by Blake Pierce
“They must be on to us,” Scratch said.
“Yeah,” Grandpa replied. “And it’s your fault for letting that woman escape.”
Scratch was about to protest that he’d looked everywhere for her, driving up and down the highway and along nearby streets. She’d been nowhere to be found.
But he kept quiet. He didn’t want to get Grandpa riled right now.
Besides, he saw a young woman coming up the sidewalk and onto the porch, and she was wearing an FBI jacket. She knocked on the door.
“Should I pretend I’m not home?” Scratch asked.
“Of course not, you idiot. That might just make her suspicious. Let her in.”
Sweat was breaking out on Scratch’s brow.
“But what am I going to say? What am I going to do?”
“Just stay calm, damn it. Make like you don’t know anything about whatever she asks you.”
Scratch opened the front door. The agent was pleasant-looking young woman with a dark complexion. She was holding a batch of papers in her hand. She smiled at him.
“Excuse me for bothering you this evening, sir,” she said. “I’m Agent Lucy Vargas with the FBI. I’m helping the local police canvass this general area. Have you seen this woman?”
She held out a flyer toward him. He immediately recognized the woman by her freckles and red hair. But except for the moment before he abducted her, he’d never seen her smile like that.
“Is she missing?” Scratch asked.
Grandpa hissed, “Don’t ask any questions, damn it! Leave that to her!”
But Scratch’s head was exploding with questions. Was the woman who escaped still missing? If so, where was she? Where had she gone? And what had led the police to this general area to look for her?
Instead of answering his question, the FBI woman said, “We just want to know if anybody has seen her around here during the last week.”
Scratch shook his head dumbly.
“Are you sure?” the woman said, holding the flyer closer to him. “Please take a good look.”
Grandpa whispered, “Tell her you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Scratch said.
The FBI woman was looking at him a bit warily. He wondered why. Was it the way he was breathing? Was it the sweat that was forming on his face?
“Sir, do you have a basement?” the woman asked.
Scratch froze. Why would she be looking for a basement? What did she know?
“Yes, I do,” Scratch managed to say calmly.
The woman was studying him closely.
“Might I come inside for a look, sir?” she asked.
Scratch opened his mouth but nothing came out. Grandpa was furious.
“For Christ sake, let her come in. We’ve got nothing to hide here. Let her look to her heart’s content. And smile! Stop acting like some kind of goddamn criminal!”
Scratch managed to force a smile.
“Sure,” he told the agent. “Come on in.”
The woman stepped inside and looked all around. Scratch hoped nothing suspicious was in sight. The front room had once been Grandpa’s clockmaker’s shop. But Scratch had moved all of Grandpa’s clocks out to the shelter years ago. Otherwise, the house was furnished much as it had been when Grandpa had died and left it to him. And he always kept the place reasonably clean.
“It’s right this way,” he said, leading her through the house toward the basement.
“Thanks,” the woman said. She seemed determined not to hurry. She kept looking around at everything.
Scratch said, “Has this got something to do with those murders I’ve been reading about?”
“Shhhh!” Grandpa hissed.
But Scratch felt desperate to know. What did the authorities think the murders were all about? Did anybody understand their purpose at all?
“I’d rather not say,” the woman said, still looking everywhere.
Scratch couldn’t stop himself from pushing the issue.
“Because it sure seems to me that the killer is trying to send some kind of message, whoever he is.”
The woman stopped still and looked at him curiously.
“We don’t care if he’s sending a message,” she said. “As far as we’re concerned, he’s just another psychopath. Could I see the basement?”
“Of course,” Scratch said. He led her to the basement door and opened it, turning on the light. He offered to let her go down first.
“After you,” she said rather politely.
He walked down the basement stairs in front of her. He wished he could see her expression. He wished he had some idea of what he was thinking. Anyway, he couldn’t imagine that she’d see anything suspicious down here. It was just a perfectly ordinary basement with cinderblock walls—no furniture, even.
There was a large gas furnace in the middle. The woman started to walk around the furnace. While she was on its far side, Scratch’s eyes lighted on a rusty steel pipe covered with cobwebs. Some plumber had left it there many years ago. Scratch’s fingers itched with an irresistible urge.
He reached down for the pipe.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lucy came out from behind the furnace. Nothing was amiss in this basement. Actually, nothing was amiss in the house except that the man who lived here seemed unusually creepy. He was bending over, poking at something on the floor. But then he straightened up and just stood there watching her, looking rather stiff and awkward.
“I know, I know,” he mumbled distractedly. “It wasn’t a good idea.”
Lucy was puzzled. He seemed to be talking to someone else.
“What?” she asked.
He looked up at her, more alert.
“The basement,” he said quickly. “There’s nothing in the basement.”
“You’re right, there isn’t,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “Thanks for your time. That’s all I need.”
“Time is important,” he said.
She nodded in agreement and headed back up the stairs. He followed behind her, muttering softly to himself.
