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

by Dan Padavona

  “Let’s go.”

  They piled into their vehicles. Tires kicked up mud and stone as they wheeled toward the access road. Aguilar pressed the gas and hung close to Fitzgerald’s bumper. Reds and blues from Lambert’s lights spun in Aguilar’s mirror, her partner’s cruiser a car length behind. One eye on the GPS, Aguilar followed the red squiggly line toward its conclusion. They’d cut Neal off a mile short of the highway. That is, if Neal wasn’t driving faster than them. As if Trooper Fitzgerald read her thoughts, he pushed his vehicle faster.

  The broken white lines of the access road shot toward them in a blur. Fitzgerald increased his speed to eighty-five, Aguilar right behind him. The radio buzzed with reports of additional sightings. An officer spotted Neal’s BMW near the intersection of County Route 7 and Harriot Lane, a tenth of a mile from Milton’s gas station. Neal must have been driving one hundred mph to be that close to the highway. They were losing him.

  A second call came over the radio. Neal had turned onto West Geneva Road. It was a roundabout route toward the highway, but less traveled than County Route 7. This was the break Aguilar needed. Fitzgerald led the three-vehicle convoy toward West Geneva Road.

  When they reached their destination, Aguilar skidded to a halt alongside the trooper and formed a roadblock with their vehicles. Lambert pulled to the shoulder behind them. Two miles up the road, a glint of black metal poked over the horizon. Fitzgerald raised binoculars to his eyes.

  “It’s Neal. He’s coming fast.”

  Did the fugitive officer intend to slam through the barricade?

  Aguilar, Lambert, and Fitzgerald shielded themselves behind their vehicles, guns trained on the approaching BMW. Sirens wailed in the distance, and the whirling lights of a pursuing Wells Ferry PD cruiser appeared behind Neal. They’d boxed him in. No side roads to turn onto, just farms and meadowland for as far as their eyes could see.

  Neal kept coming. Motoring forward like a black shooting star. Aguilar ground her teeth, prepared to leap out of the way if the psychopath barreled into their vehicles. A hundred yards shy of the roadblock, Neal slammed his brakes and stopped the BMW.

  They spied the killer through the tinted glass, his shadow almost imperceptible against the dark interior. Where was Barber?

  The Wells Ferry PD officer blocked the road behind the BMW and stepped onto the blacktop with his gun drawn. Fitzgerald communicated with the officer via radio. More sirens shrilled over the horizon. Soon, half the county’s law enforcement officers would surround the fugitive.

  Neal didn’t budge. He sat inside his car, unmoving.

  Trooper Fitzgerald spoke through a bullhorn.

  “Avery Neal, step out of the vehicle with your hands in the air.”

  No response.

  The uniformed officer closed on the BMW from behind, the young officer’s eyes holding the terror of a rookie who’d never encountered an armed hostile before. The rookie had reason to worry. Avery Neal was a veteran of the force, a trained shooter.

  “Avery Neal, come out of the vehicle with your hands up.”

  The door edged open. Aguilar’s finger tensed on the trigger. For a second, she believed the arrest might end without gunfire.

  But as she peered through the tinted windows, she spotted an elongated object in Neal’s hands.

  She had a half-second to yell, “Rifle!”

  The gun blast punctured Fitzgerald’s window and ripped through the door, missing the trooper by inches. Fitzgerald ducked and regrouped. Before he spun into position, Aguilar squeezed off three shots in succession. Lambert fired beside her.

  The BMW’s door swung open. Neal lurched onto the blacktop and dropped to his knees, the rifle on the ground beside him. Blood poured from his chest and shoulder. Insanity tainted his eyes, his face twisted into a rictus of pain.

  As the officers rushed forward, Neal fell flat on the roadway. He died with open, haunted eyes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Sunday, 4:40 p.m.

  “He has to be close.”

  Darren scanned the forest beside Raven. He used a digital map on his phone to narrow down Shawn’s location. On the map, he noted the marina’s position, the Nash house a mile to the north, and the cliffs.

