by James Swain
“Hello, Jack,” Linderman answered.
“I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time,” I said, figuring I had.
“I was just heading out the door with Muriel. We were going to have dinner at our favorite restaurant on the Key. It’s our anniversary.”
“How many years?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Congratulations. I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your help.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve determined the identity of Sara Long’s abductors. The giant is a mentally disturbed killer named Lonnie. His partner is a murderer named Andrew Lee Carr. They’re hiding in a small town in central Florida called Chatham. I need you to help me catch them.”
There was a short pause. I could envision his wife, Muriel, standing in the foyer of their condo on Key Biscayne, all dressed up and ready to go out.
“Did you contact the police?” Linderman finally asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated. I’ll explain everything when I see you.”
Linderman breathed heavily into the phone. I had given up many weekends to help him look for his daughter. I’d never complained, and didn’t expect for him to, either.
“How long will it take for you to get here?” the FBI agent asked.
“Forty minutes, tops.”
“I’ll tell the guard at the front gate that you’re coming.”
“Thanks. Tell Muriel I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand,” Linderman said.
Muriel Linderman had her brave face on when I entered the condo. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, with expressive eyes and a tender smile. Before her daughter’s abduction, she had taught elementary school in Virginia, where she’d lived most of her life. When she spoke, I still heard the accent in her voice.
Muriel gave me a hug, and invited me to join them in eating Domino’s pizza on the balcony. I wanted to apologize for the intrusion, and for ruining their anniversary dinner, but the knowing look in her eyes told me it wasn’t necessary.
Their condo was on the south side of Key Biscayne, the view of the glittering bay filled with yachts nothing short of spectacular. I ate a couple slices of pizza without saying very much. Linderman sat beside me, sipping an iced tea. His eyes never left my face.
“Tell me why you haven’t called the police,” he said.
“Because it might lead to Sara Long getting killed.”
“I think I hear the phone,” Muriel said.
Muriel went inside, and shut the slider behind her. I chugged back the last of my Heineken, and put the bottle down next to my plate. “If I call the police, they’ll contact Sheriff Morcroft in Chatham. I’m guessing Sheriff Morcroft knows what’s going on, and will alert Mouse and Lonnie.”
Linderman shot me a contemptuous stare. He did things by the book, and did not tolerate wild theories. “Let me get this straight. You think Chatham’s sheriff knows he has two ex-mental patients in his town who are abducting young women?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have any proof that the sheriff’s involved?”
My chair made a harsh scraping sound as I pushed myself away from the table. “No, I don’t. But here’s my problem. If I contact the police, and tell them what I know, the information will be in the police information system. You know the cops in Florida all talk to each other, even those in small towns. It will get back to Sheriff Morcroft that he’s under suspicion. If he is involved, I’ll be signing Sara Long’s death certificate.”
Linderman considered what I was saying. I rose from my chair.
“So now what?” Linderman asked.
“I’m going to rescue Sara Long. Are you coming or not?”
Linderman’s eyes flashed. He put down his drink and gave me a harsh stare.
“You’re a goddamn loose cannon,” he said.
“Funny, that didn’t bother you before.”
The look on his face made me wonder if I’d lost another friend. At that moment, I didn’t care. I was going to handle this my way.
“All right, Jack. Just give me a minute.”
Linderman opened the slider and went inside. Muriel was standing at the sink in the kitchen washing dishes. Linderman put his arms around his wife’s waist and whispered in her ear. Her knees sagged at the news of his leaving.
I felt bad for her, and for him—only there was nothing I could do about it. I had a job to do, and that job wasn’t finished. They could celebrate later, when Sara was safe.
I turned and stared at the bay. The moon had cast a creamy patina over the water’s mirrorlike surface. It was a beautiful night, whatever the hell that meant.
CHAPTER 44
inderman wanted to take his 4Runner to Chatham. I objected. Although his car was in better shape than my Legend, it still had Virginia license plates, and would stand out like a sore thumb when we reached our destination.
“Can your car make the drive?” Linderman asked.
“It hasn’t failed me yet,” I said.
I pulled my Legend into the condo’s covered parking garage, and parked it beside his 4Runner. Linderman opened the 4Runner’s trunk, and unlocked the stainless-steel footlocker in the backseat. From the footlocker he removed two Mossberg shotguns, two high-powered rifles with sniper scopes, a pair of Kevlar vests, and several boxes of ammunition, all of which got loaded into the trunk of my Legend.
“That should cover it,” Linderman said.
“We also need a pair of fishing poles.”
Linderman went inside the building to talk to one of his neighbors. He emerged with a pair of fishing poles covered with cobwebs.
“This was the best I could do,” he explained.
I put the poles in the backseat of my Legend so they stuck out the open window. It made us look like a pair of rubes, which was exactly the image I wanted to create.
“Are these fishing poles our cover?” Linderman asked.
