“Little bodies ? A serial killer with a preference for kids. So, I’m right. Ariel wasn’t meant to die that day.” He rolled his chair over to an open filing cabinet, then pulled out a manila folder and tossed it on the desk. “That’s Ariel’s autopsy report. I’ll make you a copy-pictures, too, if you like. That poor girl was stabbed fifty times. Half those wounds were inflicted after she was dead, but that still leaves time for a lot of cold terror. Can you even imagine what went through that girl’s mind while she was bleeding to death?… And it was all a mistake.”
Yes, a mistake. The humming child-crazy little Dodie Finn-had been the intended target. The older sister had simply gotten in the way.
One by one, she examined the many autopsy photographs and counted up the defensive wounds on the hands and the arms. Not a quick kill. Mallory had difficulty achieving pity and seldom tried-what use was it to her? And so it was with something closer to approval that she imagined a teenage girl-terrified and all alone in her battle with a serial killer- fighting to protect her little sister and giving that child a chance to run, to live.
Fierce Ariel.
9
Ray Adler hovered close to the back door. The aroma of roast beef had drawn him in from the yard, but now he was repulsed by the photographs that Peyton’s g irl had spread across the kitchen table. They put him off his feed, these pictures of death.
“The second crew is working on your car,” he said. “It’ll be finished tomorrow for sure, but it might be real late at night.”
She only nodded, then moved down the length of the table, looking from one photograph to the next.
“I think you’ll like the guest room. Your dad used to stay there.” His eyes kept straying to her pictures, and now he could not look away. He recognized that patch of road, and it was not every day that a murdered teenager was found in his quiet corner of Kansas. “That’s Joe Finn’s g irl, isn’t it?”
“You know him?” She looked up. The spell of the pictures was broken.
“No, never met the man. But I saw his last fight.” Ray pulled up a chair and sat down at the table. “It was maybe a year ago in Kansas City. He was overmatched and a little past prime, but that man would not lie down. I think the other guy just got worn out from punching him. That would’ve been around the time they found his girl’s d e ad body-and not too far from here. That was a sad business.”
The position of Ray’s c hair gave him a view into the next room, and he could see that she had been busy in there. He could smell the cleaning solvents that must have come from the grocery bags she brought back with her-along with the bloody photographs.
The girl checked the roast in the oven, then opened the refrigerator door. He saw all his beer bottles lined up like soldiers on the bottom shelf, and every other bit of space was filled with six colors of fresh vegetables, meats and cheeses. His crew would eat well tonight, but it made him feel bad that the girl believed she had to work for her roll bar. And he could not argue with her. Peyton’s d aughter was the willful kind, and she carried a gun.
Dale Berman had ordered them to take the parents onto the interstate, the fastest route to the new rendezvous point-as if speed mattered to him. In Agent Christine Nahlman’s view, her supervisor had dragged his feet everywhere he went with this case.
Agent Nahlman drove the point car, and she was the first to witness the desertion as highway patrol cars peeled off and raced away to other destinations, abandoning the caravan. Tw o undercover agents posing as parents were riding in the last car, but it had been the job of the Missouri State Tr oopers to ensure that there would be no defection of parents taking the exits back to the old road. And now the escort was gone.
Nahlman turned to her young partner, who was engrossed in his road map-and missing the road. In her role as wet nurse to a rookie, she asked, “Notice anything?”
“Huh?” Agent Allen looked up, and his head swiveled to peer out every window. “What happened to the troopers?” And now he must have realized that this was a stupid question. “I’m on it.” He pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to the SAC. “It’s Allen, sir… Y es, sir… W e were making good time, but now the troopers are gone… Y es, sir, I’ll tell her… No, sir…Sorry, I thought you were aware of…We’re taking them to a campsite on private land… Yes, sir. I’ll pass that along.”
“Let me guess,” said Nahlman. “He’s not happy about the change in plans.”
“And there won’t be any more state cops. We’re supposed to keep them out of this from now on. He didn’t know you were going to bypass that hotel back in Springfield. You never cleared that with him? Well, anyway, he reserved more hotel rooms up ahead in Joplin.”
“That’s not going to happen,” said Nahlman.
“You don’t t hink the parents will go for it?”
“Something like that.” She had no plans to string these people out down a corridor of hotel rooms like fresh meat in a butcher shop. “Call the moles. They haven’t c hecked in for a while.”
Allen called up the number for the embedded agents riding in the last car. Only half a minute into the cell-phone conversation, he said, “Oh, shit.” The young agent turned a worried face to his partner. “We lost some of the parents when the troopers left. Tw o of them took the exit back to Route 66.”
Nahlman nodded. “Of course they did. They’re looking for their children.” She smiled at him, never tiring of paper-training the puppy. “And now we don’t have the state troopers to round up the strays.”
Allen looked down at his cell phone, regarding it as something that might explode in his hand. “I’m sure Agent Berman had his reasons.”
“For screwing us over on backup?” Nahlman’s hands tightened on the wheel. It was a mistake to put this youngster on the defensive. He would always defend Dale Berman, a man with a gift for garnering undeserved loyalty. “Don’t w o rry,” she said. “I won’t ask you to call in for help. We’d never get it.”
