I Know Your Name: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 5)

by Dan Padavona

  “I’m personal friends with Sheriff Shepherd. He doesn’t trust the Wells Ferry PD, either.”

  Mack waved a hand in the air.

  “Not interested. Get the hell out of my apartment and take your thug friend with you.”

  “It’s a cop,” LeVar said, glaring at Mack. The man lowered his eyes to the table. “Who?”

  Nobody spoke. Outside, a car rumbled past, and Mack’s gaze darted to the window. When the motor faded away, the tension released from his neck. Chelsey reached out and set a hand on the man’s forearm.

  “This bastard killed your friend, broke into your home, and poisoned your dog. Give me his name. We’ll end this.”

  Mack settled back in his chair. He appeared drained, defeated, a man who’d given up believing in new beginnings.

  “I can’t tell you the guy’s name, but he’s a cop.” Mack settled his face into his hands. He breathed between his fingers and gathered his thoughts. “Three years ago, Stokes ran drugs on the east side of Wells Ferry. Mostly dope, no hard stuff, nothing that would hurt anyone. He’d lost his job and was struggling to make ends meet. We both were. So I helped him out, and he gave me a cut on each sale.”

  “What happened?”

  “A few weeks later, we were parked behind Tootie’s, a restaurant on the shore. This muscular guy walked up to the car, and Stokes figured the guy wanted to buy. Instead, the jerk leaned inside the window, real casual and cocky, and said he’d shut us down if we didn’t cooperate.”

  Chelsey’s belly shifted in worry.

  “What do you mean by cooperate?”

  “Said he wanted a piece of the action. A finder’s fee, he called it. As long as we paid, he’d allow us to stay in business.”

  “Are you’re certain he was a cop?”

  “He never flashed a badge or nothing. But we could tell. Guy smelled like a pig.”

  LeVar rubbed his chin and said, “So he made you pay to play.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But it was never enough.”

  “Every few weeks, he’d hit up Stokes for more cash. Got to where we were losing money on each sale. So Stokes quit selling and got himself a job over at that mechanic’s place on Route 13. But the guy kept coming back for his pay, even after Stokes told him he’d gone out of business. Stokes was giving the guy half his paycheck just to keep the heat off his back.”

  “That’s why he held up the liquor store.”

  Mack stared at the wall, remembering a different time and place.

  “Stokes wasn’t a gang banger, and he never hurt anyone pushing dope. But he was desperate. Poor guy couldn’t pay his mortgage.” Mack shook his head. “Why the hell did I let him get into that business?”

  Chelsey wrote a note on her pad.

  “Did either of you seek legal protection?”

  “Not me, but Stokes did. And look where it got him.” Mack flashed a rueful grin. “He took the last of his savings and hired a lawyer. Two days later, the police found drugs in his house.” Mack made air quotes around found. “He kept the same lawyer after his case went to trial. Still ended up in prison. You can’t fight a corrupt system.”

  “You’re aware someone murdered his attorney?”

  Mack didn’t answer, just chewed a thumbnail.

  “Mr. Mack, did Stokes’s attorney contact you after he got out of prison?”

  “She did.”

  “When?”

  “The day before Ripper died.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Sunday, 1:55 p.m.

  “I don’t understand why we’re checking the forest again. We should concentrate on the river. That’s where we’ll find the kid.”

  Thomas stared at Officer Neal. They wandered somewhere south of the Nash cottage, pushing through the woods with the Wells River crashing through its banks below the ridgeline. Why had the Wells Ferry PD written Shawn off as dead? Even if the police believed the teenager had drowned, they were obligated to search for Shawn.

  “Keep looking. The dogs led us in this direction. It’s possible he didn’t fall off the cliffs, and the rain washed his scent away.”

  “Then you need an education on K9 units, Sheriff Shepherd. The trail was still fresh when the troopers brought the dogs down. If Shawn Massey came this way, they would have found him.”

  The sunny afternoon perished beneath a boiling gray sky. Wind rattled the trees, and a black cloud rolled over the lake, angling toward the forest. The connection between the Stokes and Massey murders twisted around in Thomas’s head. He’d pondered the mystery since leaving Wolf Lake Consulting. Someone set up Stokes, and Massey knew about it.

