The Survivor

by DiAnn Mills

  The man lied. He must really want into the Arroyos to take a murder rap. “Right.”

  “Word is, an older white guy builds good bombs using Semtex.”

  Mario could have heard about this from the media. “Where does he get it?”

  “Smuggled from Mexico.”

  “Did the Arroyos provide it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  The man’s cocky attitude wasn’t working. “What’s the bomber’s name?”

  Mario stared at Tigo, then Ryan. “I want a deal.”

  “Not until we get a name.”

  “I have rights.”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll be tried for three counts of murder.” Tigo smiled at Ryan.

  “We could let Mario go and see what Pablo’s gang does to him,” Ryan said. “The Skulls have been out to replace the Arroyos for a long time.”

  “Do it.” Tigo nodded. “I’ll make a call and let them know where we dropped off our friend Mario.”

  Ryan stood. “Yeah. He’s wasting our time.”

  Mario sneered. “You made your point. I don’t have a name, but I know a few other things.”

  Ryan picked up his iPad, and Tigo turned back toward Mario. “I’m ready. Better make it good.”

  “They call him Coach. Looks clean. A book addict.”

  Media had already picked up on the note left in Hank’s mouth. And when the news leaked information about Dr. Amy Garrett, a reporter had researched her past and hypothesized that the assailant had returned to finish her off. But Mario did offer some new information. “What else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Tell you what. Sit in jail a few days, and we’ll see if this leads anywhere.”

  Once Tigo and Ryan were alone, Ryan voiced his doubts about Mario’s claims. “I’ll run it through the FIG. The Coach aspect is new, but I doubt it turns up anything that we don’t already know.”

  3:15 P.M. FRIDAY

  After lunch, Tigo sat in his cubicle and searched the FBI’s database for suspects. Nothing turned up. A white guy they called Coach who liked books. What kind of books? What kind of coach? A present occupation? A past one? A nickname that meant nothing?

  He doodled the word Coach, turning the letters around to see if anything surfaced. A coach who built bombs. Possibly a military background or a job that had kept him out of the U.S. Tigo twisted his Buzz Lightyear watchband while impatience gained momentum.

  He made his way to Ryan’s cubicle.

  “Ryan, I need to bounce a few things off you.”

  The agent swung around. “Want to take a walk? I need some fresh air.”

  The two fell into step and made their way outside to an area often used for press conferences. The FBI emblem engraved into the stone wall signified the hard work and sacrifice of every agent.

  “I think whoever we’re looking for is at least forty-five years old. At forty-five, he’d have been in his early twenties when he attacked Amy. My gut tells me the Yeat boys are connected, but they aren’t old enough.”

  “Remember the first interview when Ian stormed from the room? Taylor and Jonathan trailed after him. When the boys learned about their mother’s past, Curt left the room in a huff, but no one followed.”

  “No surprise there’s favoritism there. But neither of us saw any signs of those boys wanting a parent dead. Too much grief.” Tigo’s thoughts swept to his and Ryan’s trip to the Yeat boys’ high school. “They have a coach.”

  “But most of these crimes were committed during school hours.”

  Tigo crossed his arms. “But it’s all we have to go on.” He toyed with what he did know. Jonathan and Joanna argued in the school counselor’s office over Ian. The kid took off when bodyguards were assigned to his house. He got caught stealing from his dad. Joanna had wanted to put him in a military school, and Jonathan thought their son needed relief from stress. Still felt that way.

  “What are you thinking?” Ryan said.

  “Hear me out, then you can toss my idea,” Tigo said. “Curt plays the role of the big brother. He said so. He’s covered up for Ian’s temper and who knows what else. So who did he have to talk to about the dysfunction in his family?”

  “Most kids that age share more with friends than adults. But Curt’s mature. Would he have voiced his feelings to his mother?”

  “I don’t think so. If Jonathan and Joanna quarreled about Ian, I doubt Curt would have gone to either of them with how he felt about his brother. He put himself into the role of ‘the strong one.’ So he would have chosen the next most-respected adult in his life—but definitely not Taylor. From what we’ve witnessed, Taylor catered to Ian too. That leaves the only other person who’d take time to advise him.”