“What if something happens to one of the strays?”
“That’s what sheepdogs are for,” said Nahlman. “I knew the trooper escort was all for show. Berman just wanted to keep Sheriff Banner happy. I’m surprised it lasted more than six minutes.” And now-back to school for Barry Allen; he was about to learn the value of a backup plan. “I asked that New York cop and his friend to drive the scenic route. When the parents take exits, the moles will feed the plate numbers to Riker. He’ll round them up.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“That Dale was going to screw us over with the troopers? Was that something you’d want to hear?” She smiled at him with genuine affection. She knew that Barry Allen would give up his life for her, but she could never count on him.
Mallory and Ray Adler sat on the stoop outside the kitchen door, tipping back cold bottles of beer and listening to rock ’n’ roll playing in the garage across the yard. The sunset was not spectacular given a cloudless sky, but Ray supplied the evening entertainment, telling her the story of Joe Finn’s last fight.
“I went with my dad-big fight fan. Now, that boxing match was as dirty as it ever gets. My old dad called it close to murder. Joe Finn was about thirty-five years old, and he’d stayed in the game too long-too many blows to the head. Not much speed left. The promoters put up a young kid to fight him. We ll, that boy was all cheap shots and no talent. But he was a born killer, and the bookies favored him to win. And Finn? Well, he was no kid, and he had no chance. Just didn’t have the juice anymore. Ah, but the moves? Damn. I never saw that kind of grace in a man-even when the blood was in his eyes and he was bouncin’ off the ropes. It was almost like a dance. My old dad put a bet on that dancing man, knowing he was gonna lose. Dad was Joe Finn’s b iggest fan. And that night we were ringside for the finish.”
Ray Adler made his hand into a fist. “That fighter had the biggest heart God ever gave a man. He was beaten half to death, and he would not go down. And every time he landed a punch, the crowd roared, even them that bet agai
nst him-on their feet-screaming, whistling-what a night. We watched him go ten rounds of pure punishment, and I think the referee was paid to look the other way. I thought that boxer was gonna die. Cuts filled Finn’s e yes with blood, but he stayed on his feet-fighting stone blind. And finally the referee stopped the bout… My father’s e yes were full of tears… In all my life, I never saw Dad cry for anyone but Joe Finn.”
Click.
The woman in red was framed in the viewfinder as she exited the convenience store where she had paid for her gas and taped her poster to the window. The camera kept her in frame when she opened the door to her red sedan. Here she paused with a little shudder. Her head was turning slowly.
Did she sense a pair of eyes on her?
Yes. She was looking toward the back of the lot and the row of parked cars and trucks. All in a panic, her movements were jerky as she climbed behind the wheel and started her engine. A rear tire was losing air from a recently broken valve, but it had not gone flat, not yet. That would happen miles down the road in a place where there were no houses, no people-no help.
Click.
***
A runaway camper and sometimes a fool for love, April Waylon knelt on the old road beside her disabled car. She stared at the flat tire with the quiet understanding that she was going to die tonight. The lights of the interstate highway could be seen from here, but no one there would ever hear her scream.
Yet she felt no panic. April was beyond that now.
Though there were no headlights to be seen on old Route 66, not for miles in either direction, she had company tonight. Depression had come back to her like a faithful black dog. It was huge and overwhelming all her fear as it crouched beside her. April’s e yes welled up with tears. A little girl was waiting for her somewhere on this road; she would wait forever.
A car was coming.
April turned to look down the road toward the sound of that distant motor. Twin beams of light were rushing toward her, slowing-crawling. There was time to realize that her lost child was not miles away but only minutes, and a ten-year odyssey was nearly done. She bowed her head and said a sorry prayer.
And she waited.
What had been done to her baby would be done to her, and this would suffice for answers to every question save one-why?
A car door slammed. Footsteps on the road came closer. He stood beside her now, and she looked down to see his shoes-so close.
Any moment.
“Lady, I hope you’ve got a spare tire,” said the detective from New York City.
Riker pulled into the gas station, leading another errant parent from the caravan. After they had pulled up to the pumps, he reminded the man, “Don’t leave yourcar unattended. If you need to use therestroom, ask Charles Butler to watch it for you. Nobody gets near that car but you. Got that?”
The detective was about to slip his credit card into the gas-pump slot when his friend beat him to it. “Hey, Quick Draw,” said Riker, “how’s it going with the babysitting detail?”
“A very well-behaved group.”
“Good. Unless the moles missed a few license plates, I’ve got all but one of them.”
“While you were gone, I had a chat with April Waylon.” Charles nodded toward the woman dressed in red. “She’s been telling me about her adventures with Mallory-and a LoJack tracker.” He waited a moment, perhaps thinking that Riker might want to fill him in on that little side story-but no, the detective was not so inclined. And Charles continued. “Apart from that, Mrs. Waylon’s story is rather similar to what happened to Mr. Linden. The battery was stolen from her cell phone. Oh, and she had a flat tire that night, too. The problem was a-”
“A busted air valve? Jesus. So she survives that, and here she is-going out on her own again. What’s it gonna take to scare that woman?” Riker checked his watch. “I got one more town to check. It’s gonna be late when we catch up to the caravan.” And now he looked up to see April Waylon flagrantly disregarding his order to never leave a vehicle unattended. After pulling a poster from the dashboard of the red sedan, she walked away, leaving the car door hanging open while she taped a picture of her daughter to the gas station window.
