JB had spotted Will’s worry, rolling in like the fog.
“You know what else is near Pine Grove Road?” Will fought off a shiver, imagining her there. The surrounding woods, dense enough to disappear in. “Olivia’s house.”
“What would the guy want with Olivia?” It took JB half a second to realize. “Damn. You really do think Drake Devere is in on this.”
But Will had already pulled out his cell, scrolling through his contacts until he found the number for Officer Bulldog Bullock. That guy was always up for overtime. “Give me a second to make a phone call.”
Fifty-Five
Olivia peered out her front window at the police car parked in her driveway, thick-jowled Officer Bullock seated at the wheel. “Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.
When she’d gone out to talk to Bullock a few minutes ago, he’d gruffly informed her Detective Decker had sent him there to keep an eye out. Though it seemed he’d rather be literally anywhere else, he’d rudely refused to leave—No can do, Doc. Decker’s orders—and worst of all, she couldn’t reach Deck to give him a piece of her mind. His phone rang once, then went to voicemail, and she kept deleting the texts she composed, judging them all too harsh. At least Em had finally texted. Three words meant to wound but still better than radio silence. Staying at Nick’s.
Olivia tried to take a nap. To watch television. To organize her sock drawer. But her thoughts kept floating away like an untethered balloon. Finally, she busied herself in the kitchen, preparing dinner for Officer Bullock. She knew nothing would tick him off more than a little kindness. Maybe, if she got lucky, she’d even run him off simply by offering.
She started a pot of water boiling for spaghetti, chopped tomatoes for the sauce, and drenched a few dinner rolls in garlic and butter, sliding them into the warm oven. Though she’d never been a fan of Bulldog Bullock, and rarely had time for cooking, it served its purpose now, keeping her occupied. Even so, while she stirred the pot of noodles, her mind drifted again to Deck and his paranoia. To the Foxes, and little Thomas out there alone.
After the profiling work Olivia had done for the FBI, she knew the stats all too well. Many kidnapped children died within the first three hours; most within the first two days. The more time that passed, the less likely Thomas would be found alive.
The more she thought, the more she wondered. Could Drake have killed the Foxes? Kidnapped Thomas? The more she wondered, the more certain she felt she’d been right. Drake didn’t set fires. He’d raped and killed women. Five of them, to be exact. All lured to their deaths in the foggy mist of Muir Woods.
The sizzling of the water as it boiled over onto the stovetop jolted her back to the kitchen. So much for a distraction. She cleaned the mess, drained and sauced the pasta, and arranged the table for two.
The drone of talk radio wafted from the window of Officer Bullock’s patrol car. He frowned at Olivia as she approached, grumbling under his breath.
“Supposed to be my night off… relegated to babysitting duty.”
Olivia bit her tongue and smiled, not giving him the satisfaction of acting like said baby. “Would you like to come inside for dinner? I made you a plate.”
His jaw tensed in surprise, accentuating his underbite. “I’m on duty, remember? Detective Decker’s orders.”
“Cops have to eat too. Surely, Detective Decker would understand.” By now, she felt desperate for the company. The house was far too quiet without Emily there, and in the solitude her worries multiplied like gremlins. “Do you like spaghetti?”
Amid his grousing, Officer Bullock mumbled something that sounded like a yes. He huffed his way out of the car and followed her up the driveway toward the house.
“I’m sorry this ruined your plans for the evening. It’s really unnecessary, but I do appreciate you looking out for me.”
He shrugged, his expression softening. “It’s poker night down at the Lion’s Head.”
Olivia knew the place but only by its reputation. It was one of a few hole-in-the-wall casinos that had opened years ago on the Yurok reservation about fifteen miles outside of Fog Harbor. One of her inmate patients had been a regular there before he’d wound up so far in debt he robbed a string of convenience stores.
Officer Bullock entered the kitchen and sat at the table, taking a whiff of the plate she’d set for him, piled high with spaghetti and garlic bread. “Smells delicious.”
“Hold the compliments until after you’ve tasted it. I’m no Julia Child.”