“Yes,” I said. “When we get to Chatham, we’re going to pretend we’re a pair of college buddies spending a long weekend together fishing and drinking beer.”
“I don’t know anything about fishing.”
“Then I guess you’ll be buying the beer.”
I drove across Biscayne Bay, and headed north on the elevated stretch of I-95 through downtown Miami. Traffic had thinned out, and I stared at the towering office buildings that defined the Miami skyline.
The interstate split at the Broward County line. I went left, and entered the tollbooth that would put us on the Florida Turnpike. Linderman turned in his seat to face me.
“Tell me why you think the sheriff of Chatham is involved in these women’s abductions,” Linderman said.
The turnpike was quiet, and I flipped on my car’s cruise control.
“Because it solves the puzzle of how Lonnie and Mouse have been abducting young women—and keeping them—without anyone knowing about it,” I said.
“How does it solve it?”
“I have a theory about serial killers and serial abductors. Despite what people want to believe, these people don’t work in a vacuum. Their friends and neighbors know they’re doing something wrong, but choose not to get involved. I call it the ‘He was such a quiet man’ theory, because that’s what people usually say when a reporter tells them their next-door neighbor has a basement filled with rotting corpses.”
“Why would the sheriff of Chatham be looking the other way?”
“That’s a good question. Mouse boasted to a worker at the mental institution where he was living that if he ever escaped, he’d go back home, because the sheriff wouldn’t arrest him. I’m guessing the sheriff is doing something illegal and that Mouse knows about it. That’s Mouse’s insurance against the sheriff arresting him and Lonnie.”
Linderman seemed comfortable with my theory and leaned back in his seat. From the pocket of his windbreaker he removed a small package wrapped in aluminum foil. He
opened the package and passed me several oatmeal cookies.
“Muriel make these?” I asked.
He nodded while he chewed. I bit into one and tasted raisins. Buster popped his head between the seats, not to be left out. Soon the cookies were a memory.
“What do you think the sheriff is doing?” Linderman asked.
“He might be running a prostitution ring, or selling moonshine. Or he’s holding dog fights on weekends. Or it could be worse.”
“Drug trafficking?”
“That’s a possibility. In the old days, drug traffickers brought their shipments in by boat, but the DEA got wise to them. The traffickers switched to small airplanes, and started landing in towns in remote parts of the state.”
“So he could be involved with one of the cartels?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“If that’s the case, there are probably other people in Chatham who are involved,” Linderman said. “We could be stepping into a hornet’s nest.”
I stared at the empty interstate. I had been so focused on rescuing Sara that I hadn’t considered all the risks. Linderman took out his cell phone and fiddled with the keypad in the dark.
“Who are you calling?” I asked.
“The director of the Jacksonville office of the FBI,” Linderman said. “I’m sure he’d be happy to send some agents over to Chatham to back us up, if we need them.”
I found myself nodding. I had been in tight spots with Linderman before, and had even seen him kill a man. Linderman wasn’t afraid of danger, or putting himself in harm’s way. Like me, he didn’t believe in backing down.
I’d chosen the right person to bring along.
CHAPTER 45
he town of Chatham was pitch dark when we arrived on its narrow streets. Like many small towns in Florida, it had seen better days. The main street was lined with potholes, and many of the storefronts needed a face-lift. The info on the web had said there were several cheap motels, but I couldn’t find any of them.
I drove back to the highway, and found a place to stay. It was called The Florida Inn, and was built to resemble a log cabin. A light shone inside the manager’s office.
My car’s tires crunched the pebble driveway. Linderman put down his pencil and looked up from his notebook. He carried the notebook with him whenever he went on a trip. It was small and black, and had a pencil stuck in the spiral binding. I didn’t know if it was for work, or if he kept a journal. I didn’t think it was my place to ask.
I took Buster for a quick walk around the grounds. Only two cars were parked in front of the rental units. I put my dog back in the car and went inside.
The night manager was watching TV behind the counter. He sprang out of his swivel chair, his watery eyes filled with suspicion. He wore his hair long, and had a metal hook sticking out of the sleeve of his shirt that made him look like a pirate.
“Didn’t hear you come in. Can I help ya?” the manager asked.
“I need a room. My buddy and I have been driving all night,” I said.
He flipped open the register. “Where you from?”
“I’m from Fort Lauderdale. My buddy’s from Miami.”
“You don’t say. What brings you to Chatham?”
“We heard the fishing’s good up here.”
“Depends who you ask. Some people think it’s better in the next county.”
It was the worst damn sales pitch I’d ever heard. I said, “We’ll have to check it out tomorrow, and see where they’re biting. You have any rooms?”
“Yeah, we got rooms. But we don’t take dogs.”
I looked at his chair behind the counter. There was no way he could have seen me walking Buster from his vantage point. Which meant he’d been watching me from the window, then slipped back into his chair when he’d realized I was coming inside.
“My dog isn’t staying in the room,” I said.
“Then where’s he gonna stay?” the manager asked.