  He didn’t want to believe a cop murdered Stokes and Massey. But the evidence pointed toward law enforcement. Twice, Scout relayed information about Shawn’s friends, and the killer showed up each time. It had to be a trooper or a police officer. They were the only people privy to the information.

  Barber.

  The Wells Ferry police officer had obstructed the investigation at every turn, challenging Thomas’s authority. He’d also arrived at Megan Massey’s house moments after Darren and Raven searched the office. Had the chief not intervened, Darren and Raven would be sitting in jail cells now.

  Thomas studied Neal as he trailed the officer. Though Neal displayed arrogance, he’d demonstrated leadership during the search through the town park. How could Thomas approach Neal with his concerns? Barber was Neal’s partner, and an obvious camaraderie existed between the two officers.

  The ground gave way beneath Thomas’s shoes. Gravel cascaded down the ridge and into the river. Mudslides had ravaged the hills, bending trees into submission, blanketing the terrain with a treacherous silt that could give way. He edged away from the cliff. Neal looked back at him and continued on, unconcerned.

  A half-mile from the marina, Neal stopped and scanned the trees.

  “Did you hear that?”

  Thomas listened. Nothing but birdsong and the distant groan of thunder.

  Neal shook his head and said, “Thought I heard someone in the forest. Must be my imagination. Come on.”

  As they pushed through a tangle of trees and undergrowth, Thomas caught a whiff of smoke. They’d strayed too far from the neighborhoods for the smell to come from a grill, and nobody in their right mind would camp until the weather cleared and the flooding subsided. If Neal smelled the smoke, he didn’t say. Yet Thomas noticed when the officer angled deeper into the forest toward the fire.

  The sheriff hoped Shawn Massey was alive and had built a fire to survive. If so, the smoke would lead them to the missing teenager.

  “Somebody started a fire in the woods,” Thomas said, climbing over a fallen tree.

  “Might be from the marina. There’s a grill behind the building.”

  Thomas didn’t think the smoke came from the marina. The marina stood behind them, while the wind blew straight at their faces. Neal’s muscles tensed.

  “How long have you partnered with Officer Barber?”

  Neal scowled back at him.

  “Three years. Why?”

  “A few years ago, the Syracuse newspapers ran a story on suspected corruption inside the Wells Ferry Police Department.”

  The officer shook his head and laughed, the humor never reaching his eyes.

  “Here we go. I’d hoped you differed from your predecessor, Sheriff. But it seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Sheriff Gray was a class-A prick. Just wanted you to know that.” Neal pulled up and turned on Thomas. The officer stood almost a head taller. “For the record, the corruption rumors were just that. Rumors. The papers never found proof. Just unsubstantiated claims from a reporter looking for attention.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow.

  “So it’s impossible a bad egg or two sneaked into your department?”

  “What’s this have to do with Barber?”

  “Walk with me,” Thomas said. “And keep an open mind.”

  Fallen trees forced them closer to the cliffs. T
homas ran a wary eye toward the steep drop off. A person could disappear into the ravine and never be found.

  “I’m listening.”

  “There’s only one reason the same man would murder Megan Massey and Hanley Stokes.”

  “If this is another baseless accusation, I’m not interested.”

  “Massey represented Stokes, and I doubt Stokes was the drug kingpin the Wells Ferry PD made him out to be.”

  “Explain,” Neal said without looking back at Thomas.

  “His house, for starters. It’s tearing apart at the seams. And the liquor store robbery. Why rob a store when you’re swimming in money?”

  “Because Stokes is a sociopath.”

  “Someone hit up Stokes for money. Could have been a rival pushing in on his territory. But then I remembered the corruption scandal. What if a cop got rid of Stokes because Stokes refused to cooperate?”

  “Nice story. You’re a regular Dan Brown. But why did your fictional cop murder an attorney?”

  “Stokes told Massey about the corruption, and she was building a case against the Wells Ferry PD.” Thomas stopped and waited until Neal turned. “Darren Holt searched Massey’s office for the Hanley Stokes case notes and came up empty.”