“Well, I guarantee it’s better than the canned soup I packed in my thermos.” He twirled the first helping of spaghetti and took a messy bite. Olivia did the same, though she hardly felt hungry. “You know, I thought Detective Decker was pulling my chain when he called. Drake Devere back in town? It sounds pretty far-fetched. Devere’s crazy as a loon, but he’s no dummy.”
Olivia nodded, taking another well-timed bite. She felt bad for Bullock, relegated here on his night off with the wild prospect of a serial killer lurking in the shadows.
“Then, I figured, so what if Decker’s delusional? It’s still a solid ten hours of overtime.” Bullock dipped a hunk of bread in the tomato sauce and popped it in his mouth. “Easiest money I ever earned.”
Bullock ignored the raise of Olivia’s eyebrows and continued talking. “Didn’t you help interview that missing boy?”
For a grumpy old man, he sure had a lot to say, and his words affected her more than she cared to admit, stirring up the swarm of bees in the pit of her stomach.
“Thomas. Yes, I did. And I watched you administer the lineup.”
“He must’ve been a better witness than I gave him credit for if the sicko came back to finish the job.” Bullock wiped a smear of sauce onto his napkin. The red stain, faintly nauseating. “I hate to say it, but the kid’s bound to be long dead by now.”
After dinner, Officer Bullock accepted Olivia’s offer of a cup of coffee. They sat together in companionable silence while night fell around them.
“So, are you any good at poker?” she asked.
“Terrible. I’ve given that damn place so much of my hard-earned money they call me a high roller.” Olivia tried not to stare. She’d never seen Bulldog Bullock crack a smile, much less a chuckle. “But since my wife died a few years back, it passes the time.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” Olivia decided she’d misjudged him, mistaking his gruff demeanor for meanness when really it concealed an ache.
“Cindy would’ve hated it. She always insisted that gambling was the worst of all the sins. The gambling man has no chance of remaining honorable, she’d say. Taking money without earning it. And now look at me. I’ve even earned the lion’s paw.”
“Lion’s paw? What’s that?”
Bullock reached into his pocket and laid a small token on the table. The unusual shade of iridescent green caught her eye. “The casinos hand out these tourmaline tokens to their best patrons. Each casino’s token looks a little different. It gets you the VIP treatment. Complimentary food and liquor. Plus, a seat at the high rollers’ table on poker night.”
“How many do they give?”
Bullock shrugged. “I’m sure there’s plenty of sorry suckers like me. Why do you ask?”
Olivia grabbed her phone, searching for a list of the casinos on the reservation. She scanned the names, hoping her hunch would pay off.
Lion’s Head.
Lucky Elk.
Ruby Tempest.
And finally, the Golden Steed. Its name made it the most likely choice.
“I found something like it in the Foxes’ pool. We think the killer may have dropped it.”
He studied the picture, his frown deepening. “Looks like Cindy was right,” he said. “Your killer was a sinner just like me.”
After Bullock returned to his patrol car, patting his full belly, Olivia raced to her cell phone, dialing the Golden Steed.
“Good evening.” The woman’s tone, warm as melted butter, oozed
the kind of agreeableness Olivia had hoped for. “It’s always your lucky day at the Golden Steed. How can I help you?”
“I’m interested in your VIP token. I’ve been told all the casinos have them.”
“You mean the happy horseshoe?”
“The happy horseshoe.” Olivia’s voice caught in her throat. It had looked anything but, sunk to the bottom of the Ocean’s Song ash-filled pool. “That’s the one. It’s tourmaline, I assume.”
“Yes, ma’am. All the casino tokens are made on the reservation and distributed to our most esteemed guests.”
“How do I find out if a friend is on the list?”
