by Laurel Dewey
Looking closer at the putrid pile of death, Jane saw a black cell phone sitting upright in the chewed out ear of the deer. It was on and still connected to Town Hall’s main line. Bo’s cell phone rang. Jane called out for gloves and an officer handed her a pair. She snapped them on, held her breath and wrestled the phone from the grip of maggots. “I’m sure it’s a prepaid disposable,” she commented in Bo’s direction.
“That was Vi,” Bo stated, snapping his cell phone shut. “She said we got a phone number on the Caller ID that doesn’t match the first two numbers that came in. This one has an area code from back east. She’s gonna track it down.”
Moving away from the car, Jane slid the back panel of the phone off and saw exactly what she expected. “No SIM card.” An officer handed her a plastic evidence bag into which she deposited the phone. She pulled off the gloves and tossed them in a trash bag.
After the police cameraman finished documenting the frigid scene, Jane drew her leather jacket tight against her chest, walked around to the driver’s side door and peered inside the vehicle. The seats were shredded. Springs popped through the upholstery in the backseat. Piles of rodent droppings littered both the front and back seats. After learning that the door handles had been dusted for prints and were absent of anything fresh, she tried the handle on the driver’s side door. It was locked shut. The same thing proved true for the passenger door.
“Nobody’s driven this car since Nixon was in office,” she stated to Weyler who scanned the car interior from the passenger side. She looked at the set of tire tracks that led up to the car. “If Bo takes molds of those tracks, they’ll probably match the SUV, van or truck that dragged this piece of junk here. I’d rule out a van, personally.”
Weyler revealed that Bo was familiar with the black beater Chevy Vega. It had been sitting at the dump for twenty years, which was located five miles down the road.
“Any chance of security cameras at the dump?” Weyler shook his head. “You said Jordan doesn’t own a car, right? So, if he’s involved, how’d he get this thing here?”
“He’s got to have a partner.”
“An outcast and a loner decides to partner up? Does that sound plausible to you?”
“Anything’s possible at this point, Jane.”
Jane turned around, leaning on the hood of the car. She stared into the thicket of trees and brush in front of her. At first she didn’t see it, even though it was fairly obvious. But once she spotted it, she froze. It was another cairn, tucked away behind a stand of trees. It was even bigger than the one located on the highway that alerted the patrol cop.
“See something?” Weyler asked.
Jane spoke before she thought. “No.” The minute the word fell from her lips, she regretted the lie. She’d only lied to Weyler a few times in her career and that was when she was either drunk or not thinking clearly. Right now, she figured the latter was applicable, but she didn’t correct herself. Instead she told Weyler that she was going to walk around the perimeter of the area to check out things. Once he moved away from the area and she was certain the surrounding cops couldn’t see her, she calmly strolled to the cairn behind the trees. When she stood over it, it was easy to see the line of smaller rocks that extended out from the stacked rocks and into the woods, forming an obvious path. Perhaps it isn’t the car with the dead animals in the trunk or the cell phone that’s the next dot in the story, she thought. That might have been just the kidnapper’s loud announcement that led to something else…something that had more value.
She stared at the rock path and then back at the cairn. What she did next was called “interfering with an ongoing investigation.” She preferred to call it “taking the bull by the horns and ramrodding the investigation.” With one good kick, she toppled the cairn. She used the toe of her cowboy boot to toss the long pathway of stones to the side. Checking back at the scene, she was satisfied that nobody was watching her. She turned and followed the well-placed rock path that wound around a stand of spruce trees and graduated up an incline toward a shaded rocky area. She made sure to kick the small rocks in the path as far away as possible to make the clue indistinguishable to anyone else. Jane stopped right before the outcropping of large rocks. The wet snow lay heavy on the spruce branches around her, dipping their tips of new growth toward the earth. But the rocky outcropping had been protected from the snowy blast by the large evergreens, exposing the next clue in the story.
A single cigarette was positioned on a large rock in front of Jane, its tip pointed slightly to the left. Without hesitating, she withdrew her Glock, holding it at her side as she moved closer. She stood over it and easily noted the black mark of a pen encircling the cigarette about one millimeter from the tip. The other end clearly showed the insignia of the brand, Chesterfield. Noting the direction the cigarette was pointing, she picked it up and continued on that path. Ten feet farther, up another slight incline, she easily found the next cigarette. It was the same brand and had the same curious mark near its tip in black ink. This cigarette pointed straight ahead and so she collected it and kept walking. Like a game of hopscotch, she followed the cigarette pathway, collecting each identical one before moving onto the next, taking care to move judiciously just in case the kidnapper was watching, gorging on the attention as much as the maggots were still enjoying their juicy banquet in the trunk. After recovering the tenth cigarette, she emerged into a small clearing, smattered with snow. Artfully placed on the bed of dried spruce needles was a heavy glass and leather ashtray with four grooves that each held a cigarette. The remaining six cigarettes formed an arrow that pointed to an empty, crushed Chesterfield burgandy pack. On the front, it read: CHESTERFIELD 101.
