The Night Stalker

by James Swain

  “You’ll do that?”

  “Yes. Jed will be much safer in police custody than he is in hiding. If one of those FBI sharpshooters spots him, it’s all over.”

  “Should I tell Heather that?”

  “Do whatever you have to do,” I said.

  I stood by my window and listened to the rain pound the roof. It sounded like a thousand tiny hammers on my skull, and I felt the anger and frustration inside of me rising to the surface.

  Jed Grimes had been set up. I didn’t know who was responsible, or what their motivation was. What I did know was that he’d done a masterful job of convincing the police and the FBI. If I didn’t get to Jed first, he was history.

  My phone rang, and I pulled it from my pocket. Caller ID said UNKNOWN.

  “Carpenter here,” I answered.

  A car horn blared in the background, along with other street noises. Then a young woman said, “Mr. Carpenter, this is Heather Rinker. I’m standing at a pay phone next to a convenience store two blocks from my mother-in-law’s house. I wanted to call you without the FBI listening in.”

  “I guess you spoke to Jessie,” I said.

  “Yeah. She explained your offer to help Jed. I thought it was a good idea, so I came over here and called him. Jed wants to do it.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Good.”

  “Come to the store, and I’ll take you to where Jed’s hiding out.”

  “That sounds like a plan, Heather. I’m leaving right now.”

  “No. Wait until it gets light.”

  “Why?”

  “There are too many FBI agents hiding in the neighborhood. They’ve got rifles. Jed’s scared of getting shot, and so am I.”

  The fear in her voice was almost palpable.

  “All right,” I said.

  “I’m going to give you my cell number. Call it when you leave. I’ll slip out of my mother-in-law’s house, and meet you at the convenience store. Then we’ll go see Jed.”

  I grabbed a pen and piece of paper off my night table. “Go ahead.”

  She gave me her cell phone number. Her voice was strained, and I sensed that she was holding something back. “Is there something you want to tell me, Heather?”

  “I’m just afraid,” she said.

  “Nothing is going to happen to Jed. You have to believe that.”

  “I do. It’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  She started to reply, then hung up.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I lay on my bed and did ceiling patrol for a few hours, thinking about Jed. His father was about to be executed, his little boy had been kidnapped, and he was being hunted by the FBI. I needed to get him out of harm’s way, and figure out who was behind these crimes. And I needed to do it fast.

  At six a.m. I dragged myself out of bed, and took a long, hot shower. It woke me up, and I threw my clothes on while listening to the rain.

  I drove over the short steel drawbridge to the mainland with a cup of coffee in my hand and Jimmy Buffett’s Songs You Know by Heart album playing on the pickup’s tape deck. The roads were treacherous, and I crawled through town and headed north to the interstate.

  As I drove, I visualized the convenience store in LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood. It sat on the corner of a busy intersection and had two gas pumps. I didn’t like meeting people in places that weren’t out in the open, not even people that I knew. Call it my survival instinct. I decided that the store was a good meeting place.

  As I exited the interstate, I called Heather.

  “It’s Jack Carpenter,” I said. “I’m five minutes away.”

  “Let me call you back,” she said.

  “Is something wrong?”

  The line went dead. It was the second time she’d hung up on me. It gave me a bad feeling, and I glanced at Buster, who sat at stiff attention in the passenger seat.

  I navigated my way down the flooded streets to the convenience store. When I was a block away, I pulled off, and put my blinkers on. Then Heather called me back.

  “We’re on,” she said.

  “Good,” I said.

  “I’m going to need about ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Ten minutes later I arrived at the store. The parking lot was a lake, and contained no cars. Parking so I faced the front door, I grabbed the Marlins’ baseball cap off the backseat and stuck it on my head. I hadn’t followed the Marlins until they’d won the World Series. Now they were my favorite team.

  Out of habit I touched the Colt resting in my pants pocket. It gave me a sense of security that only a gun can. Then I glanced at Buster. His ears were pinned straight back.

  “I’ll be right back, partner.”

  I dodged raindrops going inside. The store was empty, save for the Cuban manager eating breakfast behind the counter. I coughed and he looked up.

  “I’m looking for a girl,” I said. “She’s supposed to be meeting me here.”

  He nodded toward the bathroom. “She’s in there. You want something?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He pointed at the sign on the counter. It said “No Loitering.” I pretended to fill out a Lotto ticket while waiting for Heather to emerge. The bathroom door opened, and a barefoot woman who looked like a street person sauntered out.

  “Hey, big boy,” the woman said.

  “Sorry, I thought you were someone else,” I said.

  “Sure you did.”

  She cackled like a witch and left the store. I went to the front window, and pressed my face to the glass. I didn’t see Heather.

  “You want something?” the manager asked.

  “Give me a cup of coffee,” I said.

  “Cuban coffee?”

  “Why not?”

  The coffee was strong enough to wake the dead. Sipping it, I went to the door. Two black SUVs had pulled into the lot, and I watched eight shotgun-wielding FBI agents climb out. I knew they were FBI because it was printed in bold letters across their baseball caps. Nothing like free advertising, I thought. They surrounded the pickup and aimed their weapons at Buster, who was sitting behind the wheel. At the same time, a black helicopter swooped out of the sky, and I saw a door open, and a man clutching a high-powered rifle aim at the roof of the pickup.

