Like every neighbor on every cable news network who was stunned to find out Ted Bundy or the BTK killer was living next door.
Prentiss asked, ‘‘Is Hotchner picking up Fryman and Silvan?’’
‘‘Trying, but having a hard time finding either one.’’
‘‘Hotch wasn’t having them followed?’’
‘‘That’s a sore point—seemed premature to him. Didn’t want to tip his hand too much and he didn’t trust the locals to tail them.’’
Prentiss said, ‘‘We’re going back because we can be more help there now.’’ It wasn’t a question.
Rossi nodded. ‘‘With the UnSub maybe on the run, none of this down here is going to help fast enough. We need to get back and lend a hand. Maybe we can at least figure out which direction the UnSub’s going.’’
‘‘Five minutes,’’ Carlyle said as he swung the wheel right and sped down the ramp at the airport exit of I-95.
In less than half an hour, they had parked, bade Carlyle a friendly farewell, loaded their gear onto the plane and were buckling their seat belts as the copilot closed and sealed the outer door. Moments later, they were in the air.
The Learjet was getting a lot of mileage on this trip. Rossi couldn’t imagine the fuel bills, given the price of oil these days. This sure beat back when he and Gideon and Max Ryan and the rest had been forced to fly commercial—and coach at that.
After they’d been in the air awhile, Prentiss, at her laptop, turned to him. ‘‘Do you think he’ll try to stay in the lumber industry?’’
Though they didn’t know which man was their UnSub, they felt certain the killer was one of the two foresters.
‘‘He managed to do it last time,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘No reason to think he’s thinking different now—why?’’
‘‘I’ve been studying locations where lumbering is major enough to afford our man an opportunity.’’
‘‘What have you found?’’
‘‘Where were the two recent kidnappings?’’
‘‘Hibbing and some little town . . . Co-something.’’
Prentiss brought up a map of Minnesota on her laptop and narrowed in around Bemidji. ‘‘Cohasset?’’ she asked.
‘‘Yeah, that’s it.’’
‘‘Both east of Bemidji.’’
Rossi considered that. ‘‘Canada?’’
Prentiss shrugged.
‘‘What else is that direction? Is there an interstate?’’
‘‘I-35 in Duluth. That’s southeast. If he gets to that, he could go most anywhere in the country.’’
‘‘Both are possible,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘So is the possibility he wants us to believe he’s going east while he doubles back, and heads for Washington or Oregon or somewhere out that way.’’
‘‘How do we narrow it down?’’
‘‘This guy is a planner. He probably doesn’t go to the grocery store without researching all parameters. So, if you were planning on leaving, and just waiting for a wake-up call—what would you do?’’
Sitting forward, Prentiss asked, ‘‘What if he was going to leave anyway, and our getting the case was just a coincidence?’’
‘‘You know I hate that word.’’
‘‘Yes, but listen—ten years ago, he buried three girls, then kidnapped one.’’
Rossi nodded. ‘‘Because the flood washed the last body out into the open.’’
‘‘What if he was planning on leaving anyway?’’
‘‘Go on.’’
‘‘If he ran because of the body turning up, leaving ‘abruptly’ as Mrs. Pilson put it, then Jason Fryman is our best suspect. But what if he had already put in his notice, already made the plan to leave, and the body being discovered just sped up his departure?’’
‘‘Then,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘we have a scenario very much like what’s happening in Bemidji . . . and we have an UnSub with a plan—a plan that would include having a job lined up already.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Prentiss said with a tight smile. ‘‘He had a job ready last time. That case would make Lawrence Silvan the better suspect.’’
‘‘Yes it would, and I might know how to find out for sure.’’ He got out his cell phone and punched a number on the speed dial. ‘‘Garcia?’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘I’m going to give you two names. Can you tell me if either one has been online trolling employment sites in the last several months?’’
‘‘That doesn’t sound hard,’’ she said.
And she was gone.