It was the sort of scene that needed to be photographed and documented. Whatever it meant, Jane knew it was a vital link in the story that the kidnapper was telling. But, goddamnit, she was tired of being called everything from “lippy” to a dyke by Bo Lowry simply because her out-of-the-box opinions and theories were off-center. Jane stood over the scene for several minutes, wrestling with her next move. Finally, she pulled out her cell phone, selected the camera feature and took four photos of the mysterious set-up before picking up the evidence—including the ashtray—and burying them in the pockets of her jacket.
When she returned to the Vega, Weyler crossed toward her. “Anything?” he asked.
Jane made a point to look away so the lie wouldn’t read. “Nothing.” She turned back to Weyler. “Is Bo going to tell the Van Gordens about this?”
“No.”
“If I’m correct about the guy’s signature pattern, he’s most likely given up now on back and forth clues between the Van Gordens and Bo. If the pattern were still in effect, the Chevy Vega with the dead meat in the trunk would have shown up outside the Van Gordens’ house. But he’s changed it up because the family refuses to talk publicly.”
Weyler turned to Jane in a confidential manner. “You’re basing that on the assumption that the Van Gordens are holding back a clue.”
“Yeah. I am. But I also know this guy is getting bolder. You watch. The clues will get bolder too. He’s tired of playing it safe. This guy is basically saying ‘Fuck you. I want the world to hear me and understand me.’”
“Understand what? Dead animals in a trunk?”
She felt the corner of the heavy leather and glass ashtray pressing against her side. “Sure. Why not?” Jane moved closer to Weyler. “Listen, I think it would be prudent to put some eyes on Jordan’s property. Nothing obvious. Just watch him.”
“Meaning you?” Weyler asked, his tone uneasy.
“Yes. The more I can steer clear of your buddy Bo, the healthier we’ll all be. Don’t you agree?”
Jane made her way back to the Mustang, happy to be clear of both the rotting stench and trail of lies she left at the scene. Carefully removing the ashtray and cigarettes from her jacket pocket, she secured them in the pocket of her leather satchel. She headed back to Jordan’s property two miles back up the high
way. Parking on the river side of the highway with the car turned so that the driver’s side was closest to the river, Jane sheltered the Mustang amidst an opportunistic stand of trees that shrouded the car from view. From this vantage point, she could easily view Jordan’s property, including most of his log cabin that sat on stilts. She rolled down the windows to push the stagnant air from the car and popped open her glove compartment, unearthing a small pair of well-worn binoculars. She noted the time as 10:10 am. As she surveyed the river’s edge and surrounding acreage, she saw no sign of life. All was eerily quiet until a voice broke through the stillness.
“Whatcha lookin’ for, Jane?”
Jane quickly turned toward the passenger window. There, leaning on the partially open window, was Jordan Copeland. How he was able to perambulate there without Jane hearing him was anybody’s guess.
He reached inside the car, unlocked the door and opened it. Jane touched the Glock inside her jacket.
Jordan wedged his filthy body with his trademark oilcloth coat in the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. He turned to her with impunity, his iridescent eyes glimmering. “I knew you’d come back to see me.” He winked. “Take your hand off your gun. You’re not gonna shoot me. But you are going to drive.”
CHAPTER 15
Jane regarded Jordan with contempt. His foul body odor filled the Mustang, permeating every inch of the car. Chunks of mud laced with fresh snow fell off his boots and onto the floor mat. His grey beard, coated with stems of dried mud and frosty fingers of snow, matched his scruffy, uncombed and unmanageable curled mane.
“Go on, Jane. There’s another small bridge about a hundred feet ahead. Drive across it and onto my property before your merry band of black-and-whites come barreling down the road and see us.” Jane remained motionless. “Jane?” Jordan said, like a scolding schoolteacher. “What are you waiting for? Drive!”
Even though she was the one with the loaded Glock under her jacket, she felt oddly vulnerable. But she still wanted to cross that small bridge. Maybe it was that damned curiosity of hers that never seemed to be satisfied or maybe it was the fact that she always tended to do whatever she was told not to do. She fired up the Mustang and followed his directions. As she drove over the rickety bridge, for a fleeting moment she wondered if this was actually a kidnapping. Was this how Jordan lured Jake off the bridge? Did he make the boy feel safe and secure and then do something wicked when he had his back turned? Maybe. But there was no way Jane would ever let her guard down with him. Never.
Once across the bridge, Jordan instructed her to drive to a spot behind his cabin where her ice blue Mustang would be shrouded from view. She waited for him to get out of the car before she followed.
“This way,” he directed, pointing to an even more densely forested part of the property. Jane stopped. “You don’t want them to see you, do you?” He smiled. “Ladies first,” he said with that queasy timbre.
“After you,” Jane insisted.
“Aren’t you a lady?”
“Yeah. A smart one.” She motioned forward with her chin. “After you, Jordan.”
Jordan smiled and began to chuckle, walking ahead of Jane and leading her deeper into the wooded area. She cautiously pulled her Glock from its holster and held it at her side. “Is that really necessary, Jane?” he asked, still with his back to her.
She was always good at covertly removing her gun, but this guy seemed to have the same heightened sense of hearing that she’d developed over the last two days. “I’ll keep it out for now, Jordan.”