  “This is where Neal attacked Thomas,” Raven said, pointing at the steep drop into the ravine. A shiver rolled through Darren’s body as he stared into the Wells River at the bottom of the ravine. How had Thomas survived the fall? “Neal led the search, and my guess is he’d figured out where Shawn was hiding.”

  She tapped a finger on the map and drew an invisible radius. Darren scratched his head. The cliffs lay behind them. That’s where the dogs had lost Shawn’s scent. If the boy dragged himself out of the river, he wouldn’t get far. Shawn must be injured and exhausted.

  “Somewhere in here,” Darren said, indicating a clearing amid the heavily wooded area to their west.

  “That’s as good a guess as any.”

  They pushed through the trees, the going slow. There were no trails, no worn walkways to quicken their search. Darren missed the manicured state park trails. This was akin to struggling through a jungle. Branches snapped at their faces, and roots tripped them up. He eyed the sky. Three hours until sunset.

  Halfway to their destination, Raven stopped and placed a hand on Darren’s chest. He fell silent and glanced at her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you smell that?”

  He sniffed the air. At first, the only scent he caught was the thick humidity of the waterlogged terrain. Then his eyes snapped toward the clearing.

  “Smoke.”

  Darren and Raven rushed ahead, each calling Shawn’s name as they searched for a break in the trees. The clearing was close. He saw it on the map, though the trees conspired to shield his view. The wood smoke was fleeting. Darren assumed the fire had burned out hours ago, the residual scents hanging in the air.

  “There he is,” Raven said, picking up her pace.

  Darren followed her eyes to the white-fleshed figure splayed beyond the tree line. His heart quickened. He ran with renewed vigor, shoving branches aside and bursting through pricker bushes to reach his cousin. He burst into the clearing with Raven steps behind. Shawn didn’t respond to Darren’s voice. The boy curled beside a long dead fire he’d encased with a circle of rocks. A pair of shredded sweatpants lay beside the fire pit. The sweatshirt hung off Shawn’s body with one sleeve missing, long tears cutting through the fabric as if some beast had clawed through the boy’s clothing.

  Darren fell to his knees beside Shawn and touched the boy’s neck. No pulse. His stomach shot into his throat. No, this wasn’t possible. He’d searched for Shawn since Friday night, always a step behind the boy and the killer who pursued him. He couldn’t die. Not after they’d come so close to rescuing him.

  Raven knelt beside Shawn and sent Darren a helpless glance.

  “Is he—”

  Darren shook his head. He refused to accept the inevitable. His fingers moved along Shawn’s neck and found nothing but gelid, dead flesh.

  Then the tips of his fingers settled on a faint pulse. A weak thrum beneath the surface. Darren rolled Shawn over, ripped his jacket off, and placed it beneath the teenager’s head. The boy’s skin was a lunar surface of festering bug bites. The state park ranger placed his ear beside Shawn’s mouth. Thank God, the boy was breathing. Raven phoned their position to the state trooper barracks, as Darren glanced around the forest, wondering how a medical crew would reach them. No roads for the ambulance. The clearing was too small to land a helicopter, and Shawn didn’t have time to wait for a rescue aircraft.

  Shawn quivered. It was the first time Darren had witnessed movement from the boy.

  “Shawn, it’s Darren. You’re going to be all right, but I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that for me?”

  Shawn didn’t respond. As Raven read the coordinates to the dispatcher, Darren removed his shirt and draped it over Shawn’s bare legs.

  “Hyp
othermia,” Darren said as he met Raven’s eyes. “He’s going into shock.”

  Shawn’s body temperature had dropped, the teenager unable to produce enough heat to compensate for the energy he’d lost. Had the fire not burned out, Shawn might have staved off hypothermia. But he’d exposed himself to the rain and wind for too long.

  Darren felt the heat leeching off his body and into Shawn’s. He needed to cover the boy until Shawn’s body warmed. Even then, he wasn’t confident he could turn the boy’s fate around.

  “Come on, Shawn. Stay with me.”

  Darren rubbed the boy’s arms and legs, hoping to get Shawn’s blood flowing. The teenager muttered something with slurred speech. His eyes fluttered open and closed again. Darren hadn’t lost his cousin. Not yet.

  “The ambulance is on the way,” Raven said. “There’s a dirt road southwest of here.”