Bemidji, Minnesota
Going west on Third, he pulled up at the stop sign at Beltrami. On his right was the Trattoria Florentine, a fine Italian restaurant where he occasionally brought His Beloved. He rolled through the intersection, and drove slowly to the next corner, the next stop sign. As he slowed, he turned on his right blinker. The car almost seemed to be driving itself. He turned right onto Minnesota and drove north. He still had two blocks to turn away, but knew he wouldn’t, the compulsion simply too strong.
It had started as he drove back into town, still behind the wheel of the rental car, the little girl still unconscious in the trunk. He passed the small businesses that made up the heart of downtown, glanced over as he drove by Celli’s, an Irish bar and grill where he stopped for lunch now and then. Up ahead, like warriors lining a gantlet, were the redbrick buildings of the courthouse, jail, and law enforcement center.
He was going to drive right through the middle of them—and with the girl in back.
His Beloved might well send him to finishing school for such brazen foolishness. The thought gave him a perverse smile.
As he rolled up to the last stop sign, the courthouse and jail across the intersection on his right, the law enforcement center on his left, he knew this was his last chance. His mind screamed, “Turn!’’ His gut said, “No way.’’ He glanced over to where city patrol cars, the county’s Durangos and, lately, the FBI’s Tahoes were normally parked
They were gone now, out looking for him, no doubt. They would be sadly disappointed. Even more so, if they knew he was sitting at the corner, virtually right outside their front door. He stuck his tongue out. Childish, yes, but it gave him a warm glow and buoyed his courage.
“Heck with it,’’ he said, and drove up the street, right between the very buildings where he would be spending most of the next year, if they caught him. After that, of course, it would be life behind bars in a federal prison—if they caught him. And, as far as he was concerned, that was a mighty big “if.’’
They would be on their way to his house by now, assuming they were any good, and he had a hunch that this team of federals was very good. Of course, he wasn’t there. His Beloved wasn’t home, either, already safely away with the other new member of their family. When the police got to the house, they would find it empty—stripped really.
Already vacated.
The police would, naturally, assume that he and His Beloved were already on the road with the two girls. Traveling would be next to impossible for the next few days. Still, all highways would be blocked, any cars checked that looked like his—only the car had been sold. When they did find it, the police would be very surprised. His new car was waiting at the motel, by the airport, as was His Beloved and their child.
The plan was that he would bring the brand-new girl to the motel, drop her off, and then he would help the girls nap again, so His Beloved could follow him to the airport to drop off the rental. While at the motel, he would change the license plates on the rental back to the originals.
Driving by the police department had been reckless, but he smiled as he turned north on Irvine Avenue. What was life without occasionally doing something just for fun? The police thought they were so smart, but he was so far ahead of them, he’d lapped them by now.
Law enforcement would be watching every interstate, two-lane highway, city street, and dirt road. The airport and the bus station would be covered. The law would be looking for
him everywhere except right under their noses, which was where he was.
At the motel, a mom-and-pop place whose business was made up mostly of parents visiting their kids at Bemidji State, he backed the car into room 11’s space, far enough from the office to be relatively secluded. At the door, he gave a single rap, to let His Beloved know who it was. Honey, I’m home!
She opened the door and smiled at him, so beautiful.
Despite the pressures they both were under, she could still smile at him; and Lawrence Silvan could not help but smile back. His wife, Suzanne, seemed to him as exquisite in her forties as she had at nineteen back in Ames, Iowa. Her brown hair was tied up in a loose bun, a blonde shock hanging down almost over an eye, Veronica Lake peekaboo style.
She was nearly as tall as Lawrence, her brown eyes wide-set and bright, her body lithe in tight jeans and an online-ordered T-shirt with the maroon and silver colors and logo of Washington State University, to help them fit in with their new surroundings.
He stepped inside and she kissed him lightly on the mouth.
“How’d it go?’’ she asked.
“Just fine, darling,’’ he said. “She’s gorgeous—you’re going to love her.’’
Suzanne’s grin revealed small, white, perfect teeth.
