But Dylan wasn’t a murderer. He was a law enforcement officer.
Fuck that.
He guided the SUV into the neighborhood and forced himself to slow down in case any kids ran into the street. The last thing he wanted to do was kill a child because he was on a mission to kill a murderer, a man who had raped his own stepdaughter when she was a teenager.
The woman Dylan had loved for as long as he could remember.
Belle had kept the knowledge from him, and if it hadn’t been for Nate’s death, she might never have told him. The better part of him understood she had just been trying to protect him. It was true that he could have ended up in prison for the rest of his life had he killed Driscoll. He’d been old enough that he would have been tried as an adult because he’d have known exactly what he was doing.
Another part of him didn’t know how to deal with the knowledge that Belle hadn’t told him before now. He knew she hadn’t done it to protect Driscoll. She’d done it to protect Dylan because she knew what kind of temper he had. She’d probably been terrified of what Driscoll would do to her if he knew she’d overheard him telling her mother he’d murdered Belle’s boyfriend’s father.
The knowledge had tortured her all these years, of that he was sure. The thought that she had lived with such a terrible secret made his heart ache for her. No wonder she had run. Her stepfather had been sexually abusing her. Her stepfather had killed her boyfriend’s father.
What she’d done by leaving had shown strength that many people didn’t possess. Yes, there had been other ways to handle it, but she’d done the only thing she thought she could do. She had made a life for herself out of nothing and a lifetime of horrible experiences and knowledge.
Dylan had searched for his dad’s killer ever since moving back to southeastern Arizona. He’d known the Jimenez Cartel had somehow been involved. It was a cold case by the time Dylan had been in a position to hunt for his dad’s killer, but he’d been chipping away at it.
He’d never suspected Harvey Driscoll. The bastard had known Ben Curtis, but they had only met a couple of times as far as Dylan knew. It had probably been enough that Ben would have thought Driscoll had some other business. He never would have suspected the man was there to murder him.
Dylan pulled the SUV to the curb across the street from the house where Driscoll lived. A house where Belle had experienced the kind of trauma no child should go through. The house where a murderer still lived while the man he’d murdered had left behind a devastated wife and two sons.
For a long moment he stared at the house, trying to get his emotions under control. The house was in a state of disrepair that was worse than it had been twenty-three years ago when Belle left. Driscoll and Belle’s mother had taken no pride in their home, the grass dead, the lone pine tree on the verge of falling down, the house in need of a new paint job.
Now the formerly yellow paint was gray and had curled and peeled until little was left on the boards. The wood steps sagged and the porch was in such bad shape it looked like it would collapse if stepped on. Dead grass and weeds choked the front yard, and in the midst of that sat the rusted and faded hulk of an old red Pontiac Grand Am. Dylan remembered that Driscoll had purchased the car new sometime after Ben Curtis’s death. Driscoll had probably paid for it with blood money. Money made from spilling Ben Curtis’s blood.
Dylan didn’t know if Driscoll was home, but an early model 2001 green Ford truck was in the gravel driveway to the right of the house. Dylan wasn’t even sure what he would do when he faced the sonofabitch. Truth was Dylan could easily kill Driscoll.
Teeth clenched, Dylan still gripped the steering wheel. He realized his muscles were shaking with the restraint it took to stay in his vehicle. He forced himself to calm his breathing. Whatever he did, it needed to be done with a clear head.
He let go of the steering wheel and swung open the door of the SUV. He climbed out before shutting the door solidly behind him. He let his gaze drift along the street.
Two doors down, a couple of identical looking boys, who were eight or nine, sat on the porch steps of a home in far better shape than Driscoll’s. No matter how rundown the area was, any house in the neighborhood was in better shape than Driscoll’s. The boys’ mother was likely tired of the kids playing video games all day and had probably chased them out of the house to play in the front yard.
A couple argued about finances as they came out of the house next door to the one Dylan stood in front of. The woman shouted at the man, telling him he needed to get a job because hers couldn’t pay all of the bills. He told her to shut the hell up before he climbed into a newer Chevy truck and slammed the door behind him. The woman was still yelling as the man gunned the engine and peeled out of the driveway.