  Ryan stopped. “The basketball coach—Frank Ofsteller.”

  Tigo nodded. “What do we know about him? Could he have been the one who assaulted Amy Garrett twenty-three years ago?”

  The vertical crease in Ryan’s forehead deepened. “It might fit,” he said.

  “Remember how he tore into Curt when the team lost, the same day Jerry and Hank were killed? If I’m right, it would make sense that he was so upset with Curt. Especially if he’d killed two men earlier in the day. But what would his motive have been?”

  “Let’s dig into his background. If he’s our guy, then the motive’s there. But what about the timing? Ofsteller has responsibilities at school.”

  “Good point. His attendance needs to be verified,” Tigo said.

  “Pretty far out there … but maybe.”

  “I’m not suggesting Curt had any knowledge of what happened.” The more Tigo talked, the more he believed he was pursuing the truth. “Or maybe I don’t want to think he knew about it. But I’m wondering if the coach could have heard enough about Jonathan’s inability to deal with Ian’s rebellion and decided to take action, not knowing Joanna would take the car that morning.”

  “He’s near retirement age. Winning is important. Amy Garrett would be as well, if he fits the twenty-three-year-old crime.”

  “I think he could, Ryan.”

  “Have you contacted the FIG for a background check?”

  “I have. Does this make sense to you, or am I fishing?”

  Ryan pointed to Tigo’s Blackberry. “If it makes you a candidate for a little white jacket and sedatives, I’m with you. Let’s get on it. I’ll contact the school and check the dates and times of the other crimes.”

  “I’m going to call Curt. See if I can talk to him after school. Maybe it’s only the pain in my side and my cracked ribs, but I think we’re onto something.”

  Thirty minutes later, Ryan entered Tigo’s cubicle. “I think we hit pay dirt.”

  Tigo’s attention flew to him. “What did you find out? Curt’s already left for an away game.”

  “Coach Ofsteller’s free periods, nine thirty to eleven thirty, coincide with the supposed old man who approached Kariss. He also left school early the day of the shooting and on the day Hank and Jerry were killed. And he left school the day Kariss had lunch with Vicki. In every instance, he said his wife had a doctor’s appointment. I learned from the guidance counselor that she’s dying of cancer, and the school has accommodated him on several occasions. He comes and goes as necessary. What did you find out?”

  “I uncovered some history on Ofsteller. Vietnam POW. Spent eighteen months in a prison. Tortured. Treated once in a military hospital in ‘75 for depression—PTSD.”

  “Adds up,” Ryan said. “All of it.”

  “We have enough to bring him in for questioning. Don’t suppose the guidance counselor knew the name of his wife’s doctor.”

  “Not in the records. Here’s another bone for us. Coach Ofsteller teaches American literature.”

  Tigo glanced at his watch. Four fifteen. The basketball game was in Huntsville.

  CHAPTER 63

  10:30 P.M. FRIDAY

  Tigo had requested permission from Jonathan to drive Curt back to Houston after his game. The elder Yeat appreci
ated the offer and stated he wouldn’t be going to the game. Ian needed some father-son time.

  Tigo made a note to reschedule dinner with Kariss and let her know he had a lead on a new suspect. He wet his lips while shoving anticipation from his mind. This case could end tonight, but he needed a clear head.

  After a late start and an accident on I-45 North, Tigo arrived at the game just after halftime. He cornered the assistant coach and learned that Coach Ofsteller had left after the first quarter, claiming his wife was in critical condition and needed to be admitted to MD Anderson.

  The cancer care center had Michelle Ofsteller in their system as an outpatient for chemo and radiation treatments. Her doctor hadn’t been in contact with either Frank or Michelle since her previous visit over two weeks ago. While Ryan and a team of agents searched for the coach and his wife, Tigo would probe Curt for more answers. The team had won, and several parents planned a victory party in Houston. Tigo would get Curt to the celebration in plenty of time.