“What would you think,’’ she said impishly, “about . . . Linda?’’
They gave their girls new names as soon as possible, their own little christening service. Suzanne had decided she wanted L names this time around—Linda, Laura, Lucy. The girls who’d attended finishing school in Georgia had been Rs—Rose, Renee, and Rachel. The girls who went to finishing school in Minnesota had all had P names—Pam, Patty, and, of course, lovely Paula.
Suzanne looked over her shoulder at the small blonde girl tied to a chair, her mouth gagged, her cheeks and eyes red from crying, her blue eyes wide with terror.
“She’s having a time-out,’’ Suzanne said.
“Oh? Why?’’
“For trying to scream.’’
“Well, maybe she’ll feel better when she meets her sister.’’
“I can’t wait,’’ Suzanne said, eyes bright. “We’ve been so nervous all afternoon.’’
“I’ll get her.’’
Suzanne held the door as he went and unlocked the car’s truck. He held the lid unlatched but down as he watched the traffic passing on the street. When a break came, he let the lid up, swooped in, and picked up their new daughter—Linda—and rushed her into the room, settling her gently on the nearby bed. He glanced up to see little chair-bound Laura’s eyes widen even more. She tried to scream through the washcloth gag, but nothing came out.
She would learn.
Lawrence went back outside, shut and locked the trunk, looked around one more time, then went back in and closed the door. Suzanne was already hovering over the new girl—his wife, Lawrence knew, was a born mother.
Suzanne brushed the hair of the unconscious girl; then her shining eyes met Lawrence’s adoring gaze. “Sweetheart, she’s beautiful.’’
Pride warmed his heart. “I just knew you’d like her.’’
“No,’’ she said, tears welling. “I love her.’’
Lawrence felt the glow that accompanied his wife’s happiness. He had used a slow day at work last month, when it was still warm, to take a shopping trip to Crookston, west of here, just short of the North Dakota line. That pretty little girl would make their family complete.
Suzanne asked, “How long has she been sleeping?’’
Lawrence glanced at his watch. “Oh, three hours the first time, an hour and a half this time.’’
“It took you two a long time to get back.’’
“I circled way south. I figured they wouldn’t be looking for me down there. Took a little longer that way. Sorry, dear.’’
She gave him a peck on the cheek. “As long as you’re both all right. I’ll get my coat and we can take the car to the airport.’’
He touched her arm. “I’ve got to run one more errand before we do that.’’
She frowned. “What’s that?’’
“I’ve got a coat of Linda’s. I want to put it in the trunk of the car we sold to Jason.’’
Her frown deepened. “Couldn’t we just go?’’
“No.’’ Such moments required a rare firmness from him toward His Beloved. “We have a new life waiting in Tacoma. The only way we can live that life, securely, is if someone takes the blame for’’—his eyes went to the two frightened little girls—“sending the girls to finishing school.’’
“You know that was necessary.’’
“I do, darling. I do. But so is putting the blame on Jason. Otherwise, they will track us down, and once we’re settled, it won’t be hard to find us at all.’’
Her expression said she knew he was right, even if she couldn’t admit it out loud.
Lightly he said, “Anyway, Jason doesn’t live that far from here—should already be home from work. Won’t take long at all.’’
“All right, dear, but hurry, will you? I’m feeling strangely . . . disconcerted.’’
“Don’t be.’’ He took his cell from his pocket and showed it to her. I’ll call as soon as I’m on my way back.’’
She kissed him, but worry tightened her lovely eyes. “I have a terrible feeling of foreboding.’’
He hugged her. “Just nerves. I’ll be back before you know it.’’
And Lawrence went off to do this one last thing, knowing another ten years of happiness awaited him, and maybe this time, with the “L’’ girls, they could be finished with finishing school.
That was his dream, anyway.
Bemidji, Minnesota
In the living room of Jason Fryman’s home, Derek Morgan stood at a window looking out on the street. Behind him, Hotch and Reid were in chairs facing the sofa, where Fryman and his wife perched nervously. Garue stood next to Morgan, but with his attention on the couple.
