by Julia Shupe
“Kyle,” I said. “What do you do here?”
The manager shifted from foot to foot. We were starting to draw too much attention from the patrons. “Please,” he said, nodding toward the employee entrance. “Can we take this somewhere private? Somewhere away from customers’ eyes?”
We followed the two men through a set of double doors, into a hallway lined with boxes and bags of soil. Past that hallway was a large warehouse, the size of which I hadn’t expected. The building’s façade was misleading. This place was enormous, and somewhat disorganized. Pallets of sod were stacked against the west wall, next to bags of multi-colored rocks and wood chips, while the remaining square footage was filled with colorful foliage: plants, flowers, fruit-bearing trees in pots, and an array of planters, fountains, and bowls. An impressive collection of seed packets was shelved on the opposite wall. I must have been wearing my admiration on my face, because Kyle stood suddenly straighter.
“I’m the nursery’s wholesale manager,” he said. “This is the area I manage.”
My ears perked up. “Wholesale, you say.” My fingers found the flower in my pocket. “So none of this merchandise will be sold in the store?”
“Some,” he answered. “But not all. More than half of this stuff is earmarked for local businesses.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Gil’s fingers flutter. He took a step forward. “Local businesses? And could you print out a list of those businesses?”
“Of course.”
I pulled the flower from my pocket. “And will the lists be somewhat specific?”
His gaze fell to the flower, and he frowned. “Specific, as in the names of specific flowers? I suppose.” He gently plucked the flower from my hand. “This is a Silver African Daisy, very popular this year, very high in demand. The color is particularly unusual, and the flower is durable in most types of weather.” Lowering his hand, he met my haze. “It’ll take me some time, but I can trace back the orders.”
Though Gil was encouraged, he didn’t seem sold. “So you sell to local business establishments. What about landscaping companies?”
“Of course. Landscaping companies are our company’s bread and butter. They represent the largest segment of our off-season business.”
Gil produced the grainy photo of Tubbs. “We’re wondering if you’ve seen this man. Look closely. Have you sold him anything, or seen him around the store?”
Kyle’s eyes narrowed before he slowly shook his head. “Doesn’t look familiar to me. But most of the time, I’m stuck in my office. I’m responsible for stocking and order fulfillment. You may want to speak to a member of my warehouse staff—Tim, I’m thinking. He’s the best person for this. He works directly with the clients. He loads their trucks when they pick up their orders then files the paperwork in the back. That kind of thing.”
“Get him out here.” Gil was becoming impatient. “We need to talk to him. Now. This is a matter of life and death, Mr. Harris. It’s important. A woman has been taken. We need to find her as soon as humanly possible.”
Kyle pulled his phone from his pocket. “He’s at lunch right now, but I can ask him to come back.”
“No need,” I said, stepping forward. I took my phone from my pocket and held it up. “Give me his number. We’ll send him a text.” Centering my camera on the printout of Tubbs, I snapped a photo then handed Kyle the phone. With shaking fingers he keyed in the number, and the photo went sailing into digital land. “Call him,” I ordered. “Let’s see what he says.”
But before we could call, he came striding into the room, a small, wiry kid, eyes glued to his phone. He was clearly staring at the picture we’d sent.
“Hey,” He said. “You guys send me this?”
“The picture,” I pressed, taking the hard copy from Gil’s outstretched hand. “Have you seen this man?”
“Sure. Why? What’s he done?”
“His name.” Gil countered. “What’s his name?”
“Name’s Brett.”
“Brett?” I was holding my breath.
“Yeah. Brett Smith. He works for All Seasons landscaping & Trees. He’s a gardener there. Sometimes he picks up the orders.”
“Smith,” Gil repeated. “I’ll be damned.” His eyes locked onto my face. “I’ll be mother-fucking damned, Vanessa. This bastard’s been living his life as Smith.”
Chapter 42
Got him, Jake.
All Seasons landscaping & Trees.
Goes by the name of Brett Smith.