Riker sighed. “Why don’t I just shoot her? Less work.”
Charles was also watching April Waylon. “She’s been wearing red for ten years-ever since her daughter disappeared.” He handed Riker a much-needed cup of coffee, and the two men leaned back against the Mercedes.
“Everything in her wardrobe is red,” said Charles. “It saves her from making decisions in the morning. She used to find that very difficult. That’s common among people in profound depression. But lately, April has structure in her days-important work to do. And she doesn’t t hink she’ll find her daughter on an interstate highway.”
“Okay, I get the point. I’ll talk to the feds.” Riker crumpled his empty paper cup in one fist. “I’ve still one missing parent.” He slipped behind the wheel of the Mercedes and drove off into the night, leaving his witless little flock to go out in search of the lamb that was lost.
The caravan city had taken shape under Oklahoma skies, and the hour was late.
Agent Christine Nahlman watched the man and his wolf walking across the prairie well beyond the campsite. In terms earlier laid down by Detective Riker, this parent, who called himself Jill’s D ad, was allotted only fifteen minutes to exercise the animal, and his time was nearly up.
He had offered to camp by himself down the road, perhaps recogniz- ing his status as a pariah here-though not on account of the wolf. Other parents shied away from him because he carried no pictures of his lost child, and because his eyes had gone dead-and his hopes-all gone.
The agent looked at her watch. His time was up. She waved her flashlight to call him back into the fold.
Most of the campfires were burning low, and some had been extinguished in favor of acetylene heaters inside the tents. The smell of coffee hung in the air. The breeze carried it everywhere. Dr. Magritte was passing out paper cups, holding court with those who had not yet retired. He seemed to give these people comfort, but Agent Nahlman had no faith in his ability to keep them in line.
She watched the man and his wolf approaching the camp. One hand was on her gun; the other held a cell phone, though she was hardly listening to Dale Berman’s assessment of the day’s d amage-the missing parent that Riker had failed to find. He gave her no credit for the backup plan that had snagged four other strays.
“This wouldn’t have happened,” he said, “if you’d checked all those people into the hotel.”
“And if I’d put them up in the hotel, a lot more of them would’ve bolted, and they’d be scattered all over Route 66.” Her cell phone went dead. Sometimes she forgot that self-defense was against the rules. Later he would call her back. Dale Berman was predictable that way. He would pretend that they had never had this conversation-that she had not all but called him a screwup, and he would forgive her for the mistakes she had never made.
When the wolf had been safely locked up in the cab of the pickup truck, Agent Allen joined his partner, saying, “Why not call Animal Control? They’ll just take the wolf away.”
“This is Riker’s idea, and we owe him. So you’re on wolf watch tomorrow morning.”
He was unenthused.
And now, because every day was a school day for Barry Allen, she added, “Never miss an opportunity to do a favor for a cop. It makes them feel stupid when they butt heads with you.”
Nahlman sent her partner off to get some sleep while she took the first shift of guard duty with one of the moles. She spent the time checking license plates against the list made at the last stop. The caravan had not shrunken by five runaways-it had grown. But only the parents from the last campsite had the map for this place. She suspected that Dr. Magritte could clear up this little mystery, and she waited until he was done with the small band of parents around his campfire.
Twenty minutes later, when she approached the old man, he was q
uick to look up at her, his face full of fear. He must believe that she was bringing him bad news about the runaway parent code-named by Riker as Lost Lamb.
The FBI agent only wished that all of these people could be scared so easily. “Sir, your caravan is growing by the hour.”
“It’s all right. I know who the new people are.”
“You led them here, didn’t you-by phone?”
“Well, yes.” Dr. Magritte seemed relieved now, assured that she only wanted to lecture him and that no more of his people had died. “You see, not everyone could make the meeting in Chicago. Some of the parents are coming in from neighboring states as we-”
“How many parents?”
“Hundreds.”
“What!” Had the old man gone insane? “You can’t be serious. They’ll choke the roads and-” And now she understood all too well. “That’s what you want, isn’t it. All the traffic will come to a stop for miles around… It’s like sending up a flare.”
The old man gave his apt pupil a generous smile. “Excellent metaphor- a distress signal. Do you know what these parents go through just to keep the story of a kidnapped child alive?” He looked out over his sleeping caravan. “They were invisible for so long. You’ve done a very good job of keeping reporters at bay.”
Nahlman nodded, though she could not take the credit for media control. Dale Berman had an idiot savant’s genius for manipulating reporters. To give Dale his due, he was brilliant at this game.
“The news media doesn’t know we’re alive,” said Magritte, “but I don’t think that will last much longer. As the caravan grows, people will notice. Oh, and your presence here will guarantee media attention. Finally the FBI will actually help these people.”
Find Me Page 17