  “Which proves nothing.”

  “Wells Ferry PD had access to the house during the investigation. If the killer knew where to look—”

  Neal waved his hands.

  “I’m not listening to your bullshit. Take your lies to the press and see how far it gets you.”

  “Officer Barber impeded this case from the moment he arrived. He was the first to show up and catch Darren and Raven inside Massey’s office. Isn’t it possible Officer Barber—”

  Neal whirled on Thomas, giving the sheriff no time to react. The nightstick whistled at Thomas’s head and struck his temple.

  Thomas’s eyes rolled back in his head. As the forest somersaulted, his fingers clutched at the air.

  The nightstick slammed against his face. He toppled backward, sliding, falling, until there was nothing below his feet but air and a two-hundred-foot plunge into the ravine. He reached for the cliff and snagged the edge with his fingers. Neal strolled to the precipice and grinned down at Thomas. Without a word, Neal ground his shoe on Thomas’s fingers.

  “See you in hell, Sheriff.”

  Thomas fell into the ravine.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sunday, 2:20 p.m.

  For the third time in the last five minutes, Chelsey called Thomas and got his voicemail. LeVar drove the Civic, Chelsey in no condition to drive with so many worries flying through her head. Darrell Mack had identified Officer Avery Neal when Chelsey showed him a picture. Like Thomas, she’d believed Officer Barber killed Megan Massey and Hanley Stokes. It made sense. Barber received notifications when Thomas relayed Scout’s information about Camilla Blanton and Mike Nash. But so had Officer Neal.

  To make matters worse, the search coordinator claimed Thomas had requested Neal as a partner when Chelsey phoned the tent. No doubt Thomas wanted to discuss his concerns about Barber with Neal. Now Thomas was alone in the forest with a murderer, and he wasn’t answering his phone.

  “Drive faster,” Chelsey said.

  “As you wish.”

  LeVar pressed the gas and threw Chelsey’s head against the seat. She phoned Darren and Raven and filled them in on Officer Neal. Wells Ferry PD hadn’t taken her seriously after Mack identified Neal as the killer. Deputies Lambert and Aguilar were already searching the forest for the sheriff.

  A weightless tingle of fear moved through Chelsey’s chest. They were too late. She sensed it. Why hadn’t she figured it out sooner? It had to be a cop. Nobody except law enforcement had access to Megan Massey’s files.

  “He’ll be all right,” LeVar said, not taking his eyes off the highway. The Wells Ferry exit loomed ahead. “Shep faced worse trouble than this and survived. Trust him.”

  “I do,” she said, her throat parched, the words sounding like lies. “Help me find him, LeVar.”

  Infinite black. Somewhere, the rush of water.

  Wetness plunked his face—blood? No, not blood. Another droplet splattered his forehead. Rain.

  A million razors sliced through his spine, his back screaming.

  Thomas fluttered his eyelids. Above him, the world lay on its side, the trees jutting over and angled across his vision, as though the law of gravity had fallen on its head. He blinked and stared at his surroundings. Didn’t understand where he was or how he got here.

  The attack flashed back to him. Something had happened. Yes, the officer struck him with the nightstick.

  And then . . .

  And then . . .

  He’d fallen over the cliff. So why was he still alive?

  Officer Avery Neal was the killer, and he was going after Shawn next.

  Something rough bit into his back and neck. He swiveled his head and found himself flush against a tree, a stout trunk growing out of the hillside at a nearly horizontal angle, the upper branches curling toward a benevolent god. When he shifted his body, he didn’t feel his legs. No tingle of pins-and-needles, no pain. Just a hollow nothingness.

  This couldn’t be happening. The bullet from the Los Angeles gang shooting had come within an inch of paralyzing or killing him. He’d survived after serial killer Jeremy Hyde broke inside the A-frame in the dead of night, and he’d defeated murderer Alec Samson in his house of horrors. For over a decade in law enforcement, he’d tempted fate. And she’d come back to bite him.

