by Josh Lanyon
Boxner hung up his radio and put the vehicle in motion. “Rebecca’s a wild girl, but she wouldn’t take off in the middle of her own party. She was only wearing her bathing suit, for one thing. Her car is sitting in the garage. The housekeeper says none of her clothes are missing. Her purse is still at the house. Her cell phone was left on a table on the deck.”
Kennedy grunted, which could have meant yes, no, or don’t talk when I’m trying to think.
Jason asked, “How wild is wild?”
Boxner shrugged. Once again his dark eyes studied Jason in the rearview mirror as though trying to place him. Unlike in Boxner’s case, those sixteen intervening years had made a big difference to Jason. He’d filled out, lost the braces, and cut his formerly shoulder-length dark hair. Nobody who’d known him then would have expected to find him working for the FBI. Including Jason.
“Nothing that required jail time.”
The Madigans were a wealthy local family, so what did that really mean? Did it matter? In most cases the character of the victim determined the initial focus and direction of investigation. If the Madigan girl was the randomly chosen prey of a psychopath, which is what Kennedy and everyone else around here suspected, then character was irrelevant. Victimology was immaterial. Rebecca was just a pawn in a gruesome game of chess.
“Are the Madigans longtime residents?” Jason didn’t recognize the name.
“They moved here from New York about four years ago. Mr. Madigan is a big deal in commercial real estate.”
So Rebecca had moved to Kingsfield right around the time she started high school. New social dynamics. New friends. New enemies. “How did Rebecca fit in?”
“She fit in okay.”
“Is she an only child?”
“No. There’s a younger brother. He’s away at summer camp. They both fit in okay. Her problem is too much money.”
“That’s not such a bad problem to have.”
“No. It sure as shit isn’t,” Boxner said with feeling.
* * * * *
Crime scenes were always chaotic, but the volunteers behind the New Dominion housing development had accidentally stirred up a wasps’ nest, which added to the furor. A dust storm of stinging insects was moving across the ragged field like a small and irate tornado, and the searchers had temporarily retreated to cars and the porches of neighboring houses.
Kennedy observed the situation with his usual deadpan expression and went to seek out the police chief. Judging by the variety of uniforms, it looked like law enforcement personnel from at least two other townships as well the State Police had shown up to aid in the search.
Seeing the number of people gathered—so many tense and tired faces—reminded Jason of the search for Honey sixteen years earlier. He’d done his best to forget, but it was all coming back now. Of course he and Kennedy needed to be here. They needed to understand the scope of what they were dealing with. And if they could see and get a feel for all the players, it gave them an added advantage. He probably should have kept his mouth shut back at the station. If he was going to lock horns with Kennedy, it needed to be over something that really mattered.
He scanned the row of expensive new homes that hadn’t existed sixteen years ago. They were all of the McMansion school of architecture. Oversized and bastardized Colonials or Casa del Huhs.
Between each house stretched a discreet square of landscaping, wide enough to foster the illusion of privacy without eating up too much acreage. Behind the row of houses to the east was a large empty meadow and then the woods. Kingsfield was surrounded by both state parks and wilderness areas, and despite the uptown airs of New Dominion, this was rural Massachusetts with ten percent of the population living below the poverty line. Some people in these remote areas went entire weeks without seeing another human. The deep woods provided home to deer, bobcats, otters, raccoons, and occasionally larger critters like bear and moose. Jason even remembered stories of a local hunter bagging a Russian boar one autumn.
The real predator haunting these woodlands had not been four-footed.
“Chief Gervase,” Kennedy called.
A man in uniform—medium height, trim and fit as a career soldier—turned from the insignia-decorated circle of men he was speaking to. Just for an instant his weary, strained expression relaxed into surprised relief. “Special Agent Kennedy. You came.”
Until that moment, the only face Jason had recognized had been Boxner’s, but he remembered Police Chief Gervase.