  “How far?”

  “Half a mile.”

  Indecision tore Darren in opposite directions. If he carried Shawn’s limp body to the road, he’d spare the boy precious time. But the flesh pressing against his chest remained frigid to the touch. Shawn might die from shock before they reached the ambulance.

  “Search for kindling,” Darren said. “Get that fire going again.”

  Raven nodded and rushed away to gather firewood. She brought a load back to the fire pit and dropped it.

  “Now what?”

  “In my jacket, there’s a lighter in the inside pocket and a plastic bag of cotton balls.” As she reached beneath Shawn’s head, Darren studied the boy’s face. He wanted to believe there was more color than when they’d first discovered the teen. “I always have a backup plan when I hike through the state park.”

  Raven bunched the kindling into a pile and flicked the lighter. The cotton balls caught first, then the kindling. Darren was about to tell her to arrange the smaller branches over the kindling first. He didn’t need to. Raven already knew what to do.

  Darren placed his faith in Raven to get the fire going. He concentrated on keeping Shawn warm. He never stopped speaking to his cousin, though no replies came.

  “That was smart of you,” Darren said. “Hiding inside your friend’s house. I wouldn’t have thought of that.” Darren snickered. “Can’t wait to see their faces when you explain why you broke the deck door and ate their oatmeal.”

  He glanced down at Shawn. If Darren used his imagination, he might have perceived a wry grin curling the corners of Shawn’s mouth.

  “Your father is fine, Shawn. But he’s worried sick about you. So is Polly. Come back to us and you’ll see them before sunset. How’s that sound?”

  The fire roared beside their bodies. Blissful heat poured off the flames.

  “Don’t get too close,” Raven said, gauging the wind’s direction as smoke curled over Darren’s head.

  She was right. The fire snapped at the wood with hunger, growing by the second. He needed to pull Shawn to the other side of the fire, away from the smoke.

  With Raven’s help, he positioned Shawn on the opposite end of the fire pit. The smoke snaked away and angled toward the dirt road, giving the emergency workers a beacon to follow.

  Shawn coughed. Darren sat up and supported Shawn’s upper body in his lap as blood rushed into the boy’s cheeks. This time, Shawn opened his eyes. He gazed up at Darren, unsure where he was.

  “Welcome back. Do you know who I am?”

  Shawn gave Darren a hazy look before moving his eyes to Raven. He scratched a bug bite on his stomach.

  “What are you doing here, Darren?”

  Darren smiled. Beyond the forest, an ambulance siren grew in volume.

  “Hang in there a little longer, buddy. Help is on the way.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Sunday, 7:50 p.m.

  After sunset, the ICU doctor located Chelsey in the waiting room. He told her she could spend five minutes with Thomas, but the sheriff needed rest. She followed the corridor past the nurses’ station, nervous over what awaited her.

  Thomas was sitting up with his legs dangling off the bed, as if he intended to march out of the hospital on his own. Tubes hung from his arms. An intravenous solution pumped into his veins.

  “What are you doing up?”

  His mouth tightened into a grimace.

  “Lying against the mattress is killing my spine,” he said, reaching around to touch the small of his back.

  The tubes stretched, and Chelsey fretted Thomas might inadvertently tear the IV out. His legs moved on their own. She released the breath she’d held for several hours.

  “So you can feel your legs?” she asked, hope featherlight in her chest.

  He wiped his eyes and glanced down at his legs, as though they were alien appendages he didn’t recognize.

  “I’m sore, but full mobility returned. Fate was on my side. The saplings growing off the ridge slowed me down until I struck the tree. The doctors say the impact to my spine caused temporary paralysis. It would have gone away on its own.”

  “Don’t start with the I-shouldn’t-be-in-the-hospital nonsense. When Aguilar found you, you were hanging by a thread.” She pictured Thomas, injured and soaked, dragging himself out of the gorge without use of his legs. It seemed impossible, yet he’d made it to the road. “You’re a fighter, Thomas. But one lesson I’ve learned this year—we should accept help from people who care about us. And right now, you need medical attention.”

