All in all, a perfect encapsulation of the way Reed was feeling, how the night was playing out.
Pretty much everything involving the case.
Back behind the wheel, he could see the alternating pattern of his flashers passing from one headlamp to the other before him. Moving in a checkered pattern, it seemed to dance on the interstate, ignoring painted lines or arrows as it spurred him forward.
And in an endless attempt to try and catch it, Reed felt himself pushing the gas pedal down harder, willing them forward.
Snatching up his cell phone from the middle console, he didn’t trust himself to try and navigate it himself. Not at the rate of speed he was going, his nerves drawn taut.
Instead, he raised it to his chin and said, “Call Earl.”
“I’m sorry,” an automated female voice replied, “but I do not have a listing for Merle.”
Clamping his molars down tight, Reed resisted the urge to fling the phone at the passenger door. Drawing it closer to his lips, he grunted, “Call. Earl.”
In no mood to be bantering with an automated device supposedly designed to make his life easier, he squeezed it tight between his thumb and fingers, waiting. A moment later, ringing could be heard, his venom receding just a tiny bit.
“Go for Earl.”
Continuing to move around the outer belt, Reed saw a pair of tractor trailers pulled to the side to let him pass, their red taillights like flares in the darkness.
“Earl, this is Mattox.”
“Hey, I was just about to call you. We’re wrapping up here.”
Hoping that the man was going to call with something he could use, Reed asked, “Anything?”
In the background, the sound of boxes being piled up and plastic hasps being secured back into place could be heard. Having been present on the front end of the operation, Reed could easily envision Earl’s team putting things away, still a trio of ghosts moving about in their white paper suits.
“Maybe,” Earl said. “Place was crawling with forensics, mainly in the kitchen and bathroom.”
Reed knew those were all likely nothing to get excited about. Almost all of that would belong to Della, her abductor not bothering to wipe the places he hadn’t gone near.
“Anything on the glass?” Reed asked, referring to the mirrors.
“Well, that’s the maybe,” Earl replied. “Most of it had been scrubbed clean, which was a bit odd. Could have easily just scribbled on the glass with the tip of the marker, would have never needed to touch it anyway, right?”
Considering the statement for a moment, Reed began a gradual drift to the side, the exit before his appearing up ahead.
“Right,” Reed said, as much to push the conversation ahead as anything.
“We were able to get a pretty clear partial on the last word,” Earl said. “Looks like a thumb, got a full side profile and a top swirl. Should be enough to get a positive hit.”
Another small spike went through Reed at the thought. Without a full, the evidence probably wouldn’t hold up in court, but that was the least of his concerns right now.
He wasn’t trying to win a case.
He was trying to track down Della Snow and save her life.
“Where is it now?” Reed asked.
“Scanned it and sent it over to Grimes. This was maybe ten minutes ago. Said he would push it right into the system.”
Shoving out a long breath, Reed felt his stomach again shift from the ball bearing to a ball of yarn. Not near enough to completely abate, but it was a tiny victory that was much needed.
“Thank you, Earl. I appreciate it.”
“Like I said before, anything you need.”
Throwing on his blinker, Reed took the exit ramp at sixty miles an hour. Riding the brakes hard to the bottom of it, he managed to slow just enough to hook a left off the freeway before accelerating again.
In the back seat, Billie scrambled from side to side, fighting to keep her weight balanced throughout the shifts.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling,” Reed said. “We’ve got another house and another message.”
A moment of silence was Earl’s first response, Reed able to imagine the man raising a big hand to his head and rubbing it over his bare scalp.
“Dammit. Where’s it at?”
“Grove City,” Reed said. “One of those new housing developments down there. Place has never been lived in, so you should have an easier time. Big things are the message in the garage and some blast charges they put on the door leading out there.”
A string of mutterings was Earl’s only response, something in the middle sounding like jeezos, little else decipherable.
Bobbing his head, Reed glanced to the rearview mirror, a bitter look splashed across his features.
Again, things like this didn’t happen. At least not in real life.
“Send me the address,” Earl eventually managed. “We’re on our way.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The frosted doors separating the administrative suite from the front half of the building were standing open as Reed and Billie entered. Propped wide with a pair of trash cans, light from the rear of the building spilled forward. Splashed across the floor in a wide triangle, it practically beckoned them forward.
Without breaking stride, the pair marched straight to Grimes’s door, pausing just long enough to knock twice on the frame before entering.
Upon doing so, they found Grimes behind his desk. His chair had been pushed to the wall behind him, his palms resting on the desk. Under his right hand was his mouse, his body shifted to stare at the computer monitor before him.
Looking over with only his eyes, he took in Reed and Billie before moving back to the computer screen.
“You are not going to believe this shit.”
Having no idea what the captain was referring to, Reed had been around him enough to recognize the tone and posture the man was taking. His inability to perform under a poker face – and therefore lack of even trying - was one of the things Reed appreciated most about working for him.