Back then he had been Officer Gervase, not Chief. The then-Chief of Kingsfield, Rudy Kowalski, had been a bluff and beefy man, well-suited to appeasing the town fathers and keeping rowdy teenagers in line. He had been completely out of his depth when the slaughter began. But that had come later. When Honey had been murdered, everybody believed it was a lightning strike. It could never happen twice.
Then Theresa Nolan had been killed. Then Ginny Chapin and Jody Escobar. And so it had gone. Seven girls in all. Jason’s understanding was Kowalski had voluntarily resigned and the village council had promptly filled his shoes with able and ambitious Officer Gervase. Sixteen years later Gervase was a well-preserved sixty, looking forward to his own retirement. He had gray eyes, a tidy Van Dyke beard, and the perpetual tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors.
He came toward them, offering his hand. “Good to see you, Kennedy.” He added wryly, “Christ, you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Sorry it’s under these circumstances.” Kennedy was brisk and unsentimental. Given his investigative specialty, maybe you had to be in order to stay sane. “This is Agent West.”
“Agent West.” Gervase offered a brief handshake and a courteous nod. “Appreciate the help.”
“Chief.”
The chief waved away an errant wasp and said to Kennedy, “You can see what we’re facing. Eden pond is to the east, and the woods are to the west. We’ve finished canvassing the neighborhood, and we’ve completed the search of the immediate perimeter, but there’s still a hell of a lot of ground to cover, and there’s no sign of the Madigan girl. Nothing. It’s like she vanished off the face of the earth.” His voice was flat as he added, “Just like before.”
It wasn’t exactly like before. None of the other victims had been taken from crowded events or peopled areas. Honey had been snatched from Holyoke Pond early in the morning. Theresa Nolan had been grabbed in the high school’s deserted parking lot when she’d left swim practice late one evening. All the victims had been taken from equally isolated or private venues where there were no potential witnesses and no one to sound the alarm until it was far too late.
Having made that misstep about the crime scene, Jason was resolved to watch and listen. His antagonism for the situation—and Kennedy—was coloring his reactions, and that was not good. Not good for anyone.
“Can you bring us up to speed?” Kennedy asked.
Gervase nodded, but was interrupted by the approach of the grim-faced State Police commander. Kingsfield was a small police department. No detective unit and less than twenty officers, including the chief. That State would be called in was a given.
More introductions followed.
“I thought we’d put all this behind us,” Commander Swenson said. It seemed to Jason there was a hint of accusation in his tone.
Kennedy returned, “We’ll soon find out.”
Given the implication he might have spearheaded the arrest and incarceration of the wrong man, Jason had to give Kennedy credit for that level of cool under fire.
Or maybe Kennedy didn’t realize the whispers had started.
In fairness, the FBI had not been the only law enforcement agency involved in tracking down the Huntsman. True, the Bureau—and Kennedy—had got most of the credit for the apprehension of Martin Pink. Local law enforcement had made the arrest, and a local judge and jury had determined Pink’s guilt and ultimate fate.
Gervase was saying, “I’ve got granddaughters about Rebecca’s age. One a little older. One a littl
e younger. If this is starting up again…” He shook his head. “I’m not going to pretend we’ve got the resources to handle this kind of thing anymore now than we did ten years ago.”
“At least you’ve got plenty of reinforcements,” Jason commented as a Worcester County Sheriff’s vehicle pulled up alongside one of the Kingsfield cruisers.
Gervase grimaced. “That we do. We’ve even got cadets from the State Police Academy out here lending a hand. And we had them back then too. Which is why I’m asking for Special Agent Kennedy’s help.”
Kennedy was studying the undulating brown cloud of insects zigging and zagging over the long, empty expanse of grass and wild flowers that served as a green welcome mat to the woods. “You’ve got it,” he said almost absently. As in…of course they needed his help and of course he would supply it.
It was surprisingly reassuring—or at least Gervase seemed to find it so.
Equally reassuring was the cool, crisp competency with which Kennedy collected and summarized the essential information from the chief.