Olivia heard the woman talking to someone else, her words muffled, as if she’d covered the receiver with her hand. When she returned, she sounded all business.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Our Happy Horseshoe VIP list is proprietary and confidential. However, I’d be glad to help you with something else. Reservations at the restaurant, perhaps? We have an all-you-can-eat—”
Olivia hung up, hurrying to the bedroom to retrieve her laptop. She sat on the edge of the bed, breathless, and scrolled through Fox’s client files once more. This time she went straight to the Holt case. It had already caught her eye, of course, with its striking similarities to the Fox murders, but now she felt thoroughly convinced. Because when he’d been interviewed by police, the family’s only surviving member, Dwayne Holt, had told them, “I should’ve been at home, but I was out doing the devil’s work. I went gambling.”
Desperate to get her hands on that VIP list, Olivia composed an email to an unlikely ally, hoping he would help.
Fifty-Six
Like a gloved hand, darkness descended on Fog Harbor, smothering the last slivers of light beneath the horizon. Will trudged through the thick grass, his flashlight trained on a dilapidated deer stand on the outskirts of the redwood grove. One of several potential hideouts he and JB had searched that afternoon and into the evening, looking for the sicko who had taken Thomas.
A makeshift ladder led to the stand’s door four feet off the ground. Its windows were so thick with grime, Will couldn’t see through them. Couldn’t tell who or what might be concealed inside.
Approaching the ladder with caution, Will directed JB around to the back of the stand. He took the first step on the rung, hoping the wood wouldn’t give way. When he’d reached the entrance, he withdrew his gun, tapping the barrel against the door.
“Fog Harbor Police. Show yourself.”
His command went unanswered, bleeding into the thick of the trees, just as it had at the last three spots they’d visited. But Will knew better than to relax. Not until he’d flung open the door and scanned the cobwebbed stand floor to ceiling with his flashlight.
“Nothing,” he called down to JB. “No signs of life.”
“Not even a rabid raccoon,” JB answered, rounding the side of the structure.
Will backed down the ladder, feeling defeated. As they trekked back toward civilization, his cell phone buzzed. He wondered how long he’d been without a signal.
“Will Decker, Homicide.”
“Decker, it’s Sergeant Kingsley. I’ve been trying to reach you.” The urgency in the sergeant’s voice perked Will up again. He raised his brows at JB excitedly. “Our search of the river came up empty. But we just got a call from dispatch. A tipster says he spotted a little boy wandering in the ditch near the exit for Crescent Bay State Prison. Units are en route now.”
Will started jogging, motioning JB to follow. “We’ll meet you there.”
Will steered the Crown Vic into the ditch, parking near the road sign. PRISON AREA: DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS. A fleet of patrol cars had already arrived, their flashing lights illuminating the blacktop in eerie shades of blue and red.
JB spotted Sergeant Kingsley on the periphery of the chaos.
“What do we have?” Will asked, as they approached.
The sergeant pointed to the fence line that abutted the ditch. A half mile from where they stood, the floodlights and barbed wire of the prison warned off intruders. “The caller said he saw a boy matching Thomas’s description walking near the fence line.”
Will stared out into nothing. “Any sign of him?”
“Nothing so far. But feel free to take a look.”
After they’d walked the fence line and back, Will turned around, ready for another go. JB shook his head. “It’s a waste of time, City Boy. The kid’s not here. My bet is on a long-haul trucker, up all night and seeing things in the shadows.”
Will couldn’t shake a shadow of his own. Unease had clung to him from the moment he’d arrived here, a stone’s throw from the prison Drake had once called home.
They walked back, weaving through the patrol cars, until they found Sergeant Kingsley. Will stood next to him, looking out at the officers combing the grass. “Know anything about the tipster?”
“He didn’t give his name. We tried to follow up but dispatch couldn’t trace the number.”
Will turned to JB, finding a familiar wariness in his eyes. “You still betting on a trucker, partner?”
“Hey!” One of the female officers shouted up at them from the ditch, holding something in her gloved hand. “I got something. It was hidden in the grass.”
Stumbling down the embankment, Will’s legs turned to lead the moment he saw it. The gray collar, the little silver charm he’d had engraved.
Cyclops
If lost return to Will Decker, Fog Harbor Police Department
Will leaned against the hood of the Crown Vic trying to get his mind right. After they’d bagged up the collar, he fled back to the car before he lost it. Drake had led him here, with the promise of rescuing Thomas, knowing it would be the collar they’d find. He felt like a puppet on a string controlled by an unseen hand.