  “What’s up?” Curt said once they were driving south on I-45. “Have I done something spectacular to get an FBI escort to the victory party?”

  “You scored the most points tonight.”

  “Thanks. But I’m a smart guy.”

  Tigo lowered the volume on a popular radio station, one he’d learned was Curt’s favorite.

  “Wait a minute,” Curt said. “Is Dad okay?” He whirled toward Tigo. “Is that why you arranged this? Nothing’s happened to him or Ian, right?”

  “They’re fine. Don’t worry. I just have a few questions for you. The questions may sound strange, but your answers will help me and the other agents working on the case.” Curt would see right through any distortion of the truth, and he deserved the truth anyway. “I have two reasons for coming to you—I want to be your friend, and I want to find out who killed your mom and sister.”

  “Okay. I can buy that.”

  “Before all this happened, who did you talk to—your dad or your mom?”

  Curt stared out the passenger window.

  “Tough question, Curt?”

  “Kinda. Mom and Dad had their hands full with Ian.”

  “What about your buds?”

  “Nah. They think I have it together. Rich dad. Church. School stuff.” He shrugged. “I used to talk to Coach Ofsteller. But not anymore.”

  “Yeah? Did you tell your dad what he said?”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t see any reason.”

  “Curt, does your coach teach any of your classes?”

  “American lit.”

  “Is he a good teacher?”

  “I guess. He gets salty.”

  “How so?”

  “Some days he acts really weird. Probably because his wife’s dying of cancer.”

  “That would put me in a bad mood.”

  “I thought it was a lame excuse, until Mom and Alexia were killed.”

  “Does your coach talk about his wife?”

  Curt nodded. “Mostly stuff he remembers before she got sick. Dad’s started talking about Mom and Alexia and the things they said and did. So I guess it makes sense.” He rubbed his face. “Are you any closer to finding the guy?”

  “Narrowing it down.” Tigo swung him a look that conveyed his commitment. “I keep my promises. Whoever did this won’t get away with it.”

  “I believe you. But I’m angry. Can’t sleep ‘cause I just want to see that person dead.”

  “Don’t seek revenge. Revenge solves nothing. Justice ensures no one else will be killed.”

  Curt clenched his fist. “I want him to hurt … to suffer. No mercy.”

  Tigo understood exactly what he meant. “Let God in. He’s the only One who can help.”

  “So you’re an FBI agent who believes in God?”

  “I do. But it took a long time for the message to sink in.”

  “I gave up on the faith thing when Mom and Alexia were killed.”

  “Think twice about that. Unload the bitterness before it destroys you,” Tigo said.

  “I hear enough stuff like that from my dad and Uncle Taylor.”

  “Then let’s talk about something else.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me, what’s Coach Ofsteller’s method of teaching American lit?”

  “He tosses out lines from books.”

  Bingo. Tigo gripped the steering wheel. “What kind of books?”

  “Mystery and suspense.”

  “Try me.”

  “His favorite quotes are from Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood.”

  11:45 P.M. FRIDAY

  Tigo met Ryan at Frank and Michelle Ofsteller’s home. Backup waited behind them and circled the house. Tigo rang the doorbell and knocked, with no response. Their weapons were drawn.

  “Michelle Ofsteller’s not at MD Anderson,” Ryan said. “They’re either inside or gone.”

  “Let’s go.” Tigo gave the signal and kicked in the door. Pain raced up his wounded side, and he bit back the verbal agony. “FBI!” Would he ever learn to remember his abused body?

  The team searched every room, but the small, one-story house was empty. Signs of someone ill living there were evident—a hospital bed in the master bedroom, a lap table, an uneaten bowl of chicken-noodle soup. Sundry medications, both prescribed and over the counter, sat on the kitchen table.

  “Nothing here,” Ryan said several minutes later. “No weapons or indications of violence. What did you find?”

  Tigo picked up a prescription drug bottle. “These are old. Ofsteller must have taken his wife with him, along with her current meds.”

  “What about suitcases?”