“In my car.”
“I don’t know about that.”
I took out my wallet, and let him see the cash I was carrying. Money had a way of solving most problems, and I saw his resolve slip away.
“Well, I guess it will be all right.” His finger ran down the open register, then stopped. “You can stay in Room Twelve. Two double beds, hot shower. Cable TV is extra. Fifty bucks a night. No smoking. Pay up front.”
I counted the money for two nights onto the counter. The manager held each bill up to the light to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit. Satisfied, he put the money into the register, then gave me the key.
“Don’t want no trouble out of you and your friend,” the manager said.
“No, sir.”
“No getting drunk and busting up the furniture.”
“Of course not.”
“Or bringing in girls from the strip clubs and having sleepovers.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy, or I’ll toss you out of here.”
It had been a long time since someone had called me boy. I shut my mouth and backed away from the counter. The manager slipped back into his chair, and resumed watching TV. People called Florida the Sunshine State because of the great weather and friendly people. The manager wasn’t going to be a goodwill ambassador for us anytime soon.
I found Linderman where I’d left him, Buster in his lap. The dog eyed me and slipped into the back. I started the Legend and drove down the line of rooms until my headlights were resting on the door to #12. It looked small and depressing.
“You were in there awhile,” Linderman said.
I killed the engine. “It was quite the welcome wagon. The manager asked me more questions than my first job interview. He wasn’t friendly.”
“Think he was checking you out?”
“I sure do. He was way too suspicious.”
“Did you give him a credit card?”
“I paid in cash.”
“Good. He can’t put a trace on your card, and do a background check. Of course he could have a check done on your car’s license plates.”
“The car’s in my wife’s name.”
“So our cover is still intact.”
“So far.”
I lowered my windows and got out. Buster tried to join me, and I made him lie down in the backseat. He curled up into a ball but didn’t shut his eyes. I retrieved our bags from the trunk while looking over my shoulder at the front office. I spotted the surly manager standing by the window, spying on us.
“We’re being watched,” I said.
“Think he treats all his customers this way?” Linderman asked.
“It bothered him that we were out-of-towners.”
“Who else is going to stay here?”
I unlocked the door to #12 and switched on the lights. I’d never been in the army, but the room reminded me of what a barracks might look like, with a pair of lumpy beds, a scuffed dresser with a washbowl, and walls painted a sickly green. The promise of a television set was nowhere to be found. I decided not to complain.
Linderman used the bathroom first. His flush of the toilet sent a thunderous roar through the paper-thin walls. I went next. When I came out, he was gone.
I found him outside, kneeling on the ground beside the car.
“Lose something?” I asked.
“Yes. I can’t find my journal. I had it a few minutes ago.”
There was a hint of desperation in his voice. I got on the ground and helped him look. The journal was hidden beneath the car. Linderman wiped it clean on his shirt, then checked the pages to make sure none were torn. Satisfied, he went back inside.
I got to my feet, and saw Buster sitting behind the wheel. His ears were sticking up, and he looked mad as hell at being left behind. I ignored my best friend, and went inside.
I lay on one of the beds in my clothes. I was dead tired, and needed to catch a few hours sleep if I was going to be sharp tomorrow. Linderman stripped down to his boxers, got i
nto the other bed, and killed the lights. For a long moment neither of us spoke.
“I’ve had that journal for five years,” he said when I thought he was asleep.
I rolled onto my side to face him. “What do you write in it?”
“I write things that I want to tell my daughter.”
There was pain in his voice. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I saw him lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
“I have a special relationship with Danielle,” he went on. “When she was in first grade, she fell off the jungle gym on the playground and broke her arm. I was at work, and felt this sudden jolt of anxiety. I called Muriel, who called the school, and was told Danny had gotten hurt.”
“You’re on the same wavelength,” I said.
“That’s it. Is it that way with your daughter?”
“Sometimes.”
“After Danny disappeared, I had a hard time adjusting. Even though she was gone, something in my psyche told me that she was still alive. I know this sounds crazy, but I could still feel her emotions, like that day on the playground.”
“Is that why you keep the journal?”
“Yes. I write down all the things that I think Danny would want to know about. Like friends from high school who’ve gotten married, and relatives who’ve passed away. I want to make it easier for her when she comes back.”
Over the years, the parents of missing children had told me the special things they’d done for their kids in their absence. I’d always assumed it was a way of coping.
“Sometimes, I feel like I’m flogging myself,” he said.
“You have to follow your heart.”
“Not your conscience?”
“No, your heart. It will always tell you the right thing to do.”
“Is that what guides you?”
“Yes.”
I heard a scratching sound on the door. Linderman heard it, too.
“I wonder who that is,” he said.
I rolled out of bed. Out of habit, I grabbed my Colt off the dresser, then threw open the door. Buster lay on the stoop, his tail thumping the ground. I glanced at the manager’s office. The light was off, and I let Buster in.
