tobi Turner.

  Macy elbowed aside anger and shifted her attention to the lost girl and her killer. Photos of Tobi’s backpack had shown that it had contained simple jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes, but the fabric remnants and glittering blue cowboy boots found with the body suggested she had changed after she had left her parents’ house. Macy suspected Tobi had lied about the study session and had diverted to a party. The killer could have recognized her desire for excitement and used it against her.

  A thousand miles away, three Texas graves marked by red rocks told a similar story. Young girls in search of something more had crossed paths with a pure evil who had held them captive and forced each to bear a child for him. Her birth mother had borne Macy and her identical twin sister, Faith. A second girl had borne another sister, and the third a brother. Those graves embodied endless misery and would devastate her if she allowed herself to dwell on them.

  “You made it.” Nevada’s deep voice snapped her back and conjured sweet memories that had no place here.

  Macy faced him and saw his shocked expression when he got his first good look at her. He quickly masked the reaction, and his expression became unreadable. Determined to prove the HNR didn’t matter, she extended her hand. “Good to see you, Nevada.”