The party had started at nine thirty the previous evening, and by eleven o’clock every kid in the county was there, draining the Madigan wine cellar dry. At eleven fifteen neighbors had called in a complaint about the noise, and Officer Boxner had swung by and spoken to Rebecca who agreed to “turn down the volume.”
At around eleven thirty, Rebecca had some kind of falling out with her bestie, Patricia Douglas, but everyone agreed the squabble meant nothing and had been almost immediately patched up. And in fact, it was Patricia who had first noticed, around one a.m., that Rebecca was missing.
The remaining and none-too-sober partygoers had conducted an immediate and impromptu search for Rebecca which had been abandoned when they decided she had probably left for her boyfriend’s house.
In the morning Alice Cornwell, the Madigans’ housekeeper, phoned Rebecca’s boyfriend who told her he hadn’t seen Rebecca since leaving the party at around ten thirty the previous evening. Whereupon Ms. Cornwell had phoned the Kingsfield Police Department.
Kennedy said, “Rebecca intended to party with a few close friends, but word got out and her soiree was crashed by…rough estimate?” There was a perpetually cynical note in his voice that enabled him to use terms like “soiree” without sounding like he was kidding.
Boxner had rejoined them by then. He answered, “Sixty to seventy juveniles. Most but not all of them were from around here.”
“Not enough supervision. That’s the problem with these kids,” Gervase said. “If someone is to blame, it’s the parents.”
Kennedy said, “If someone’s to blame, it’s the sociopath who took a teenage girl from her backyard.” Still unmoved, still unemotional, he continued, “The boyfriend left at ten thirty. Early in the evening. That sounds like there may have been trouble between them.”
Gervase said, “We interviewed Tony McEnroe first thing this morning. He said he never saw Rebecca after he left the party. He denied there being any problems in their relationship.”
“He would,” Kennedy said. “Officer Boxner said you’ve already interviewed the housekeeper, the neighbors, and the kids who were originally invited to the party?”
“Standard procedure,” Gervase said. There was a hint of hope in his tone as he added, “I guess you’ll want to read over their statements?”
“We’ll look them over,” Kennedy agreed. “Assuming we don’t locate Rebecca within the next few hours.”
That was going to be one hell of a lot of he said and she said to sort through. Not that Jason had a problem with paperwork. Tracking stolen artwork was largely done through surfing the web or meticulously following paper trails. Jason was very good at hunting. The difference was no one’s life was ever hanging in the balance when he hunted. The stakes here were almost unbearably high.
Jason’s thoughts broke off as Kennedy turned to him. “Thoughts, Agent West?” His tone was dry as he waited for disagreement or debate.
“I, er, concur.”
Kennedy’s brows rose as though this was an unexpected concession from an unlikely source. He turned back to Chief Gervase. “I take it you’re still gathering statements from the party crashers?”
Jason let out a long, quiet breath. He had never had to work with anyone who detested him as plainly as Kennedy did. Not that he was a member of Kennedy’s fan club either, but you had to respect the guy. In fact, when Kennedy had nailed Martin Pink to the wall, Jason, along with pretty much everyone else, had considered him a hero.
That was a long time ago.
Gervase was answering Kennedy. “It’s going to take a while to track everyone down, especially when some of the guests don’t want their parents knowing where they were.”
Jason said, “Chief, can I ask why you’re so sure Rebecca is the victim of a copycat?”
Gervase’s smile was world-weary. “You’re not familiar with the Kingsfield Killings, are you, son?”
Jason wasn’t sure how to answer, and in any case, Gervase wasn’t waiting for a response. “Over the course of six years, a local man by the name of Martin Pink abducted and murdered seven young blonde and blue-eyed women from swimming areas around Worcester County. The press dubbed him the Huntsman.”
“I remember the case. I—”
“Then you know ten years ago your partner was responsible for catching Pink and putting him behind bars. Except now we’ve got another blonde and blue-eyed teenage girl missing from a pool party. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s one hell of a coincidence.”