  “An agent found a duffel bag in the bedroom. Gym stuff. I went through it. Nothing there. No luggage.” Tigo drummed his fingers on the table. “Did you see the black Ford pickup in the garage? Scrapes on the right side. No rims, but they could have been removed.”

  Ryan picked up a popular novel and showed Tigo a page containing violence that had been highlighted. “We put out an alert for all law-enforcement officials. He’s been on their radar since ten o’clock.”

  “Long enough for him to get a head start to where he was going. Don’t think he’d head for an airport. He’s too smart for that.” Tigo focused on the meds while his mind raced. “We got close, and he ran.”

  “Let’s wake a few neighbors. Maybe they left a pet with someone … Told them when they’d return,” Ryan said. “And let’s call the school principal.”

  An agent stepped inside the house. “Take a look at what we found in a padlocked workshop.”

  Tigo and Ryan entered a small building behind the garage that reeked of a psychopath. Bulletin boards showed pics and stats of previous crimes—all unsolved or with arrests made that didn’t allude to the source of the bombs or the killer. What seized Tigo’s attention were the Amy Garrett photos that ranged from a freckle-faced little girl of about six to one taken recently. The snapshots supplied a time line depicting milestones in Amy’s life and appeared to have been taken by the coach. Another bulletin board contained information about and photographs of Kariss. Tigo’s stomach rolled, and he fought back the urge to destroy them.

  “He takes pride in stalking his victims,” Tigo said. “At least those he kills himself.” The glass container holding three coral snakes didn’t help his attitude.

  “Here’s a pic of a dead woman HPD closed as a suicide,” Ryan said. “He’s circled the investigation report from the Chronicle.” He shook his head. “Her overdose of sleeping pills may not have been her idea.”

  Tigo read a few newspaper clippings on a wall area designated for bombings. “One of these occurred in New York. Another in Atlanta. He’s obviously making a few extra bucks selling bombs or bomb components.”

  Ryan pointed to a corner where ten kilos of Semtex were stacked in opened wooden crates. “He has plans. No wonder he has this building temperature controlled. Probably humidity controlled too.”

  Tigo tore into a crate and found truck rims
matching the description Kariss had given. While the other agents confiscated evidence, took fingerprints, and photographed the area, he called Kariss. Her sleepy voice gave him a measure of comfort.

  “Hey, babe. Sorry to wake you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “We know who’s responsible for all the crimes, but we don’t have him in custody yet.”

  “Oh, Tigo. Is it nearly over?”

  “Almost. Stay inside your condo and don’t answer the door until we get this wrapped up. Okay?”

  “I’m in bed with no plans to leave.”

  “Should have the arrest made before sunrise.”

  “Is this the same man who attacked Amy? What else has he done?”

  Tigo moaned. “You know I can’t tell you everything. Be nice to the agents invading your privacy, and I’ll make you the best dinner in town.”

  “It’s a date.”

  “I’ll talk to you when this is finished.” He ended the call, relieved she’d be safe until Ofsteller was arrested. No point in alarming her with the psychopath’s identity. Coach was on the run with his wife, which meant Kariss and Amy weren’t in danger.

  CHAPTER 64

  FEBRUARY 2

  8:00 A.M. SATURDAY

  Frank slid three dollar-size pancakes onto a plate beside two pieces of crisp bacon. Michelle probably wouldn’t take more than a few bites, but he’d coax her into eating more. After adding an orange slice and cherry, he admired the presentation. She used to do this for him. Except she’d have bowls of blueberries, strawberries, and pecans alongside warm maple syrup, real butter, and homemade whipped cream. Those were the days when the two of them stole away moments together—hiking, horseback riding, long walks—when cancer was a disease others got. Those were the days when he could push aside the voices in his head. Except for his obsession with Amy.

  He picked up the tray and walked down the hallway of their cabin near Lake Conroe. With the FBI snooping around his business, he’d decided to lie low for the weekend and think through what needed to be done. The FBI had gotten close, but law-enforcement types were bloodhounds. The custom app he’d downloaded onto that Walker woman’s iPhone had kept him one step ahead of them. He simply had to throw them off the scent.