When they were upstairs again, Lucy took another good look at the homeowner.
“I’ll be on my way now,” she said. She handed him the flyer with Meara’s picture on it.
Below the picture was a phone number.
“Hang onto this, and look at it again later on,” she said. “If you remember anything, give us a call.”
Then she left the house and went on with her search for whoever had held Meara Keagan captive.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
April felt wonderful. She knew that Joel had added something to the pot in the bong, and she was glad that he had. When she felt like this, she didn’t have to worry about school or Mom or anything. She didn’t have to remember being caught and held in a cage. She didn’t have to think about helping her mom kill the guy who had held her. She knew she could trust Joel to take care of her.
He passed her the bong again.
They were in his car, parked deep in the woods, an out of the way place where no one would bother them.
“You know I really like you,” Joel said. His words seemed to reverberate as he spoke.
“In fact,” he said, turning to look her in the face, “April, I’m in love with you.”
“I love you too,” she whispered back. It was the first time she’d said that to a boy. So she said it again, louder, “I love you too, Joel Lambert.”
He looked concerned. “I know your mom doesn’t approve of me.”
“That doesn’t matter. She’s just all uptight because she deals with so many creeps.”
He laughed a little. “I suppose she does. Big FBI agent and all that. I’m sorry you’ve had to live with all that suspicion.”
April felt a touch of protection toward her mother. “She does have to face a lot of violence. I’ve told you about the one who took me.”
He grinned. “Yeah. That was actually pretty cool. What you both did, I mean.” He kissed her. “You’re a thoroughly cool g
irl.”
He was pulling off her clothes and she knew that they were going to make love again. She was glad she’d been on birth control all year, even though it hadn’t seemed important before.
She sighed happily and helped him get her undressed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sherry Simpson didn’t like how close the car was following behind her pickup truck. The driver had been behind her ever since she’d turned into the rural route that led to her family’s farm. Now he had pulled up a lot closer, actually tailgating her.
It made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t unusual, of course. Ever since she was a teenager, country boys sometimes did this to get her attention.
Back then it had been kind of fun. She’d gotten a kick out of driving away and leaving them in the dust. She knew these back roads very well, and it wasn’t hard to get away from them. But now that she was in her late twenties, it wasn’t fun anymore—especially at night.
She was driving home late because her bridge club had stayed to gossip longer than usual after their game was over. There had been a lot of laughter over how Gloria carried on about the new waitress at the Ohlman Diner. Gloria was obviously jealous of the new girl’s attributes.
It had been a fun night with her friends, and Sherry hoped that it wasn’t going to be spoiled by this loser who was tailing her. She could see his license plate in her mirror. It was a Delaware plate. She could make out most of the string of numbers on it.
I should report this guy to our local cops, she thought. He’s crowding me too much.
But maybe he just wanted to pass her. After all, she was driving a bit slowly because of the wine she’d enjoyed with her friends. She couldn’t exactly blame him for being impatient.
She was on a straight stretch, so she slowed down even more and pulled to the right, leaving plenty of room for him to get by.
Sure enough, he roared past her without so much as a glance in her direction. His car rounded a curve up ahead and disappeared behind the trees that lined the road.
Hope he knows these roads, she thought. He’s liable to end up in a ditch.
A few seconds later she rounded the same curve, but then screeched her pickup to a stop. A car was stopped ahead of her, skewed sideways and taking up the middle of the road.
Was the driver drunk? Had he wrecked his car?
She picked up her cell phone, about to dial 911. But she could see by her headlights that the car wasn’t wrecked or even in the ditch. A man was opening the hood and using a flashlight to look into the engine.
“I guess I’m stranded,” he called out to her.
The man walked toward Sherry’s car. He was still talking, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying. She rolled down her window.
“Do you have a phone?” he asked. “Mine isn’t working. I was stupid. I let the power run out, and I don’t have a charger with me.”
He flicked the light into her face and then away. Sherry hesitated. She was still holding the phone in her hand.
The man was now outside her window. He had a pleasant face, and his smile was somehow reassuring.
“I’m lucky you came along,” he said. “I just need to call my brother to come help me. If I can use your phone, I’ll help you get past my car. I’m sorry to block so much of the road. It startled me when the engine just made a loud noise and cut out. But I think you can get past with my help.”
Sherry was about to hand him her phone. But then she noticed that he had one hand on her door handle.
She remembered bits of conversations among her friends earlier on …
“Did you hear about that dead woman found in Redditch?”
“Yeah, and some woman was kidnapped up in Westree.”
“Do you think it’s some kind of serial thing?”
Sherry shuddered with fear. But she knew she couldn’t show her alarm. She gave the man a big smile. But instead of handing him the phone, she slammed her pickup into reverse and pulled away from him. He held onto the door handle as long as he could, then yanked his hand away, disappearing from view.
