The whole time Kit was eating, the man had leaned against the wall, gun in hand, never taking his eyes off them. When Kit had finished her dinner, the woman had turned to the man, a silent question in her eyes. In response, the man had said, “Yeah, you can feed the brat now. But not too much. Kids her age shouldn’t overeat. We don’t want her to get fat.”
It was only then that Kit realized that the little girl had not yet eaten. Silently, she watched as the woman spooned some soup into a bowl and prepared a small serving of salad for the child at the table. She moved back to the kitchen counter to get the girl a piece of bread, but the man had said sharply, “That’s enough! She doesn’t need any more. Put the rest of the food away, and then start on the dishes.” Pointing the gun toward Kit, he said, “You can help her.”
After Kit had helped the woman do the dishes and tidy up the kitchen, the man had taken her back to her room and tied her up again. She desperately wanted to talk to Zoe, but their captor had warned them, “Don’t talk once I leave. Don’t even whisper. If you do, the gags go back on.”
He walked to the door, turned off the light, and left the room.
She’d never had a chance to talk to Zoe. And less than twenty-four hours later, Zoe was dead.
Kit herself had never expected to get out of that house alive. But now, by a miracle, she had been delivered by an angel in human form – an unlikely angel by the name of Danny.
In the darkness of the line shack during the wee hours of the morning, she had been awakened by the sound of a scream. Thinking it was Sherri, Kit had sat up and looked around, but relaxed when she realized that she was wrong; it was not Sherri who had screamed. The little girl was still and quiet, sleeping peacefully beside her.
Hesitantly, Kit had whispered, “Danny? Are you awake?”
“Um-hum.”
“What was that noise? Who was screaming?”
“Just a cougar. Don’t worry. We’re safe in here. Go back to sleep.”
Kit had tried but failed to go right back to sleep. She decided to use the opportunity to ask Danny the question that she had dared not ask before.
Turning to him in the dark, she had whispered, “Danny? What happened that night? Why did he…” she hesitated, fumbling for the right words, “… hurt your mother and my friend? Do you know?”
For a long time, she thought that Danny wasn’t going to answer. Presently, however, he said, “I wasn’t there. He’d locked me up. But my room is right above the kitchen, so I heard some things.”
“What did you hear?”
“Pots and pans rattling. I figured Mom and your friend were doing the dishes. Then I heard a loud crash.”
Danny paused for a minute before continuing, “I think your friend threw one of the pots at him. After that, I heard her screaming.”
Another pause. Kit heard the sound of the boy swallowing hard and realized that he was trying hard not to cry. There was a catch in his voice, however, as he resumed his story.
“My mother… I think she tried to stop him from hurting your friend. Then she – Mom – was screaming too. It seemed to go on forever. But a few minutes later, the screaming stopped. Next thing I knew, he was unlocking my door.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He said that I had to go down to the cellar. Sherri was already down there. He locked us both in there for the rest of the night. The next morning, he brought some food and water down for us. Then he told us he had to go away, and he probably wouldn’t be home until late that night. I asked him for permission to speak, and he said ‘Go ahead’. So I asked him about Mom. He said ‘Your mother broke the rules last night. So did one of the girls I brought here. They had to pay. You won’t be seeing either of them around here anymore.’ After he told me that, he shut the cellar doors. Just a short time later, I heard him start up his car and drive away.
“As soon as I heard the car leave, I asked Sherri what had happened the night before. Sherri was there the whole time, you know. She saw the whole thing.
“Sherri told me that he’d hurt Mom and put her in the trunk of the car. When I pressed her for more details, Sherri would only repeat one word: blood. That’s when I realized that Mom was dead. Your friend too. But I couldn’t think about that. I knew that he’d snapped, and I was afraid he would go after Sherri next. I had to get her out of there.”
“How did you get out of the cellar?” Kit asked curiously.
“I dug a tunnel.”
“What?”
“I’ve been digging an escape tunnel for weeks.”
“You have? That’s amazing!”
“I didn’t think about it that way. It was just something I had to do,” Danny had remarked matter-of-factly.
It was a long time before either of them had been able to fall back to sleep.
Kit was brought back to the present when Danny rose from the log he was sitting on and got to his feet. Stowing his canteen back in his pack, he announced, “We’ve rested long enough. We need to get moving again.”
Kit returned her own canteen to her backpack while Danny helped Sherri get to her feet. Then they resumed their journey, setting off on a trail that led ever deeper into the mountains.
Chapter 20
Unaware that they were focusing their search efforts for Kit Blakewood in the wrong area of southeastern Colorado, Dawn and her team continued working the case. They had booked a conference room and spread out all the evidence on the conference table. A large screen was centered on one wall, flanked by a couple of computer work stations.
Frustrated with the current status of the investigation, Dawn decided to use a technique she had learned from her mentor, Rafe’s deceased uncle and former head of the Homicide Unit, Nick Melbourne.
“When a case bogs down and seems to be going nowhere,” Nick had told her once, “it’s time to go back to the basics. Refresh yourself on the essential facts of the case and concentrate on the fundamentals. Use them as a springboard to revitalize your investigation. The process can also help you refocus your efforts and open up your eyes to new avenues that you should think about exploring.”