At the end of the street, a woman pinned laundry to a clothesline. In the early morning breeze, the clothes waved on the line. It made Dylan think of the times his mother had done the same thing on the ranch, and he pictured sheets billowing in a gust of wind. The sheets would smell of the clean outdoors as she tucked him in at night when he was just a young boy. His father would come in and tell Dylan and Aspen a story before bedtime. Often the stories were about farming and ranching, usually tall tales his father would make up on the spot. His father had been a gifted storyteller.
Dylan’s stomach clenched at the memories. As he stared at Driscoll’s house, he was conscious of the Browning semi-automatic in its shoulder holster over his T-shirt. The thought that he shouldn’t be armed was fleeting.
Whatever happened, happened.
Dylan strode across the street. The fact that he’d be facing his father’s killer was almost surreal. He’d been so close all this time. So close.
As Dylan pushed open the rusted metal gate of the hip-high chain link fence, it gave a rusted screech. His shoes thumped on the cracked concrete path to the wooden steps, which creaked as he took them two at a time. When he reached the porch, the boards were surprisingly sturdy beneath his weight.
He banged on the door with his fist, the sound loud enough to wake the dead and draw the attention of anyone in the street. When silence met his knock, he pounded on the door again. Likely Driscoll was still asleep.
Dylan pounded on the door even louder.
The door swung open. “What the hell do you want?” Harvey Driscoll slurred the words as he scowled at Dylan, face red, eyes bleary from alcohol and sleep.
Dylan studied the man who’d killed his father. He’d expected to feel even more rage, more murderous fury than he’d felt when Belle had told him. But now that he faced the murderer, Dylan knew that he wanted to make the man pay. Death would be too easy for the bastard. No, Harvey Driscoll needed to rot in prison.
The older man wore a dirty wife beater T-shirt, filthy pants, and no shoes. A bald patch on his head shone with sweat and his large beer gut hung over his belt. He squinted and looked from Dylan’s holstered pistol to his face. His oily pockmarked face now had a cautious expression instead of a scowl.
“You a cop?” In his drunken stupor, he clearly didn’t recognize Dylan. Or course, Dylan had changed in the past twenty-three years since Belle had vanished.
Dylan was aware of a truck with a powerful engine coming to a hard stop in the gravel across the street behind him.
“Harvey Driscoll.” Dylan stepped back and gestured for the man to come out on the porch. “Step outside.”
The man hesitated, then joined Dylan on the porch. He glanced over Dylan’s shoulder and his eyes widened slightly as boot steps hit the asphalt. “I didn’t do nothin’.” Driscoll licked his lips. “What’re you doing here?”
Trace or Brooks, likely had arrived. Belle had no doubt told the agents and Dylan’s good friends the reason why Dylan left in a hurry. He ground his teeth. Both men should be guarding Belle, not just one.
The sound of steps came to a stop at the foot of the stairs. Dylan casually looked over his shoulder to see Trace standing with his arms folded across his chest. He gave Dylan a si
ngle nod but said nothing.
Dylan turned his attention back to Driscoll. The man’s gaze narrowed. “I know you from somewhere. Who the hell are you?”
“So you like hurting young girls.” Dylan said it as a statement, not a question. “You sexually abused your own stepdaughter. What other children have you molested?”
A look of fear flashed across Driscoll’s face but then it was gone. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He waved it away with a sloppy movement of his arm. “The little bitch is probably dead. Haven’t seen her in over twenty years.”
Dylan wanted to slam his fist into Driscoll’s ugly face so badly that his teeth and hands ached with the force it took to hold himself back. Better yet, he should shoot the man and be done with it.
“I know who you are.” Driscoll stepped closer to Dylan who took another step back to bring Driscoll further out onto the porch. “You’re that punkass Curtis kid who was always sniffing up Belle’s skirt.”