She struggled to keep her pickup under control, slowing down to avoid swerving into the ditch beside the road.
Still in reverse, she maneuvered around the curve in the road, then spun the wheel to turn around. Stopping the pickup short of the ditch, she slammed it into drive and headed away.
She didn’t drive very fast, hoping that he wouldn’t try to follow. She reached for her cell phone, planning to dial 911. She thought she’d put down right beside her, but it wasn’t there.
I must have dropped it on the floor, she thought.
She didn’t dare stop to pick it up.
Just then came a smash of glass behind her. The back window had been broken.
He’s in the truck bed! she realized.
An arm came through the broken window and reached around her neck.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The crook of the attacker’s arm closed around Sherry’s throat. Dazed and surprised, she lost control of the truck. It lurched into a ditch and came to a dead stop. In the violent jolt, the attacker lost his grip and his arm slipped back through the window.
Sherry’s brain cranked into high gear as she assessed her situation.
The engine was still running. The truck was big and powerful, and with its four-wheel drive it probably wasn’t hopelessly stuck. But she could hear her attacker scrambling in the truck bed, getting ready to attack her through the window again.
She thought quickly. What could she use as a weapon? She knew just the thing. She bent down and reached under the passenger seat until she found what she needed—her electric stock prod. She pulled it out and switched it on. Just as she was straightening up, the attacker’s hand came slashing through the window again.
But even with her weapon, she was helpless inside the truck cab. If she tried thrusting the prod at him, he might actually break it, leaving her in even more danger than before. Still crouched over, she opened the driver side door and tumbled out into the ditch, holding the weapon safely away from her.
In a flash, he leapt out the truck bed and stood facing her, wielding a shovel that she’d left back there. She realized that he had used the shovel to break the back window. And now he had her at a disadvantage. She was lying on her back and he was standing over her, raising the shovel to strike.
She rolled away from him and struggled to her feet. She held the prod at her side, desperately seeking the opportunity to lunge at him with it. But it wouldn’t be easy. The prod was only a couple of feet long, and the shovel’s handle was much longer. He still had an advantage that way.
But just how strong is he? she wondered.
In the light that spilled from her headlights, she tried to assess his height and build. He was taller and heavier—her family had always made fun of how skinny she was, calling her “Beanpole.” But after a life of farm chores and activities, she was wiry and stronger than she looked.
He took a swing at her head and she successfully ducked under it. She watched him draw back for another swing and readied herself, getting a firm footing. When the next swing came, she reached out with her free hand and caught the shovel by its wooden handle, stopping it in its flight.
Then with her other arm, she shoved the prod directly at his belly, making contact with soft flesh. The man writhed with pain from a shock about as powerful as a stun gun, then fell to the ground.
Sherry jumped back into her truck. She rocked the truck forward and back until it came loose from the ditch. Instead of trying to get back on the road, she plowed straight through the white wooden fence on the edge of a meadow.
She knew these fields like the back of her hand, and knew that her truck was big and strong enough to barrel straight across the terrain. She looked out ahead in the moonlight. She knew that another road lay on the far side of the meadow, about a quarter of a mile away.
She hoped he wouldn’t be able to follow her in his smaller vehicle—or better still, that he wouldn�
��t even try. But she wasn’t going to slow down until she was far out of his reach.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Riley and Bill were sitting in the local police station conference room, listening to Lucy and her team debrief them about their canvassing effort. Riley was disappointed that they hadn’t brought in any suspects.
“Did you check everywhere you could?” Riley asked.
“More than a hundred residences in all,” Lucy said. “Everything in the area where Jason Cahill says he hit Meara Keagan.”
“You didn’t come across anyone suspicious?” Riley asked.
Lucy shook her head. “I wouldn’t go so far as that,” she said. “This town sure has its share of strange characters.”
Then, looking around at the five local cops at the table, Lucy added, “No offense intended.”
The local cops laughed.
“None taken,” the youngest cop said.
“Welcome to Ohlman, Delaware,” the oldest said. “Eccentrics are the local industry.”
“And not all of them were happy to talk to an FBI agent,” Lucy added.
The oldest cop laughed again.
“The feds aren’t too popular in these parts,” he said. “The locals figure you’re here to take all their guns away.”
Lucy said, “Whenever somebody struck me as suspicious, I’d push them to show me their basement if they had one. Some folks didn’t like it, but I can be pretty pushy.”
“And you didn’t find anything?” Bill asked.
“Oh, a few really big model railroads,” Lucy said. “One guy has a huge collection of carnival glass. Another’s got lots of antique firearms. It’s a strange town, though, and folks have got a lot of imagination. I talked to a couple of kids who said there were some haunted woods nearby.”
A cop who hadn’t spoken yet said, “Yeah, kids around here love their ghost stories. I was like that at their age. I guess we all were. It’s about all the excitement to be had in a one-horse town like Ohlman. Things get pretty boring otherwise.”