“You alright?” JB put a solid hand on his shoulder, grounding Will’s thoughts. “Cy’s a tough little bugger. You said it yourself. Who knows how that thing ended up here?”
It hit Will then like a sudden wave, sweeping his feet from beneath him. A realization. Drake had put him in this exact spot, distracted, for a reason. “We need to check on—”
Inside the car, the radio came to life. “Officer needs assistance at 117 Seawood Lane.”
“Shit.” Will tossed JB the keys and slid into the passenger seat.
“Isn’t that Olivia’s address?”
“Yeah.” Will’s heart raced ahead of him at breakneck speed, a runaway train hurtling straight off a cliff. “Get us there, quick.”
Fifty-Seven
The rattling of bones juddered Olivia awake. She lay still in the dark, holding her breath, until the sound came again. Not an unearthed skeleton after all, but her cell phone vibrating against the cherrywood nightstand. A text from her little sister had arrived.
I’m sorry about earlier. I was just bummed about Dad. I really thought that message would say… something.
The phone’s bright screen claimed it was only nine forty-five. Officer Bullock had been parked outside for just a few hours. But Olivia’s brain felt waterlogged. The quiet around her as deep as the ocean. Even the crickets and the whippoorwills outside her window had fallen silent. Only the thud of her heartbeat echoed in her ears.
Me too. On both counts.
After sending her reply, Olivia silenced her cell so it wouldn’t disturb her again. Closed her eyes, opened them. Turned to one side, then the other. It was useless. No matter how many sheep she counted, she couldn’t stop thinking of the Holt family and the tourmaline horseshoe.
Restless, Olivia tossed off the covers and returned to her laptop, reading Dwayne Holt’s words again and again, wondering why his guilt-ridden admission had burrowed itself into her brain and what to do about it. She padded down the hallway through the living room, gulped down a glass of water in the kitchen, and watched a tiny spider scurry across the floor to its home beneath the fridge. Finally, she made her way to the front door and raised herself on tiptoe to peer throug
h the small window at the top.
At first, she thought she might be dreaming. The porchlight cast the entire scene in a strange golden glow, and the world around her seemed to stop, poised like a roller coaster at the top of the lift hill, waiting for the dizzying fall.
The patrol car remained at the end of the driveway. Its headlamps off. Its front window, dark. The driver’s door stood open. Officer Bullock was gone.
Olivia scanned the yard, the faint hint of the road barely visible in the distance. When she spotted a silhouette, the fine hair on her arms stood on end. The shadow flitted at the edges of her vision, where the light barely reached, and disappeared again.
Then came another sound. She strained to hear it above the white noise of her own panic. It twisted her gut and wrenched her heart. A child’s crying.
Olivia didn’t have much time. She rushed into the bedroom and secured her mother’s revolver beneath the waistband of her sleeping shorts. Tugged on her sneakers and hurried to the front door, where she stopped again, checking the window once more before she slipped into the cool night air.
She stood on the porch, listening to the symphony of summer. Usually comforting, the sounds unnerved her now. The crickets shrieking. An owl hooting its warning. The occasional howl of a coyote. Unpredictable, they sent her eyes darting into the dark smudges between the trees. Somewhere, close by, the child cried again.
The muffled whimpers called her toward the back of the house, where a dirt path led into the woods and to the Earl River. Her running trail, she knew it like the back of her hand, and she jogged toward the sound, trying to keep her breath steady while her vision adjusted to the darkness.
She strained to see the path ahead, cursing herself for leaving her flashlight behind. The air seemed impossibly still—not even a breeze—and she’d already begun to sweat. Fear seeped from her pores, dampening the back of her T-shirt. Still, she sprinted faster, propelling herself recklessly down the trail, uncertain whether danger lay ahead or behind or all around her.
One Child Alive: An absolutely gripping crime thriller packed with nail-biting suspense (Rockwell and Decker Book 3) Page 23