  He raised an arm and touched the IV. Studied it, almost uncomprehending. It broke her heart. The tubes pumping fluids into his body and the probes attached to his skin irritated him worse than loud noises. Thomas understood why he needed the fluids, but the IV and probes tested his patience. She touched his shoulder. He met her eyes.

  “Lie back,” she said, cupping a hand behind his head and nudging him backward. “Don’t think about the IV. It’s not even there, okay?”

  He obeyed, but not without a long, dragged out sigh.

  “How’s Shawn Massey?”

  “Darren checked on him fifteen minutes ago. Shawn is dehydrated and recovering from hypothermia. He’ll need a few days of rest, and he’ll wear a cast. But the doctors say he’s out of the woods.”

  “No pun intended?”

  He smiled for the first time since she’d come to him. The levity brightened the gloomy room.

  “Glad to see you found your sense of humor. Shawn is one tough kid. He was suffering from hypothermia when Darren and Raven found him. Another hour, and I’d hate to fathom what might have happened to Shawn.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes, and he already spoke to the police.”

  “What about his father?”

  “Kemp arrived at the hospital an hour ago. The police released him after they determined Officer Neal killed Megan Massey and Hanley Stokes.”

  Thomas rubbed a frustrated hand across his mouth.

  “I should have suspected Neal. But I was dead set on Barber being the killer.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Thomas. Neal had everyone fooled, including his own partner. While you were in the gorge, Barber stopped to visit Neal on his way to the forest. Neal stabbed Barber and hid his body in the back of his BMW.”

  “Is Barber dead?”

  Chelsey gave Thomas a grim look, and he raised his eyes to the ceiling. A knock on the door brought their heads around. Chief Wintringham waited in the doorway in full uniform.

  “How is he?”

  Chelsey didn’t trust Wintringham or his officers. Wells Ferry PD had botched the investigation from the beginning, and Neal murdered three people before the authorities caught on to him.

  “He’s alive, no thanks to Officer Neal.”

  “If I may speak with the sheriff.”

  “You may.” Chelsey took the chair in the corner. “But I’m staying. Whatever you say to Thomas, you can say it in front of me.”

  Wintringham nodded and took the chair beside Thomas’s bed.

  “I want you to know how sorry I am, She
riff. Officer Neal pulled the wool over my eyes.”

  “You allowed him to arrest Kemp Massey.”

  “Neal provided damning evidence. He tricked the husband into leaving fingerprints on a water bottle. Then Neal placed the evidence inside Megan Massey’s kitchen. My department will conduct a full investigation of Neal’s activities over the last three years. From what we’ve gathered, Neal threatened to arrest Hanley Stokes if Stokes didn’t share profits with Neal. After Stokes broke the agreement, Neal planted drugs inside Stokes’s house.”

  “Yet you never suspected Neal.”

  Wintringham stared at his shoes.

  “I didn’t. In retrospect, it seems obvious. Neal led the raid and knew exactly where the drugs were. Said he’d received a tip, and I believed him. Some narcotics we recovered—heroin, coke, meth—aren’t trafficked inside Wells Ferry. Our town has its share of problems, but we rarely hear about hard narcotics.” Wintringham rubbed his eyes. “We sent an innocent man to prison and allowed an extortionist and future murderer to protect and serve.”

  “What about the evidence Stokes gave to Megan Massey, implicating Neal?”

  The chief blew out a breath.

  “Neal stole the file. That much is obvious. We haven’t uncovered the file yet, but Neal had access to Massey’s office.” Uncomfortable silence lingered inside the room, the beeps of the monitors keeping time with the night. Wintringham set a hand on the bed rail. “If I may speak frankly, Sheriff. I only have a few years until they kick my sorry behind out of the department. Before I go, I’d like to repair our relationship.”

  Chelsey glanced up. The request surprised her. Though she distrusted the local police, she read the sincerity on Wintringham’s face.

  “Respect is the foundation of a healthy relationship,” Thomas said, and Wintringham lowered his eyes again. “And I respect you.” The chief looked up, surprised. “Darren Holt speaks highly of you and says you’re an honest man. We don’t always spot the evil in others. I don’t blame you for Neal’s actions. He fooled everyone in your department, and I never suspected him, either.”