by Blake Pierce
Yeah, she thought, allowing herself a rare moment to revel in her accomplishments. Yeah, it kind of was.
They walked into the barn, Nichols being pushed ahead as he looked down at the floor. It was obvious he was saying nothing. But that didn’t matter. What Mackenzie saw within the barn would be enough to send him to prison. There were three work tables, two of which were covered in a crude lab of sorts. Mackenzie had seen similar set-ups before during her training, but never on an actual case. While they had found coke on his glove, it appeared that Nichols was cooking up meth too.
The cocaine, though, was also in abundance within the barn. One of the tables held two boxes, both of which were crammed with individual baggies. Mackenzie picked one up and guessed each one contained about half a pound. There had to be at least a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of cocaine in the boxes.
“Good work, White,” Bateman said. “This will keep Nichols busy for a while. Well, not busy…just busy with his thoughts in a prison in Des Moines.”
A win was a win, sure. But seeing the makeshift meth lab and the boxes of cocaine was just a reminder that she was certain that Stevie Nichols had nothing to do with the disappearances.
And that, in turn, meant the guilty party was still running free.
CHAPTER TEN
Mackenzie was impressed with the fluidity and promptness of the Bent Creek police department as things escalated with Stevie Nichols. Roberts had cuffed Nichols at 9:55 and he had been booked, processed, and placed into an interrogation room just short of 11:30. As she and Ellington walked into the conference room to meet with Bateman and Roberts, officers who had gone out to the farm continued to either trickle into the station or call with updates.
There was no doubt that Stevie Nichols was innocent of kidnapping Naomi Nyles, Crystal Hall, and Delores Manning. But what he was guilty of was the purchase and consequent selling of cocaine within the Bent Creek region and an attempt to sell and distribute crystal meth. A closer inspection of the cocaine by the Bent Creek PD showed that Stevie had been bagging it up and diluting it with cornstarch to make it stretch out.
While Nichols had not yet given up the name of his distributor, he had been more than glad to throw a few of his biggest buyers under the bus. As Mackenzie and Ellington sat down at the conference room table, four Bent Creek officers were heading out to make arrests.
Bateman sat at the head of the conference room table and slid an evidence bag across to Mackenzie. Inside was the glove she had snatched from Nichols’s back pocket.
“That was some really good work,” he said. “At what point in the conversation did you notice it?”
“About ten seconds in, I guess.”
“Well, I know it didn’t get us any closer to finding our kidnapper, but you’ve done the Bent Creek PD a huge favor. We’ve been looking for the source of the surprisingly large cocaine epidemic within the county and I think it is currently sitting in our interrogation room. So thanks for that.”
“You bring up an important point,” Mackenzie said, looking up at the dry erase board. It was still filled with the previous night’s notes. It seemed to be taunting her, so she looked away. “We are no closer to finding our guy.”
“I wonder if it’s time to bring in the State PD on this,” Ellington said.
“Oh, they’ve been here already,” Bateman said. “But because there were no hot leads, we basically were told ‘let us know when it picks up.’”
“It might not hurt to make a request,” Mackenzie said. “Because right now, the only productive idea I can come up with is manning officers along the back roads around here.”
“That’s already in play,” Bateman said. “But it seems like the sonofabitch is staking us out somehow.”
“How are the officers along the roads staying in touch?” Mackenzie asked.
“Strictly cell phones. No CB…any jackass with a scanner could pick up on the conversations. But you know, if we can get another dozen or so uniforms out on the roads at night, it could help significantly. Maybe the State guys will go for that.”
It was a good thought but Mackenzie doubted it would be so easy. She was pretty sure the Iowa State Police would not jive with the idea of sending out manpower to do nothing more than sit along the side of various back roads in a small town.
“Maybe,” she said without much enthusiasm. She stood up from the table, feeling stagnant and restless. “Ellington, I’m going to head back to the motel for a second. Are you good here?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he said. He gave her an inquisitive look. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I just need to sit down with the notes, alone.”
They shared a quick glance as they left the room, one that she was pretty sure Bateman picked up on. She wasn’t too worried about it, as she was beginning to grow convinced that Bateman and Roberts might be involved somehow. It was something about the way he always walked directly behind her, within easy reach of her. He also tended to let his stare linger on her a little too long.
When Mackenzie stepped back outside, it was just after noon. It was one of those clear pleasant days that made her almost want to walk the three blocks to the motel. But she didn’t like the idea of being stranded in a place like Bent Creek without a ride. She got into the rental car and headed back to the motel. The case files were there, but, for the moment, they were not on her mind. Suddenly, she needed something else to boost her mind, to get her thinking creatively in the hopes of figuring out how to get one solid lead.
With that, her thoughts turned once again to her father and a twenty-year-old case that still haunted her all the way from Nebraska.