  I burst out of the store. “Don’t shoot!”

  It was the wrong move. Two of the agents spun around, and aimed their weapons at my chest. I froze, and they threw me to the ground. I dropped my coffee and banged my head. A shotgun found my rib cage.

  “Don’t move,” one of them said.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

  The other agent knelt down, and ripped off my Marlins’ cap. “It’s Carpenter.”

  “Jesus Christ,” the first agent said.

  I got to my feet. My clothes were covered in dirt and spilled coffee, and I was seeing double. I waited for my vision to return, and stared into their faces. It was Burrell and Whitley. Burrell wore a baseball cap that said Broward Police, and looked ready to kill me.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Getting breakfast,” I said.

  “Don’t push me, Jack.”

  “You should try their coffee. It’s really good.”

  “Is Jed here? Or Heather?”

  “They never showed.”

  “Get in your car and follow us,” she said.

  Whitley shouted a command, and the agents lowered their weapons, and got back into the SUVs, while the chopper lifted into the clouds. I got into the pickup and hugged Buster. I didn’t know who I was angrier at: Heather for setting me up, or myself for letting it happen. I turned the key in the ignition so hard it made the engine scream.

  One of the SUVs got in front of me, the other behind, and we drove to LeAnn Grimes’s neighborhood. At the entrance to RichJo Lane, we came to a roadblock manned by six heavily armed FBI agents, and were waved through.

  We drove to a house directly across the street from LeAnn’s. The gr
ass was knee-high, and partially obscured the “For Sale” sign on the lawn. I followed Burrell inside.

  The house was old and musty, and had creaky hardwood floors. There was no furniture except for the sophisticated monitoring equipment the FBI had installed in the living room. Two FBI techs were staring at a bank of flickering video monitors showing LeAnn’s house as we came inside.

  Burrell led me to a back bedroom, and shut the door with her foot. Yanking off her cap, she shook out her hair. She was still livid with me.

  “You two make a nice couple,” I said.

  “I should arrest you,” she said.

  “On what charge?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Do you want me to tell you what happened back there?” I asked.

  “Be my guest.”

  “Heather gave you the slip. Check your surveillance tapes if you don’t believe me.”

  “Stay here.”

  Burrell hurried to the front of the house. She came back to the bedroom with an angry look on her face.

  “How did you know Heather ran out on us?” she demanded.

  “Can I see the tape?” I asked.

  “Explain yourself first.”

  “I offered to bring Jed in, and turn him over to the police. Heather agreed, and told me to meet her at the convenience store, where she’d take me to see Jed. Then she conned the FBI into believing Jed was coming to the store. The FBI took the bait, and Heather used the opportunity to run.”

  “Why did she do that?”

  “I guess because she loves him. Now can I see the video?”

  Burrell led me to the living room. Whitley had come inside and was staring at the monitors with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. A surveillance tape was playing showing a person wearing a faded jean jacket and workman’s cap walking down a dirt path behind LeAnn’s house. The person turned, and one of the techs froze the image. It was Heather, dressed in her husband’s work clothes.

  “Do we know where she went?” Whitley asked the tech.

  The tech unfroze the image, and we watched Heather disappear from the screen.

  “No,” the tech said.

  “Shit,” Whitley cursed.

  “I know where Heather is,” I said.

  Everyone in the living room stared at me.

  “She went to be with Jed,” I said. “And I know who can tell us where Jed is.”

  “Who?” Whitley asked.

  I went to the window and cranked it open. Through the glass shutters I stared at LeAnn Grimes’s house with its “No Trespassing” signs scattered across the lawn. LeAnn and Jed had impressed me as having a special bond born out of years of shared adversity. If anyone knew where Jed was hiding, it was her.

  “If you think LeAnn Grimes is going to help us, forget it,” Whitley said. “I tried to speak with her, and she slammed the door in my face.”

  “That’s because you’re a cop,” I said. “She’ll talk with me.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “She trusts me.”

  An uneasy silence filled the room. I glanced over my shoulder, and saw Burrell and Whitley exchange looks. They were going to have to work on their signals, because I knew what Burrell was going to say before the words came out of her mouth.

  “Please, Jack,” she said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  As I came outside, Buster exploded out of the bushes and followed me across the street to LeAnn’s house. I made him lie on the grass, then knocked on the door.

  “It’s Jack Carpenter,” I said.

  I heard a deadbolt being drawn back, and LeAnn filled the doorway. She wore a shapeless black housedress, and her eyes were filled with dread.

  “I need to talk to you about Heather,” I said.

  “Heather’s in trouble,” she whispered.

  LeAnn fell heavily against the door. She was in shock, and I escorted her to the living room and made her sit on the couch. From the kitchen I got a glass of cold water, and placed it beneath her lips. She drank the entire glass.

  “Tell me what happened,” I said.

  She pointed at the cell phone lying on the coffee table. It was right in front of her, only she didn’t want to touch it. I picked it up.