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a man.” Dylan kept his voice low as he taunted Driscoll, aware that neighbors were watching now, which was exactly what Dylan wanted. “I hear you have a little dick and you couldn’t even satisfy your wife. You even had to kill a man to get off.”
“Motherfucker!” Driscoll bellowed the words as he stepped forward, his fist raised.
Come on, Driscoll. Take the bait.
“You haven’t got the balls to do more than hurt little girls and kill defenseless men.” Dylan braced himself.
With a roar, Driscoll swung his fist at Dylan.
Dylan didn’t even flinch as the fist came toward him. Driscoll’s fist connected with the side of Dylan’s head.
Sparks lit up Dylan’s vision for a brief moment, but he shook it off. Driscoll’s fist came at him again.
This time Dylan whipped out his handcuffs with one hand as he used the other to grab the man’s wrist. Dylan twisted Driscoll’s arm behind his back, swept his feet out from under him, and slammed him down hard. The bastard’s cheek rested on the porch. Dylan had his knee on the small of Driscoll’s back with his hands cuffed behind him, the whole process done in five seconds flat.
“Let me go, you sonofabitch!” Driscoll struggled but Dylan had him pinned to the splintered boards. “Police brutality!”
Trace stepped onto the porch. “I’ll take it from here.”
The rage that Dylan felt toward Driscoll hadn’t subsided. His body was still hot and tingling with the desire to hurt Driscoll. To really hurt him. Yeah, it would be better to let Trace handle the bastard from this point on. Dylan might just kill the man after all.
Dylan pushed away from Driscoll and stood. Dylan inhaled deeply then let out a harsh breath. He still shook from the force of his anger and had to take another deep breath. It didn’t do much to calm him, but it gave him time to clear his head.
Trace settled his boot on Driscoll’s lower back. Trace pressed his boot harder on Driscoll, causing the man to whine. Trace said in a low, exaggerated drawl, “Quiet down, or I’m going to have to let Dylan take over again. He’s not as nice as I am.”
Dylan relaxed his clenched fists. He turned away as he un-holstered his cell phone to call in the arrest of Driscoll for the federal crime of assault on a federal agent.
A crowd had gathered around. Dylan heard comments that told him Driscoll wasn’t popular in the neighborhood.
“Did you see Harvey hit the cop?” asked a woman. “The old bastard got what he deserved,” said a man. “I got it all on my phone,” added a much younger voice.
Good. The recording would be proof of the assault by Driscoll. Dylan didn’t look at the watching neighbors as he raised his own phone to his ear and made the call.
CHAPTER 21
The search warrant for Salvatore and Christie’s home finally came through via the FBI as two agents with DHS took Harvey Driscoll away.
It was late morning by the time Dylan and Trace walked toward their separate vehicles. Trace was on the phone with Brooks, letting him know that Driscoll was very much alive but had been arrested and taken away, and why. Now they just needed Belle to go to the police, tell her story, and press charges for the sexual abuse. Dylan knew she would also testify about overhearing Driscoll bragging about murdering Dylan’s father.
Next Dylan needed to build a case against Driscoll for Ben Curtis’s murder. Dylan would need to work with other agents due to the fact that it was his dad who was murdered, but Dylan intended to do everything he could to make sure Driscoll was put away for a long, long time. Preferably for the rest of his life.
Once the wheels were set in motion, a search warrant would be issued to search Driscoll’s home for the pictures and videos he’d taken of Belle when he’d raped her. They would also get a warrant to search for the gun that Driscoll had used to take Ben Curtis’s life.
When Driscoll was hauled away in cuffs, some of Dylan’s fury had lessened. Most remained in his mind and body like a too-high pilot light that would never go out. The bastard would pay. Dylan just had to be patient enough for the wheels of justice to turn.
Galena wasn’t far from Salvatore and Christie Reyes’s home in the Terraces. While Dylan drove to their home, he called George to see how he was doing with the memory card.