Need an address. ASAP.
I’d sent the text while waiting in the car. Gil was still inside, getting a printed history of All Seasons orders. We wanted dates, times, and signatures, something that put Carlton Tubbs inside that store, preferably during one of Alaina’s shifts.
Smith?!
Jacob’s reply came an instant before his call. “I know,” I said, when I answered it. “Can you believe it?”
“No. It’s unbelievable. But it’s right on the money. All Seasons Landscaping’s fingerprint is all over this thing. I’ve got contracts with Pain-Free and OceanTide Perks, and I’m sure the gym and the high school will be the same. You did it, Ness.”
“No,” I corrected him. “We did it. But we haven’t done anything yet. We still need an address. We still need to find him.”
“Salmon’s on it. He’ll have an address in five minutes. Judge is signing a warrant as we speak, faxing it to the captain in just a few minutes. And the owner of All Seasons is standing by.”
“Do you think she’ll be there?” I asked him tentatively. “At his home, I mean. Do you think we’ll make it in time to save her?” My lack of confidence was evident in my voice.
“You mean Angela,” he answered. “I don’t know. I hope so. Hang on. Warrant’s coming through right now.”
I heard him set the phone down on a hard surface. Sweat had gathered beneath my arms. Today was the hottest day of spring thus far. It was sticky; the air was thick like a blanket, and I wondered how Angela was fairing out there. I hoped her prison was climate-controlled, that she had plenty of access to water and food.
Gil was jogging across the parking lot, papers rolled beneath one arm. As he opened his door, the text came through.
“There. Sent you a copy. And the address. Now go.” My phone buzzed against my ear. “Tubbs/Smith lives five miles from that nursery. You’re right on top of him, Ness. I’m requesting backup. DO NOT go in there alone.” He paused. “Vanessa, Carlton didn’t show up for work this morning, which the owner of All Seasons says is unusual. Something’s up. Please be careful.”
“I will.” Flashing the screen to Gil, I said, “Got an address. Let’s go. Step on it.”
After glancing at the screen, he threw the car into reverse.
“Jake, I’ve gotta go.”
“I’m right behind you, Ness.”
Chapter 43
The Shadow Man
He was out of control by the time he reached his house, obsessed with the idea that he’d lost himself completely. Was he aware of every minute that had passed? Was he conscious of each and every thought? How could he be sure they were even his own?
Having left the keys dangling in the ignition, he staggered from the car, his need for the truth pulling him forward. When was the last time Smith had made an official appearance? And where had he taken those women? Where had he held them? Tortured them? Killed them?
He ran to the garage and lifted the door. Shovels of various heft and weight were hung on hooks above a dusty workbench. Beneath it were stacked bags of quicklime, seed, and several pounds of soil. He chose a trenching shovel, spade, and a small hand-shovel. He just needed to see, to know. He needed to prove that his memories were real. He needed to hold one of their hands in his own, feel cold dead skin against his cheeks.
He raced around the side of the house. The backyard was bathed in light, except for a small shadowed square near the tallest of the trees, where he could see three gentle mounds of earth in a row. G
rass didn’t grow in that area. It couldn’t. The soil was as dead as the women lying beneath it.
Dropping to his knees, he let the shovels fall to the ground beside him. He couldn’t recall how deep he’d buried them. He’d dig carefully. He wouldn’t scar their beautiful faces.
As he dug, he wept. For the man he’d become, for the angry little child he had been, and for the demon who needed this kind of depravity to live. He wept for the families he’d shattered beyond repair, for the lives he had taken, for the mothers he’d destroyed. He was a cancer that had been unleashed unto the world, an incurable disease that had claimed innocent lives. He was broken inside, physically, and psychologically.
Beneath the dirt, his shovel touched something soft. He cleared the dust with his hands.
A cat.
What? A dead fucking cat? What the hell? A rising panic threatened to choke him. Where were his precious girls? As he peered down at the small broken body, his eyes blurred with fresh tears. Its neck was twisted, but he couldn’t remember doing it.