The agents had already been to the Silvan residence and found no one home. They were in the process of trying to finesse a warrant to search the premises, but—in the meantime—they had come to interview the Frymans.
The thin blond Fryman, who’d been nervous in the interview room, was even jumpier now, a skittish pigeon flitting around his stoic, steady wife, Amy, a pretty, chubby, brown-eyed brunette. Fryman was in the same blue work shirt, jeans, and boots as in the interview room, while Amy Fryman wore a long, floral skirt, a brown blouse, and wire-frame bifocals—she seemed vaguely hippieish to Morgan.
The couple had been fully cooperative and Fryman had answered every question, the interview almost over now. When Morgan had interviewed Fryman before, the little man had seemed their best suspect. Now Morgan was convinced Silvan was the UnSub.
A blue Ford Taurus slowed in front of the Fryman house, the driver possibly looking in this direction, but in the gray of dusk, Morgan couldn’t be sure. Then the car continued on.
Hotchner was saying, ‘‘So you have no plans for getting a new job out of state?’’
‘‘No,’’ Fryman said, his voice small, wounded.
‘‘You do know we’ll check into this.’’
Mrs. Fryman said, fairly shrill, ‘‘We have done nothing but cooperate. We’ve said you can search our home, top to bottom, without a warrant. What else do you want from us?’’
Hotchner twitched a fairly ghastly smile. ‘‘We appreciate that. But we have to check every lead.’’
‘‘There are no children here, there never have been any children!’’ She began to weep, then to sob.
Morgan was about to make sure the woman was all right when the corner of his eye caught the blue Taurus going by again, slowing as it went.
‘‘Someone knows we’re here,’’ Morgan said, as the car pulled away again.
All eyes went to him.
‘‘The same car has gone by twice,’’ Morgan said, ‘‘once in each direction, and slowing down both times.’’ He asked Fryman, ‘‘Do you know anyone with a
blue Ford Taurus?’’
The little man shook his head.
Hotchner asked Morgan, ‘‘What are you thinking?’’
‘‘Might be Lawrence Silvan.’’
Fryman, surprised, frowning, asked, ‘‘Why would he be here?’’
Amy, through her sobbing, managed near hysterically, ‘‘Does he want to kill us?’’
Silvan’s name had come up enough in the questioning for the Frymans to figure out Jason’s co-worker was a suspect.
Morgan held up a hand. ‘‘No, but if he’s the guilty party, he’s going to want to cover his tracks. He’s got a new life set up somewhere. As close as we are, he’s going to have to find a way to get us off his trail.’’
Reid said, ‘‘He’ll try to frame someone.’’
‘‘Could be,’’ Morgan said.
Fryman was looking from agent to agent, tennis-match style. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’
Ignoring Fryman, Hotchner said to the other profilers, ‘‘He knows we’re closing in—he’s a planner. He’s always had a plan to cover his tracks in case of an emergency. He has to feed us someone who is a credible enough suspect that we’ll leave him alone.’’
The Frymans looked absolutely perplexed.
‘‘There’s only one person that would fit that bill,’’ Reid said, looking at Jason Fryman. ‘‘You.’’
Flummoxed, Fryman asked, ‘‘Why me?’’
Still at the window, watching, Morgan said, ‘‘With the growing media attention, he’s figured out we’ve tied these crimes to the ones in Georgia. Like they used to say in the old movies, he needs a patsy, a fall guy . . . and whoever he blames has to be someone who’s here in Bemidji now, but who was also in Georgia at the time of the murders there.’’
Reid said, ‘‘Only two people that fit that bill, Mr. Fryman—Lawrence Silvan and you.’’
Fryman shook his head, eyes wild, a man trying to wake from a bad dream.
Hotchner got to his feet and pressed their host. ‘‘Has Silvan given you something lately?’’
‘‘No.’’
Finishing School Page 18