Again, the feeling in Reed’s core shifted. A ripple of palpitations passed up through his chest, obliterating any bit of hope that Earl had just given him.
“What?” he asked, leaving it at that, not wanting to speculate.
Still staring at the screen, Grimes asked, “You talk to Earl?”
“Yeah, just now,” Reed said. Piecing things together in his mind, he said, “The print. It’s not in the system.”
Shoving himself to full height, Grimes folded his arms across his stomach. “No, it is. That’s the shit of it.”
Inching closer, Reed pressed his thighs against the front corner of the desk. Peering across at the screen, he tried to decipher what had Grimes on edge, most of the words too small to see.
“What?”
“The print belongs to a man named Paul Klauss. Last known address, 370 Front Street.”
Working out of the 8th for just under two years, Reed didn’t yet know all of the streets in the area by name. Large thruways like Front he did, though, running the length of it in his mind.
“370,” he said aloud, thinking through the street numbers he knew, superimposing it onto the area nearby. “That’s mostly corporate and business...”
Letting his voice fall away, he mulled it for another moment, the same feeling that was already enveloping Grimes now settling over him. “370. Isn’t that-“
“Franklin County Corrections,” Grimes said. “He’s there, and has been since February.”
For a moment, Reed merely stood and stared. He felt his lips part, the air sliding from his lungs.
Nothing about the case had made a bit of sense all evening. He hadn’t expected this to be straightforward either, but never would he have expected something like this.
“He’s still locked up?” Reed asked.
“According to his file,” Grimes said. “Won’t be eligible for parole for a while yet.”
“Violent?”
Reed asked.
“Nope, white-collar,” Grimes said. “Before that, completely clean.”
Maintaining his pose for just an instant, Reed gave up on the screen. Pushing himself back, he ran a hand over his scalp, turning and walking as far as the door before heading back.
As he went, Billie followed close by his side, never more than a half-step away.
“This just keeps getting...”
“I know,” Grimes agreed. “I’ve put in a call to the facility, but obviously at this time of night, the warden is nowhere to be found. I left a message with the deputy, he’s going to be returning my call soon.”
Warning flags and red lights of every kind seemed to be going off in Reed’s mind. The amount of disparate information that was being flung at them was enough to sustain three investigations, all of it needing to be checked out, none seeming to connect in the slightest.
Perhaps that was the point, a lot of red herrings meant to do nothing more than keep them guessing. But even that brought them around to another question, that being how Della Snow fit into things, the catalyst for what was fast becoming the worst night of Reed’s career.
Returning to the corner of the desk, Reed turned on a heel. Not yet ready to continue the discussion, needing to process some more, he walked back toward the door.
And this time kept walking.
Moving out into the main bullpen, he made a quick circle through the empty space. Working in an unending arc, Billie positioned herself at the center of it, turning in time with him, always keeping him in her sights.
Halfway through his third trip, the front doors of the precinct burst open, a puff of cool air floating in. Not expecting the sudden chill or the sound or sight of the door exploding open, Reed jerked his body into position, his hand reaching for his hip.
Beside him, a low groan rolled from Billie, her body poised, ready for his command.
Stepping up onto the threshold was a pair of men, each a few years younger than Reed. Both dressed in jeans and long sleeve t-shirts, they stopped at the sight of Reed’s position, each raising their hands before them.
“Whoa there,” Officer Tommy Jacobs said. “Just us, Reed. Captain called us in a little while ago.”
Registering the two men before him, Reed relaxed slightly, the bend in his knees straightening as he pulled his hand away from his hip. Beside him, Billie did the same.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Damn,” Jacobs’s partner Wade McMichaels added. “How bad is this thing?”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lying in the darkness, her head listing to the side, her eyes half open, Della Snow kept hearing a single voice. Not that of the detective, his tone drawn taut, sounding as if he was feeling every bit of the torment she was at the moment. Not the techie that called her later, his voice so sorrowful she expected him to break out into apologies or tears.
Not even her own voice, the pained rasp she employed foreign each time she heard it pass over her cracked lips.
Rather, it was the voice of her mother.
Time and again it drifted into her subconscious, managing to keep her just beneath the surface, refusing to let the pain of her hands and the darkness of her cage swallow her whole.
“Della,” she said, “I tried. I tried so many times to tell you, to warn you.”
Never did she manage to say anything more, the image of her disapproving face pushing through the haze. Landing square in Della’s mind, it would stay there for several seconds, long enough for her to get a good look at the woman she hadn’t seen in so long.
The woman she likely would never see again.
Only sixteen when Della was born, the two had more than once been confused as sisters. They each had the same long neck and rounded shoulders, accented by protruding collar bones.
Matching almond colored eyes. Hair that if left curly stood at attention around their head in a makeshift halo.
Even the tenor of their voices matched.
When Della’s wasn’t broken beyond belief, anyway.