Cats, my brother? You’re still into cats?
The voice had whispered from behind the nearest tree.
Carlton froze. It was just a hallucination. Nothing had come from behind the nearest tree. It had come from inside his own head. It was the voice that had always been his, all along.
“Smith,” he hissed to the empty air behind him. “Leave me alone.”
Leave you alone? Not possible. Brother, you know I can’t do that. You’re nothing without me. I’m a part of you now. Accept it. Move on.
Staggering to his knees, Carlton spun toward the shadowed alcove. “I don’t have to accept jack shit, Smith. I’ll kill you. I can’t live this way any longer.”
You can’t kill me, brother. We’re one in the same. I’m the best part of you, Carl. Without me, you’re nothing but a hopeless drunk. Without me, you’d drown in your pain.
“You’re lying!” Carlton shook his head, spittle dribbling down his chin. “I never wanted to be this man. I don’t have to be like this. You’re wrong.”
I’m not. This is who you are. Accept it. You’ve always been this man, Smith insisted. What other way would you be? Stop fighting the man you were meant to become. Embrace him. Trust him. It’s more fun that way.
Dropping the shovel, Carlton balled his fists. “I’ll kill you,” he insisted, turning back to his garage. “I can put an end to this. I can put an end to you.”
Chapter 44
Angela was so damned cold she could barely keep from shivering, which didn’t make sense; it was musty down here. The air was thick, the temperature uncomfortably warm. Lifting her head, she peered at the glass of dirty water. There was less than an inch at the bottom.
Not enough.
Where had he gone? Why hadn’t he come back? It wasn’t like him to stay away for so long. Not that she wanted him to return, of course. But she needed him to; if he didn’t, she’d die.
She looked at the line of festering cuts across her legs. Puss oozed from the corner of the deepest. It was crusted with black blood. He’d used a dirty blade. She would die from those cuts, she thought despairingly, from the infection that was already poisoning her blood. She was running a fever. It was spiking again, and she had no medicine with which to bring it down. She needed food, aspirin, clean towels to clean her wounds.
And above all else, she needed water. Buckets of water wouldn’t quench this unbearable thirst. She longed to gulp down the water in the glass, but feared he’d take too long to refill it. He usually visited her every other day. She’d learned his routine. Only now, he was breaking it.
Uncurling her legs and shifting on the slab of wood, she searched for a position that wasn’t painful. Her knee, which was broken, was the source of her worst pain. He’d hit it with a hammer, four nights before, and she’d heard it crunch when the pain had exploded. She couldn’t remember what had happened after that. The pain had pulled her into a deep black pit, a place she wished she could return to now.
She fingered the names written beneath the edge of the wood, two that were carved into the dirt below her head. She took great care not to smudge, or rub them out. Alaina and Jody: they were important to her, evidence of two who’d come before her. There’d been many more. Of that she was certain. By now, she knew who had taken her. It was the serial killer she’d seen in the news, the man she’d befriended at the coffee shop.
What a fool she had been, so trusting and inviting. She’d been the equivalent of a vacancy sign, hanging above a cheap roadside motel. Having tantalized a predator, she couldn’t act shocked. She’d served herself up like a Thanksgiving dinner on a silver-plated dish. She remembered the first time she’d met him at the coffee shop. Her instincts had flared. Why the hell hadn’t she listened? She’d fallen for his charm and ignored her gut. How she wished she could go back and do it all again.
Tears welled, threatening to spill on bruised cheeks. Peering at the dirty glass, she willed herself to stop. She shouldn’t waste the valuable fluids. Besides, it was weak. Counterproductive. And more importantly, it would do nothing to free her. She wasn’t even sure where here actually was, but if she ever got out, she’d become a different person. She’d warn other girls about the dangers of strangers. She’d dedicate her life to helping others, she thought, to being of service to women in need. She’d write books, give seminars, give aid to other victims. She’d confess every detail of this sordid experience, particularly if hearing it could help someone else.