Mindful of her mentor’s advice, Dawn pulled up the case board on one of the computers and flashed it up on the wall screen. In the center of the board was the sketch Devlin had made of the perpetrator. Radiating out from the sketch, like spokes on a wheel, were the faces of three women.
Dawn walked up to the screen and zeroed in on one of the photos. A young woman stared out at them from the screen, red hair flying in the wind, blue eyes sparkling with life and laughter.
“Zoe Ballentine,” she said. “Age nineteen. We don’t know when or where her path intersected with that of the man who killed her. What we do know is that it’s up to us to get justice for her.”
She indicated another face on the case board. This victim had two-toned brown and blonde hair. Her eyes were brown, and the expression in them was more guarded than that of her friend Zoe’s.
“Katherine Blakewood. Also nineteen years old. Known to her friends and family as ‘Kit’. She disappeared at the same time her friend Zoe did. Her current whereabouts are unknown. It’s up to us to find her.”
Dawn jabbed her index finger next on the photo of the final victim. Her head and face were swathed in bandages.
“This woman is five foot five, in her thirties. Brown hair and brown eyes. Her identity is unknown at present. We need to find out who she is and put a name together with the face. And we need to find out what relationship, if any, she has with him.” She swept the back of her hand across the sketch of the perp in the center of the board.
“Who is he? Where is he now?” she queried. “Search and Rescue lost his trail early on and have not been able to pick it up again. It looks like we’re going to have to identify him and track him down using good old-fashioned police work.”
“I’m up for some good old-fashioned police work,” Ralph Sokoto drawled from the corner where he sat. “Just give me an assignment, D.C.”
Since the lab reports had come back that morning, Dawn responded by assigning Sokoto the task of scrutinizing the hair, fiber, and fingerprint reports for any clues or leads they might contain. Vettakor’s assignment was to begin searching the various police databases for like crimes. The task she allotted to Prentiss and Noritaki was to take another stab at matching the unknown victim with a missing person’s report, while she herself manned the phones, coordinating their efforts with those of the Pueblo Police Department and the Colorado State Patrol.
They were deeply engaged in their various undertakings when Lt. Westbrooke walked into the conference room. After Dawn had given her a brief progress report, the lieutenant informed her, “We just got word from ballistics. Turns out that one of the bullets recovered from the scene where the perp shot Jordan matched an open case – a suspected kidnapping and homicide that the CBI has been working on for a couple of years now.”
Turning to address the entire team, the lieutenant said, “Sokoto, Vettakor, Prentiss, Noritaki – you stay here and keep following up on our current leads. Cimarron, you’re with me. I want you to put our case side by side with the case the CBI is investigating and start looking for similarities. You’ll be working with the CBI on this. They sent down the special agent in charge so that we can coordinate the two investigations.”
Lt. Westbrooke led the way back to the Homicide Unit. Dawn had a presentiment just before Lt. Westbrooke opened the door to her office. Walking inside, she saw the CBI agent standing with his back to them, looking out of the window. He turned when he heard them come in. His eyes widened a little when he saw Dawn, but he made no other sign of recognition.
The lieutenant said, “Detective Cimarron, this is Special Agent Adam Rikovsky.”
Dawn stood stock still for just a second. Great, she thought. Just great. She had thought that there wasn’t any way that her day could get worse. But it unmistakably had. The last person she needed to deal with right now had just strolled back into her life. Rick Rikovsky – the man who had almost broken her heart – was advancing toward her.
Chapter 21
He had finally made his way back to civilization. The back country road was deserted at the moment, but he had just come upon a sign indicating that a small town was about three miles away.
He looked down at himself, considering his appearance. When he had awakened this morning, he had discovered the water source that had served the old miners’ camp, a small stream located a few hundred yards from the stone cabin where he had spent the night. After quenching his thirst and refilling his water bottles, he picked up an old copper bucket he had found inside the cabin. Rinsing it out, he had filled the bucket to the brim with water. Then he had searched a nearby grove of trees for dry firewood, finally snapping some off some branches from the dry side of a tree in the middle of the grove.
Heading back to the cabin, he had started a fire in the fireplace, heated the water up, and used it to give himself a quick wash. He had sluiced the warm water all over himself and then dried himself off in front of the fire.
Picking up his clothes, he had grimaced when he discovered that they were still damp and muddy. He had taken them outside and done his best to clean off some of the mud, but he hadn’t been wholly successful. Since the sun was shining this morning, he had hoped that the clothes would dry out as he was wearing them.
Setting off, he had traveled eastwards, finally making his way to the road where he now stood. After studying the road sign he had come upon, he considered walking the three miles into the town ahead and looking for a car to boost. A few minutes’ reflection was all he needed to reject that idea, however. Although he had been able to brush some more dirt off his clothes as he walked along, he was aware of the fact that he still looked like a tramp. If he walked into town as he was, dirty, unshaven, disheveled, he was sure to draw attention to himself, and that was the last thing he needed.
No, it was better to follow the course of the road and watch for traffic along it. With any luck, he might be able to flag a vehicle down and jack a car.