***
She ordered a pizza for lunch and by the time it was delivered, she had the notes and photos from the new crime scene in Nebraska spread out on the bed along with the archived materials on her father’s case. Time and time again, she returned her attention to the business card. It was a strange clue to leave behind and, as far as Mackenzie was concerned, it was a statement being made by the killer.
But because Barker Antiques was apparently not a real place, the killer was not broadcasting a location. He was trying to convey some other message—a message that reached out over two decades. A message no one had yet figured out.
The same business card almost twenty years later. The same type of killing, the same room of the house, a killer with apparent easy access into the house…
Maybe it came down to the women in the houses….in her case, it had been her mother. But in terms of the new case, it was the wife of the man that had been killed, asleep on the couch. The set-up was eerily similar in both cases.
Every time she looked at the files, Mackenzie felt like she was missing something. It wasn’t something overtly obvious but she felt like there was something just under the surface of it all.
If the killer had access to the houses, they likely knew the families. There was some kind of connection between the killer and the victims or, at the very least, between the killer and the other person that was in the house at the time of the killings.
She’d considered this before; it was a thought that had almost had her calling her mother on a few occasions to see if she would reveal anything new about the night her father had been killed.
“Hold on,” Mackenzie said to herself. She took a seat at the small table by the bed and allowed her mind to shift gears. She pushed aside all thoughts of her father’s old case and brought the events of the last two days to the forefront. She ate a slice of pizza, working a few details out in her mind.
I overlooked the connections angle on the disappearances just because the most recent one was an author. I assumed her fame—no matter how small—eliminated her from being connected to the other victims. But she’s from around here, a little over an hour away in Sigourney. What if…
She picked up her phone and called Ellington. “That was fast,” he said. “You miss me already?”
“Can you ask Bateman to g
et someone working on a connections angle between the victims?” she asked, ignoring his joke.
“You mean finding out if the victims were connected in any way? We went over that at last night’s meeting, White. The victims did not know each other.”
“I know that,” she said. “But maybe each of the victims knows the man that abducted them. Maybe it was a mutual acquaintance. In a town as small as Bent Creek, it has to be at least a good possibility?”
“Yeah, you’d think so,” Ellington said, suddenly sounding interested. “I’ll get someone on that.” There was a pause here and then he asked: “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
She almost told him that she’d been sinking into her father’s old case and the more recent case that seemed to be tied to it. She always seemed to grow a little detached when she tried figuring it out. But for now, she figured she’d hold that information close to her chest. The last thing she wanted was for Ellington to offer his services while she wrestled with it.
Mackenzie ended the call and started tidying up the files she had left on the bed. She did her best to clean quickly and get out, but, as usual, she found herself staring at the business card and the bloodstained sheets. It was like the past had come back not only to haunt her but to remind her that even though she had gotten away from Nebraska, her past was not so easy to escape after all.
Then do something about it, she thought. Stop obsessing and dig into it.
And why not? McGrath had all but given her the green light, and her father’s death was the sole reason she had wanted a career in law enforcement.
She pulled up Kirk Peterson’s number and nearly called it. She was sure he’d be fine with her checking in. But she also knew that if she called him now and he had even the tiniest bit of news, her mind would be split between these two cases.
After this case is wrapped up, spend a week or so on nothing but your father’s case, she told herself. Honestly, you owe it to yourself.
It was an easy decision to make. She’d discuss it with McGrath when she returned to Quantico. She had to get out from under the weight of her past.
But first, there was the man that had taken Delores Manning and two other women. He was still out there somewhere and the longer he was at large, the slimmer their chances were of catching him. She knew the forecast was calling for snow very soon—maybe as early as tomorrow morning. Once the snow started, it was going to be so much harder to catch him.
Mackenzie peered out of her window and looked at the sky. Right now, it looked blue and non-threatening. But knowing that snow could be on the way, she felt more pressured than ever to get out there and prevent this man from taking another victim.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Delores had done her very best to stay alert. She’d only slept once and she was pretty sure that had been for no longer than three hours. Her panic, exhaustion, and fear all mingled to make the last forty-eight hours or so seem like a blur. In that time, she had interacted with her captor just one time. He had slid a plastic bottle of water through one of the rectangular slats in her crate.
She’d figured out it was a crate of some kind shortly after her mind had accepted the fact that she had been captured and was being held prisoner. Acceptance had come hesitantly but once it had settled in, it had cleared the way for something close to logic.
The crate was made of metal. She had felt her way around the small confined box several times and could not quite figure out what it was. Not at first, anyway. She continued to hear the animal sounds she’d heard when she had first come to. Continuing to hear those sounds, Delores started to wonder if she was in some sort of livestock container—maybe the kind that was used to carry cows along the highways. But this container was not quite big enough for a cow. It was a little too spacious to be for a pig, though. Maybe a goat? She didn’t know…and trying to figure it out was both menacing and an invitation to madness.