If, she thought. If I ever get out.
That was the problem she’d been analyzing for days. She’d searched this cell when he first locked her inside it, back when she was stronger and healthier, before the beatings had begun, before her focus had shifted from the shock, to the pain. Her eyes followed the lines of mortar. The cell was dark, and from what she could see, it was probably airtight, too, save for a small window at the top of the door. The enclosure was made of rock and earth, it’s only door too far for her to reach. If she could only get close enough to test that lock. It appeared to be old and rusted, worn out. With enough downward pressure, she wondered if it would give.
Screw it, she thought, kicking out with her leg. The locks were too far. The door was off limits. She couldn’t get close because of the chain around her leg. He kept her shackled to a hook in the wall, which she pulled, as hard as she could, when she could. The effort, however, was futile. It was a waste of valuable energy. Her strength was beginning to wan. She could feel it. She wouldn’t be free unless someone freed her, a dream for which she dared not hope.
Those first few days, she’d screamed her throat raw, but the closeness of the walls only trapped the sound inside her small cell. It reverberated off of rock and stone, was suppressed by hard-packed earth. The sound didn’t carry much farther than the window, and after a few days, she finally stopped trying. Better, she had thought, to conserve energy and strength. Better to focus on staying alive.
For that, she’d discovered, was the game. When he visited her, she had to stay focused. At first, she’d cowered and whimpered in the corner, and he’d kicked her for that. He abhorred weakness. The beatings were worse when she pleaded for him to stop. It was twisted thinking from a perverted mind. He liked her strong and sassy, not weepy. He liked to see how far he could push her, how far she would bend before breaking. He respected her more when she took the abuse, and she figured she’d live longer if she did. For the longer she lived, the better were her chances. She could be found, freed, and then face him in court. How she’d love to see him rot in a jail cell, or writhe to the rhythm of an electric current, shitting himself while other people watched.
She’d love nothing more than to take him down. He was cruel and cold. He never said a word. So different he was than the man she’d met in the coffee shop, the man to whom she’d given her name. A daughter? She laughed, a rueful sound. He’d known the right things to say to make her trust him. He’d been kind and funny. She’d fallen for his lies. But
the man she’d met had disappeared, and a fierce predator had taken his place. For people were never one thing, she’d figured out. Personalities were often multi-faceted—including hers. His, however, was extreme. It was almost as if he were two different people, two separate individuals inhabiting one body—and a broken-down body, at that.
She coughed, spat blood, and looked at her hand. She’d been beaten to the proverbial pulp. There wasn’t a place on her body that wasn’t sore, but the tightness in her lungs was something else entirely. She was sick, deep inside her body, in her chest. As was her captor. His symptoms were worse than hers. This place was damp and full of mold. Slick and furry, it was a living, breathing organism. It fingered along the walls of this old abandoned building.
She turned away from it, her fingers finding the letters on the floor. She had to hold on for as long as she could. She had to believe that someone would find her. For if she lost all hope, she would die.
Chapter 45
The Shadow Man
“Carlton Tubbs? You’re under arrest.” My brain wouldn’t register the images I was seeing. The man in front of me had clearly come unhinged. Like a dog frantically digging for a bone, he was clawing at the ground with fingers like talons, an array of shovels just inches from his hands. What the hell was he doing over there?
Face red and jaw clenched, he pointed to the ground, then whispered in the general direction of the trees. It appeared we’d interrupted an argument of sorts, though I still wasn’t sure where the enemy lines were drawn. Tubbs had clearly suffered a mental breakdown, which was something we determined when we arrived at the house. We were first on the scene, Gil and I. We’d beaten everyone else: Jacob, the paramedics, the backup units. And Tubbs, I theorized, had arrived only a few moments before. We weren’t sure if he was drunk, or just crazy, but his car was parked in the middle of his lawn, the door left open, keys dangling in the ignition. The hood had still been warm to the touch, the metal still popping as it cooled.