  Maybe the shock had numbed him from the waist down. He pressed his elbows against the trunk and sat up, urging the blood to flow into his lower body. His legs refused to respond.

  He lay his head back and closed his eyes. Issued a prayer. Even with full mobility, he couldn’t climb out of the ravine without falling into the river. The spray wet his back. The water was close now. Hungry. Ten or fifteen feet beneath him.

  Lightning tore through the sky. In response, the heavens opened. Though it seemed as if the gates of hell burst forth. Rain poured down on his face, choking his mouth and nose as he gasped and coughed. The tree trunk grew slick beneath his body. Heart hammering, he braced his arms around the tree as the cloudburst ravaged the land.

  Another peel of thunder. The rain let up, rogue sprinkles seeking his eyes every time he blinked. He searched the terrain. Two more trees hung off the cliff walls to either side beneath him. If he reached the trees, he might find the strength to swing sideways and drop onto the riverbank. That is, if the river didn’t rise and submerge the bank again.

  As he considered the lifetime of paralysis awaiting him, if he lived through this ordeal, he pictured Scout. The teenager was stronger than Thomas. She’d accepted her fate and carried on, while he lay here, giving up on life.

  He clung to one desperate hope. Blunt force trauma to the spine could cause temporary paralysis and numbness. How long the paralysis lasted, he didn’t recall. Perhaps it varied based on the trauma’s magnitude.

  Touching his holster and pockets, he closed his eyes and issued a grim chuckle. He’d lost his gun during the fall. Worse yet, he’d dropped his radio. The phone was still in his pocket, the screen shattered, the back ajar. He clicked the power button with a resigned moan. As he figured, the phone refused to power on.

  When Thomas cocked his head at the neighboring tree five feet below his body, a tingle moved through the toes of his right foot. He held his breath. Tried to wiggle his ankle. His leg didn’t respond.

  He gazed down at the river. The water had risen another foot. A little more, and the river would engulf the trees and cut off his escape route. Thomas wrapped his arms around the trunk and hung his useless legs over the water. Now what? The neighboring tree appeared a mile away. As he hung suspended, the river lapping at his boots, he struggled to hold his dead weight aloft. His biceps pulsed and quivered. He’d fall within seconds if he didn’t jump.

  Swinging with his core, he threw himself toward the lower tree.
As he reached out, a surge of adrenaline kicked through his body. He wouldn’t make it. At the last moment, a split-second before the river swallowed him, his hand clutched a stout branch. His torso struck the tree trunk, ribs buckling. Thomas cried out, bit his lip, and drew blood. He sucked air into his chest as he giggled maniacally. Somehow, he’d made it.

  The bank lay below. Not far. He dropped, accepting his legs wouldn’t support him when he landed. Bracing himself, he landed hard on his backside. Stars rocketed through his vision. The air driven from his lungs, he curled into a ball, a gangling root scratching his cheek. The water smashed through the banks just past his shoes. Creeping higher. He needed to move.

  Dragging himself up the hillside, he crawled on his elbows. A jagged rock tore through his pants and gashed him below the knee.

  And he felt it. Yes, sweet pain.

  He glanced back at his legs, as though acknowledging their existence would bring them back to life. Sensation ebbed through his lower body. Fleeting, but it was there.

  Thomas reached for a sapling and yanked himself to his knees. It was a two-hundred-foot climb to escape the ravine, and Officer Neal was hunting Shawn in the forest.

  And he had no way to contact Chelsey or his deputies.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Sunday, 3:15 p.m.

  Deputy Aguilar gripped the cruiser’s steering wheel and squealed the tires around a hairpin turn. The forest offered poor visibility, the trees flying past her windows at warp speed. She scanned the woods as she drove. When last she’d spoken with Thomas, he’d hiked between the marina and the cliffs, working his way through the wilderness with Officer Neal. But she lost radio contact with the sheriff, and nobody could reach Neal.

  Anxiousness twisted her stomach into knots. Something terrible had happened and caused two law enforcement officers to fall off the face of the earth. She thought of the Wells River, the psychopath in the woods, the thunderstorm that rolled through an hour ago. Too many dangers.