  “Is there something you want me to hear?” I asked.

  “Heather left me a voice message,” she whispered.

  I sat beside her on the couch, and made her show me how to access her messaging service. Dialing in, I entered her password, then listened hard. At first, I heard nothing. Then Heather’s voice ripped through the phone.

  “Help me! Please, somebody help me!”

  Her attacker was beating her, and I could hear the blows. Heather’s screams grew louder, then suddenly stopped altogether. I strained to pick up any background noises, and heard another voice. It was small and strong.

  “Leave my mommy alone! Leave her alone!”

  It was Sampson, and he was fighting back. I listened as the killer dragged him across the room, and heard a door slam. Then the call ended.

  An icy finger ran down my spine. The message was similar to Piper Stone’s last call. The killer had sent that message, along with this one. He was taunting us.

  “Sweet Lord, have mercy on their souls,” LeAnn whispered.

  “Where did Heather go?” I asked.

  “To buy some things for Jed.”

  “What things?”

  “I don’t know. They talk on walkie-talkies, and sometimes it’s hard to make out what they’re saying.”

  “Was she stopping someplace in the neighborhood?”

  “I think so.”

  “But you don’t know where.”

  LeAnn shook her head.

  “I need to talk to Jed.”

  “I don’t know where my son is,” she whispered.

  “I think you do,” I said.

  Tears ran down LeAnn’s cheeks, and she balled her hands into fists and bounced them on her lap. I touched her sleeve, but she refused to look at me.

  “Your son has a hiding place in the neighborhood, someplace where he goes when he wants to escape from the world,” I said. “He’s been going there for a long time, and you’ve always known about it, even if you haven’t talked about it. Am I right?”

  She nodded stiffly.

  “This secret place bothered you, so you watched him, and tried to figure out where he went. You wanted to know, and probably came up with some ideas, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “Tell me your ideas,” I said.

  She took a deep breath. “It was nearby. I knew because he never took his bike or the car. For a while I thought he was going to a mall where his friends hung out. Then I realized that wasn’t so.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “His clothes. Whenever he went to his secret place, he wore the worst clothes. He didn’t do that when he went to the mall.”

  “Did he invite his friends there?”

  “Yes, all the time. I used to hear him on the phone.”

  “So other kids knew about it.”

  “Yes, they knew.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  “Jed always took a shower after he came home. One day I confronted him in the hall. That’s when the smell hit me.”

  “The smell?”

  “It was rancid. He smelled like he’d been rolling around in something dead.”

  “Do you think he’s hiding in a barn?”

  “He didn’t smell like horses.”

  “Then where?”

  She fell silent and stared at the framed photo of Jed on the coffee table. “I just figured he’d dug a big hole in the ground somewhere. Where else could he be going?”

  I went outside and called Jessie on my cell phone. A veil of storm clouds had descended over the neighborhood, and a harsh rain was falling.

  “Hi, Daddy,” my daughter answered. “How did it go with Heather?”

  “Not good,” I said.
“Heather’s in trouble. I need to find Jed.”

  “What can I do?”

  “You grew up with Heather, and shared a lot of friends. I want you to call them, and ask them if they remember a secret hiding place that Jed had. Maybe there’s an old bomb shelter buried in someone’s backyard, or an abandoned garage. Jed’s got a hideout, and he’s had it for a while. Hopefully, one of Heather’s friends will know where it is.”

  “I’ll call them right now,” my daughter said.

  I folded my phone. Across the street, a small army of FBI agents wearing bulletproof vests and carrying rifles had gathered on the sidewalk. Whitley was with them, barking out orders, and I watched the agents break into groups, and begin a house-to-house search of the neighborhood. Seeing me, Whitley crossed the street.

  “We just picked up a message on LeAnn Grimes’s voice mail,” the FBI agent said. “You can hear Jed beating up his wife. We’re going to find him before he kills her.”

  I started to protest, then clamped my mouth shut. Whitley had made up his mind that Jed was guilty, and nothing I could say was going to change that belief. I watched him hurry away. Then Jessie called me back.

  “I just got off the phone with Cinda Bowe, one of Jed’s old girlfriends,” my daughter said. “Cinda said that Jed’s neighborhood used to be on private well and septic, but got switched over to city water and sewer. Most of the houses kept their septic tanks, and Jed spent a summer cleaning several out, and connecting them with underground tunnels. Cinda said Jed even ran electricity down there.”

  “Did Jed ever take Cinda there?” I asked. “Cinda went there once and smoked pot with Jed. She said it stank like a sewer, so she never went back.”

  “Did she remember where it was?”

  “Cinda said it happened when she was a kid. She forgot the exact location, but said it was a couple of blocks away from Jed’s mom’s house.”

  Cinda Bowe wasn’t old enough to be forgetting things like that. My daughter’s friend wasn’t telling the whole truth, probably because she didn’t want her name coming up. We were running out of time, and I decided to press her.

  “Give me Cinda’s number,” I said.

  “But, Daddy—”

  “Give it to me.”

  “She’ll freak out if you call her.”