He sniggered. “Suit yourself.” He led her farther into the property. The ground was sloppy from the recent blast of snow. “I have another riddle for you,” he said without turning his back. “There is one word in the English language that is always pronounced incorrectly. What is it?”
Jane kept five feet of distance behind him. She considered the riddle. “The answer is incorrectly.”
“Very good, Jane! You listen! You pay attention! Well done!”
His response wasn’t lost on Jane’s suspicious mind. “You need people to listen to you and pay attention, don’t you?”
There was another snort of condescension. “You’ve determined that your cunning kidnapper is doing the same thing, eh?” He stopped and turned. Jane halted, never taking her eyes off him. “One more riddle. Why don’t Mormons drink coffee?”
Jane didn’t have a clue but she was sure he was winding up to sling another politically incorrect salvo. “No clue.”
“Because if they did, they’d wake up and realize how really fucked up their lives were.” He let out a quick laugh.
“You’re an equal opportunity hater. I get it.” She started to take a step back when her boot slipped in the slick mud. Before she could get her balance, she hit the ground hard, splattering mud over her jeans and shirt. Jane quickly raised the Glock toward Jordan, unsure of how he might take advantage of this opportunity.
“You certainly have a difficult time keeping clean, don’t you?” he said, completely unruffled by the loaded firearm pointed at his chest. He reached out to Jane, offering his hand. She waved him off and gingerly stood up, training the gun on him the entire time. He leaned his large body against a spruce tree, unaffected by Jane’s aggressive stance. “You got that tough girl vibe on overdrive, don’t you? You’re not exactly reeking of the pure feminine archetype. More like Betty Butch.” Now Jane was really pissed. This was the second asshole in two days who referenced a dyke vibe coming from her. Her first thought was to beat his head into the spruce tree but then she realized that would probably validate his observation. Jordan reached up toward the new growth on the tree, snapped off a few of the pale green needles and popped them in his mouth. “Did you know that spruce needles can prevent scurvy?” he asked, chewing the needles into a mush. “It’s true. Natural vitamin C. All those pioneers dropping dead on the Oregon Trail from scurvy and they were surrounded by their cure. Don’t you just love irony, Jane?”
“How about if we walk back to your house?”
“No chance. That’s sacred territory in there. Nobody’s allowed in my dwelling.”
“Really? Cops went through it after Jake went missing.”
“True. I had to air it out for days to get rid of the blue stink. Nah, I like it out here. You spend thirty-four years in a six-byeight box and you’d be partial to the outdoors too.”
“Is that why you roam around your property at night?”
“Who told you that?” A devious smile crept across his face.
“Bo Lowry.”
“Christ. What a bloated chatter-fuck. Nothing worse than a little man who thinks he has big power. Bo Lowry is a farce to be reckoned with! You hear that sucking sound? That’s Lowry’s career circling the drain.”
“But you do roam this place at night?” Jane said, moving back on message. “What’s curious is that Jake Van Gorden also liked to ramble around when it was dark. It’s not outside the scope that the two of you might have made contact, especially with nighttime to cloak the communication.”
“I already covered this with you. I’m not allowed within one hundred feet of a school or in the presence of a child under the age of eighteen…”
“You’re wily. You’d figure out a way.”
“Wily. Interesting choice of word.” He grabbed another few needles off the tree and ate them. “We talking about me or you?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“You’re wily as hell, Jane. Must I remind you how you gained entrance to my property the second time we met?” Jordan seemed to know more about her personality than she would have liked. “Yes…”
“Yes, what?”
“I roam my territory at night. But you don’t know much about a man, do you? If you did, you’d know that a man’s territory is wherever he’s standing. A man learns to own that.”
“When you’re out of your safe zone, you don’t own the land you stand over. I saw you at the diner. I bet you sit in the same booth
every time you go there.” Jordan furrowed his brow, an indication to Jane that she was right. “You don’t tread far from your safety zone because that’s unchartered water for you. Swim too far and you might drown.”
He regarded her with a sharpened stare. After a few heavy seconds, Jordan straightened his spine. “I could swim out there if I chose…if I was unhampered by the unwashed masses. But there’s too many sharks waiting to pull me down.”
She immediately spotted a vulnerability in him. This monster with the acid tongue had been beaten by a life unlived; a life spent mostly confined in a cell with a small window on a world that felt too treacherous to navigate. “You certainly have a flair for the English language.”
“Would it be more conventional for me to be stupid? I wasn’t staring at the fucking wall for thirty-four years.”
She recalled what Bo told her about Jordan’s jailhouse education. “Right. You got two degrees. Philosophy and esoteric psychology, whatever the hell that is.”
“Whatever the hell that is,” he repeated in a monotone. “I can outthink most people, Jane, with my left brain tied behind my back.”
There was no doubt in her mind that he was highly intelligent. Superior intelligence and criminal degeneracy were not mutually exclusive. It was another facet of Jordan’s personality that red-flagged him as a suspect in Jake’s disappearance. “You own a television?”
“No. I don’t need to watch TV so I can be fed all the news they feel I need to know.”
“How about a phone?”
“No.”
“Really?”