Time and again, that same melodic tone found its way to Della. Starting soft and distant, each replay grew a little bit louder, the accompanying images a bit sharper.
On the first run through, she could barely decipher who or what her mind was trying to recreate.
By the third, the image of her mother was clear.
The fourth, the words she was saying.
Not until the sixth, though, did everything come together. The exact statement that was made. The charged undercurrent belying it. The furor that had gripped both ladies throughout.
The news was supposed to have been good, the sort of thing to be celebrated. Receiving the letter in the mail, Della had practically sprinted up the driveway. Waving it above her head, she had burst through the back door, ecstatic to share.
All the hard work. All the years of effort. It had finally paid off.
Matching the spirit of her daughter, an enormous smile had spread across her mother’s face. It had stayed there through the first part of the declaration, only beginning to fade somewhere around the midway point.
Over the course of just sixty seconds, it took a complete turn. By the time Della was finished, any enthusiasm that had previously existed was gone. Any form of a smile, even the slightest hint of joy evaporated.
In their stead was only a look of disapproval, one that Della had received only a few times in her entire life.
One she so desperately wanted to put behind her forever.
Standing in the kitchen of their home, her mother had folded her arms and leaned against the sink, her mouth pursed. Staring at Della, she had shaken her head, a series of grunts the only sounds.
“What?” Della remembered asking. “Why are you giving me that look?”
Keeping it in place another moment, her mother flicked her gaze out through the side window, her chin a bit higher than usual. “Why do you think?”
“Mama, this is a good thing.”
A mirthless smirk was the initial response, her mother turning to look at her. “Is it? Do you not remember what happened there?”
Not wanting to have the conversation, but even less wanting to deal with the unexpected response, Della felt acrimony rise within her. The sum total of everything they’d been through began to move toward the surface, raising her body temperature in kind.
“Of course I do.” Casting a hand toward the window her mother had just been staring through, she added, “I’m reminded of it every damn day of my life.”
Raising her eyebrows, her mother bobbed her head. “So then you know what I think.”
“No, what I know is you should be proud of me,” Della seethed. “That you should see this as me moving on from your mistakes.”
The last words the two had shared in more than two years, it was there that the loop stopped each time. From there, it would wait a moment before rebooting, set to scroll again through Della’s mind.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Reed was back in his usual position inside Grimes’s office. With his backside pressed against the small table lining the wall, one foot was raised against the front leg of it, his arms folded over his torso.
Beside him, Billie sat with her upper body supported by her front legs. With her ears pricked upward and her eyes open wide, she resembled an ancient Egyptian sculpture of sorts, her body appearing to be carved from flawless onyx.
A few feet away, Officers McMichaels and Jacobs had assumed the same positions as Greene and Gilchrist earlier, these two bypassing the chairs and opting to stand behind them.
Paired together at the completion of their training cycle, Reed knew them both to be just into their thirties, only a few years younger than himself. On the right stood Wade McMichaels, his tall body cut from ropey muscle and sinew. Jawline and cheekbones all protruded from his taut skin, his entire form seeming to be made from planes and angles.
Beside him was his partner Tommy Jacobs. Several inches shorter in height, the two weigh
ed the same, Jacobs’s features much fleshier. His skin tone olive, a thin beard encased his mouth and the lower end of his jaw.
Much like the previous group that had gathered inside the office, this one too seemed to grasp the enormity of the situation. Their faces drawn tight, they had just listened to Reed run through the situation, his narrative buffeted by the occasional insertion from Grimes.
A start-to-finish story that took many minutes to tell, Reed couldn’t help but feel like it was nothing more than disparate information. All meant to keep him busy, he’d been running from side to side all night without actually progressing forward at all.
A feeling he truly despised under the best of circumstances.
And knowing that Della Snow was out there somewhere in need of help was a far cry from that.
“What time did she first call in?” Jacobs asked.
Checking his phone, Reed replied, “Almost three hours ago now.”
“And how much air is in one of those?” McMichaels asked.
Having already considered the same thing several times, Reed cast him a sideways glance. In the beginning, he had hoped she was sitting in a room somewhere. Picturing it like a funeral home in his mind, he had thought of her sitting up on a table, flowers spread around, part of some sick bastard’s fantasy.
Getting confirmation from Della that she was indeed underground had shifted that. It had confirmed that there were no exposed seams, no places for air to sift in.
What she had was all there was, likely being consumed quickly in her panicked state.
“Not enough,” Reed replied. Twisting his attention over to Grimes, he asked, “Any word from Franklin County?”
A quick twist of the head was the first reply, skin folds coiling and uncoiling along the base of Grimes’s neck. “I guess they’ve had a little situation over there this evening. Deputy warden is supposed to be getting back to me any minute.”
Not wanting to speculate what qualified as a situation – or if Paul Klauss was somehow involved – Reed let it go with a simple bob of his head.
The Scorekeeper Page 11