Kennedy said, “It could be a coincidence. It’s our job to make sure one way or the other.”
It could be a coincidence, and it could be a copycat. Copycat behaviors were more and more common thanks to the way violent crime was sensationalized in the “news” and the increased reach social media had given those various outlets of information. Jason had heard of more than one drug dealer legally changing his name to Walter White in honor of Breaking Bad, and the number of assaults and murders inspired by The Dark Knight’s Joker was frankly depressing. Teens and young adults were especially prone to copycat behavior. It was the nature of the beast. Even so, in the broader scheme of things, copycat crimes were relatively rare.
There remained a third possibility, of course. The possibility that Kennedy had put the wrong man behind bars.
The possibility that the Huntsman was still out there.
Chapter Three
The sun rose higher in the blue sky. The day grew hotter, dryer. The swarm of wasps at last dissipated, and the search for Rebecca recommenced in this key sector. Canine teams raced into the woods ahead of the slow-moving lines of volunteers and seemed to be swallowed whole into vast green silence.
It reminded Jason all too much of the search for Honey. Just because they had not managed to find Honey in time didn’t mean they wouldn’t find Rebecca. Especially given that Rebecca’s abductor was not Martin Pink.
Another hour passed, and the search moved farther afield. The lines of volunteers grew smaller in the distance.
As a kid, he remembered thinking how strange it was that the weather was completely unaffected by human tragedy. In the case of a missing child, it should by rights be raining. But no, it was a beautiful summer day. Not a cloud in the sky. And if the air had not been crackling with voices and radios and assorted engines, it would probably have felt tranquil, peaceful.
Anyway, there wasn’t time to stand around feeling whatever he was feeling—mostly uneasy; he had volunteered to help and had been handed the thankless task of coordinating the citizen searcher lists. Minimal responsibility and maximum aggravation. Kennedy, on the other hand, had vanished into the housing development an hour earlier. No doubt he was interviewing the Madigan housekeeper for himself, unhampered by his in-name-only partner.
Unless Jason was prepared to bird-dog Kennedy’s every step—which he wasn’t—he was going to have to try and develop a sense of humor about the situation.
Aroun
d four o’clock, Chief Gervase and Boxner returned to base. Boxner was saying, “I think it’s suspicious.”
Gervase shook his head. “When you’ve been at this job as long as me, you’ll find out that people act guilty for a lot of reasons.”
“Including they’re guilty,” Boxner said.
“Yeah, and sometimes people are guilty about stuff which has nothing to do with our investigation.” Gervase said to Jason, “Have you got a Tony McEnroe on any of your lists?”
Jason shuffled quickly through the sheets on his clipboard. “No.”
“What’s up?” Kennedy’s voice inquired.
Jason’s heart jumped. He hadn’t seen Kennedy, hadn’t noticed his approach, not that it should have affected him one way or the other, but he was intensely, uncomfortably conscious of Kennedy. Or more likely of Kennedy’s dislike.
Kennedy’s pale hair was dark with sweat and rings of underarm perspiration marked his blue FBI polo, so presumably he had been doing something more active than interviewing witnesses. Behind the sunglasses, his face was as impassive as usual as he met Jason’s look.
“Everyone in Kingsfield is here looking for Rebecca,” Boxner said. “Except Tony McEnroe.”
“Not everyone,” Gervase contradicted.
“Everyone who’s free to lend a hand is here.”
This time Gervase didn’t bother to deny it.
“McEnroe is the boyfriend,” Kennedy said. It was not a question. Jason didn’t doubt Kennedy had already committed all the players to memory.
“The boyfriend,” Boxner agreed. “And what a piece of work that guy is.”
Kennedy directed his sunglasses toward Jason, and Jason said, “I’ve confirmed he’s not officially on one of the search teams.” Then again a lot of people who were out there looking for Rebecca had not bothered to officially sign up. McEnroe might be one of them. Presumably he would know any places that were special to her or where she might run to in times of stress.