“Still working on it.” George sounded frustrated. “My program has used every combination of the words that I can think of—together, individually, frontward, backward, flipped, first letters, last letters, first and last letters… Damn it, you name it, I’ve done it. The program we use is working overtime on it, too.”
“Something must be missing.” Dylan thought the words aloud.
“No kidding,” George grumbled. “I’ll stay on it.”
Dylan thanked him as he arrived at the Reyes house. Trace pulled Dylan’s truck up behind his own SUV that he had loaned to Dylan. Brooks was already there. Two other DHS agents had taken his place at the B & B earlier and were guarding Belle.
Male and female agents wore jackets with FBI printed on the front and in much larger yellow letters on the back. The agents were clearly preparing to storm the castle and conduct the search.
Brooks was turned away from Trace and Dylan. Brooks wore his agency jacket with FEDERAL AGENT in smaller letters beneath the large POLICE on the back.
DHS, ICE, EPA, and other agency acronyms were not as recognizable as FBI, CIA, DEA, or simply police to many criminals. Several agencies used POLICE across the back and on the front instead of their own acronyms for that reason. It was a matter of identification and safety.
Dylan and Trace pulled on their own jackets that matched Brooks’s before they headed in the direction of the house. Brooks stood next to a woman who wore an FBI jacket. The female agent’s black hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head. It was severe enough to tighten her dark skin over her high cheekbones. Her eyes were black and sharp and it looked like her expression was likely perpetually serious. Dylan couldn’t picture her cracking a smile.
Ahead of them was the pathway leading to the wrought iron security door of the Reyes home.
Brooks turned to face Trace and Dylan and nodded to them. Brooks made the introductions between the four when they met up. “This is Special Agent Laura Stillwater, the lead agent on the FBI’s search for Christie.”
After Dylan and Stillwater shook hands, Brooks said, “According to Agent Stillwater, they have a couple of leads.” He glanced at her. “But they don’t seem inclined to share them with us.”
Dylan ground his teeth. The FBI could be so damned difficult to deal with.
“We’ll fill you in soon enough.” Stillwater drew her weapon. “Right now we’re going to search their home and see if we can find clues to Christie’s whereabouts.”
Dylan’s skin burned as his thoughts focused on his childhood friend and the need to find her. Christie had better be alive. If anyone had even hurt her, Dylan would tear the person or persons into shreds. If it was Salvatore, the sonofabitch was going to wish he w
ere dead by the time Dylan got through with him.
Agents reported that wrought iron security doors were also at the back of the house, and all were locked.
Stillwater shouted out their presence and stated the FBI was coming in, but there was no response. Not that Dylan had expected any. Agents were posted at the front and back of the home, prepared for anyone who might run out.
Two agents took a hydraulic ram to the wrought iron, and it didn’t take long before it was breached. Within seconds after opening the metal security door, the agents smashed open the front door with the ram.
Dylan’s heart rate picked up as he, Trace, Brooks, Stillwater, and other agents entered the home holding their weapons in a two-handed grip, clearing room after room. When all of the rooms were cleared, agents began to methodically search the house for clues.
Trace and Brooks worked with the FBI agents, searching other parts of the house.
Stillwater and Dylan stood in the living room in front of a closed metal door that agents had been unable to open with the hydraulic ram.
“What the hell is behind this door?” Dylan said more to himself than anyone else. “Salvatore had to be hiding something important.”
“We’ll just have to find out what that is.” Stillwater called for a hydraulic tool that would aid in opening a metal door. “If this doesn’t do it, we’ll have to call for more drastic measures.”
Like explosives. Dylan frowned as the thought crossed his mind that just maybe Christie was inside that room. Even a strategically placed small explosive had the potential to kill or harm any occupants that might be too close.
Fortunately, the agents had the door open with the hydraulic tool within the next ten minutes. The time seemed interminable, but finally they were in.
When Dylan went through the door with Stillwater, he saw that it was an office. “Salvatore must have been hiding something important in here to warrant that kind of security.” Dylan pulled on a pair of latex gloves before he began searching the room.
No Mercy Page 21