He began to get discouraged as he walked along by the side of the road without seeing a single car pass him by. However, fate soon smiled upon him. As he rounded a bend, he saw a car parked at a scenic overlook. Inside, he saw a couple fooling around. He calculated that they would be too occupied over the next few minutes to pay attention to anything but each other.
Moving quickly, he approached the car. The driver’s side window was down. He put the muzzle of his pistol to the back of the driver’s head.
“Don’t move,” he commanded. “If you do, you’re dead.”
*****
As she came to grips with the fact that Rick Rikovsky was the Special Agent in Charge that the CBI had sent, Dawn’s heart was racing so badly that she felt it would jump out of her chest. By a supreme effort, however, Dawn kept her cool. In an even and composed tone, she informed Lt. Westbrooke, “Special Agent Rikovsky and I have met before.”
Extending her hand, she offered it to the CBI agent.
“How are you, Rick?” she said.
It didn’t matter that she had once thought he was the love of her life, she told herself. It didn’t matter that they had almost gotten married. The only thing that mattered was that they had a job to do. Everything else was dead between them.
Rick grasped her hand in his own and held it a tad longer than was necessary before releasing it. Then he responded to her question.
“Doing well, D.C. Doing really well.”
Turning to Lieutenant Westbrooke, he said smoothly, “Detective Cimarron and I met when she took an advanced course from the CBI a few years ago. That would have been before you took over the Homicide division from Nick Melbourne. We’ve been out of touch, but I’m looking forward to catching up with her again.
“But now, to business. As your lieutenant has already informed you, D.C., one of the bullets retrieved from your crime scene matched one from a case that we’re working on. It concerns the disappearance and probable murder of a woman named Samantha Hartingen.”
“Interesting,” Dawn commented. “When did Samantha Hartingen go missing?”
“Just over three years ago. Her car was found abandoned on the side of a country road on the outskirts of Denver. The driver’s seat was stained with blood. A slug was found embedded in the seat. That slug matches the bullet from your current case.”
“Have you read the file on our case?” Dawn inquired.
“Affirmative. After I read it, it seemed probable to me that the perpretator was on his way to dispose of the bodies of the two women you found in the trunk. I’m hoping that the disposal site is nearby, and that when we find it, we’ll find Samantha Hartingen.”
“Are you sure that she’s dead?” Dawn said. “What about our unidentified victim in the hospital? Could she be Samantha Hartingen?”
“No, I checked on that right away. The victim’s age, height, weight, and eye color don’t match. Given that, the most probable scenario is that Samantha is dead. You know how it is in these kinds of cases. After the first forty-eight hours, the chances of finding the victim alive are almost nil.”
“I’m surprised that CBI is investigating the case, instead of the Denver Police Department,” Dawn commented.
“We were called in because of her connection to another case. You see, when she was fifteen, Samantha Hartingen blew the whistle on what turned out to be a particularly nasty cult. The CBI was called in to investigate, and as a result of that investigation, the cult disbanded and a number of people were sent to jail.”
“Charges?”
“Child abuse, among other things.”
Lieutenant Westbrooke’s phone rang just then. After a few terse sentences, she hung up and said, “I have to go meet with the chief. Have Agent Rikovsky update you and your team on the Hartingen case, Cimarron. We are going to join forces and be working together with the CBI on this.”
In the conference room, Dawn made introductions all around.
After that task had been performed, Rick wasted no time, but got right down to business. He’d come prepared. Flashing a picture up on the conference room screen, he began going over the CBI’s case.
Gesturing at the image on the screen, he said, “Samantha Hartingen. Born to a single mother named Rhonda Hartingen. Rhonda was just sixteen years old when Samantha was born. No father listed on the birth certificate. Rhonda’s parents were the old-fashioned type and had been scandalized by their unwed daughter’s pregnancy, so they kicked her out of their house. Fortunately, Rhonda had an older sister who took her in.
“Shortly after Samantha was born, Rhonda took off and disappeared for a few years. The older sister, Faith, took care of the baby. Faith had just instituted legal proceedings to adopt Samantha when Rhonda showed up, took the baby, who was about three years old at the time, and disappeared again.
“Two years after that, Faith, who had recently gotten married, received a phone call from her wayward sister. Rhonda had been arrested for possession of drugs and wanted Faith to take care of Samantha while she got things ‘sorted out’. Rhonda had pleaded guilty at trial in exchange for leniency. Since it was her first offense, the judge granted her probation and sentenced her to a rehab facility instead of prison.
“When Faith Hartingen and her husband attempted to have Rhonda’s parental rights severed so that they could adopt Samantha, Rhonda fought them tooth and nail. She cleaned herself up, got married, and regained custody of Samantha.
“The sisters made up their differences, and the two couples were quite close for a while. Then troubles started surfacing in Rhonda’s marriage. She divorced her husband and hit the road again, once more leaving Samantha with Faith. This worried Faith, as she believed that Rhonda had begun to abuse drugs once again. Faith hired a private detective to look for her sister. The detective discovered that Rhonda had remarried, this time to a man by the name of Jedediah Foxe, a widower with a young son of his own.”
When the Wolf Prowls Page 12