She was also fairly certain that she was being held in a large shed or a small barn. She could still hear that unidentifiable animal noise. Now it reminded her of large rats. On one occasion, she thought she even heard the distant howling of a train horn.
When he had brought her the water, she’d heard the clasps and locks being unlatched on what she guessed was the door to the building as he entered. From time to time, she had also heard her captor speaking in response to the noises the animals made. His voice was usually cheerful and she assumed he was feeding his animals.
His voice had not been friendly and cheerful when he had spoken to her. The conversation had been brief and she had not been able to say much, but it had helped her to better gauge her situation. When he had come to her with her water, he had started off with a gruff-sounding “Here.”
He’d then slid the water in to her and added: “If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll bring you some food later.”
“Please,” she’d responded. “If you let me out, I won’t—”
“Now that’s not keeping your mouth shut, is it? Unless you want to starve in there, you’ll keep your fucking mouth shut. You do not speak unless I ask you to and that starts right now.”
And that had been it. Delores assumed her situation could be much worse. He could be abusing her, raping her, or killing her. She knew full well that those things could eventually happen to her, but for now she was alive and unharmed.
He’d given her the water sometime late last night. It was impossible to tell time in the container but she thought it was now sometime either late in the morning of her second day or early in the afternoon. When he had brought it to her, she’d seen her first real glimpse of him through the slats in the container. He was a big bastard, his shoulders wider than any she had ever seen. He looked to be in his mid-to-late forties and had a scruffy grayish beard.
She had memorized his face, wondering if it might do her some good if she ever got out of this hell.
Her stomach was rumbling with hunger and she had to take a piss. She thought about going in the container; she’d been holding it for about six hours now, and the half of the bottle of water she had chugged down had certainly not helped. But urinating in her own prison would be too much like defeat. And until she felt the last breath escaping her body, she did not plan on giving up.
Of course, she had no idea how she would escape. She thought about screaming for help. Even if the screams attracted only her captor, he’d likely open the container and assault her to shut her up. That might be her only chance to escape. But she knew how big he was and wondered if any attempt at escape would only be an invitation for disaster.
She figured the worst-case scenario was that he’d come for her at some point. He had kidnapped her for a reason—surely not to just keep her penned up. And while she did not like to think of what those reasons might be, the thought of being able to stretch her legs and see daylight was a sweet relief to her heart. It was a small glimmer of hope that was drowned out by the dark confined space of the container.
I’m going to end up pissing in this container, she thought. And then I’ll be trapped in here with the smell of my own piss, getting stronger and stronger every hour…
That sad thought was interrupted by the creaking of the barn door. Delores instinctively pushed herself against the back of the container. A million thoughts went racing through her head…visions of escape, visions of being half-beaten to death.
She heard his footsteps outside of the container. He shuffled over, blocking the dusty sunlight from spilling in through the slats. She said nothing, just peered through the square of darkness to his shirt, blocking out the light. It was a denim button-up. A pen stuck out of the top of the left breast pocket.
“You okay in there?” he asked.
The question took her by surprise and she wondered if she heard him right. She opened her mouth to respond but apparently not quickly enough. He banged on the side of the container, creating a hollow thrumming noise that vibrated in her bones.
“Hey!” he said, nearly shouting.
“Yes. I’m here.”
He shuffled a bit more and then started to place something along the rectangular slits in the container. The first item was a granola bar. It slid through with no problem and fell to the floor of the container. He then placed a crinkled McDonald’s bag up to one of the slits. It had been folded over and balled up and he had to push hard against it to get it to fall through the hole. When it hit, the smell of something greasy and utterly delicious filled the container.
“Food,” he said. “You need more water?”
“No,” she said. “But, please…I have to use the bathroom.”
“Then do it in there,” came the answer.
“I can’t do that,” she said.
“It’ll be fine. You won’t be in there much longer.”
It was a terrifying comment that sent her crawling to the front of the container. “Please. Don’t make me humiliate myself like that. Please let me out to use the bathroom—”
“No, and don’t ask ag—”
“I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Please…just let me out.”
“Anything,” the man said, considering the word. While he thought it over, she stared at that denim shirt and pictured the face she’d seen last night to go with it. She thought it might be easier to not know what he looked like; it would be much easier to project the face of a monster.
“If I open this container and you try anything, I’ll kill you,” he said after about twenty seconds. “I’ll give you one minute to squat in the corner and do your business. But there’s a price. When you’re done, you drop your pants all the way and then you and I are going into one of the pens in here. You’ll put both hands on the gate so I can see them and then I’m going to take you from behind. You fight, I’ll make it harder than it has to be. I’ll get real violent and then I’ll hurt you afterwards. Do you understand?”
He walked through the steps as if it were something he did all the time. Take you from behind was an especially strange way of putting things. She knew what he meant but something about his phrasing made it more sinister in a strange way.
