Alan had a decent buzz as he entered his motel room, the product of too much wine and the wonderful encounter with Marcia. He also felt a twinge of guilt and wondered if it was due to his final metaphorical break from Julie, or the fact that he had forsaken the case for the last few hours. He finally decided it was a combination of both.
After Pan nearly knocked him over in her excitement at seeing him, Alan fed her. He took off his jacket and shoes then sat down at the table with his coffee.
Throughout the drive back from the country, his mind had been awhirl with thoughts and emotions—some good, some bad. Despite the pleasant glow from his picnic with Marcia, he couldn’t quit thinking about the case and the possibility that he had overlooked something. One moment he would glance over at the gorgeous girl sitting beside him and marvel at how awesome the afternoon had been. The next moment he would flash back to the vision of Elena in that starkly furnished room above Stokley’s.
He couldn’t help comparing the two women and realizing how different they were from one another. Here was Marcia, a vibrant American girl brimming with self-confidence, free to come and go as she pleased and possessing the ability to charm the pants off of anybody she met. Then there was Elena, a mere ghost of her former self who had been coerced into this country and forced to give her body away to countless strangers day-in and day-out. With no country to call her own, no friends to confide in, hers was a lonely life of absolute hell. Yet all she wanted for herself was assurance that her young sister would never be forced into a situation like her own.
He removed the lid from his coffee. Taking a sip, Alan resolved that no matter how this case turned out, he would see that Elena was freed from her captor. He still felt stung by the fact that she had basically coerced him into not reporting Viktor and busting his operation. How had he let that happen? Had he put the woman’s fear of jeopardizing her family’s safety before the more immediate need to get her the hell out of there first, and then worry how the chips might fall?
Yes, he had. A bad move, but was it the right move? He didn’t know.
He must find Polina!
He knew he was close. He could feel it. It was clear as a bell what must have gone down.
After hearing from Popov, Fowler had gathered the girls up and whisked them off somewhere long enough to clean up any traces of them in his home. Somehow he had done all of this in less than forty-eight hours, the very soonest Popov could have known about his little visit to his Long Island home. Since Fowler hadn’t had a whole lot of time to hide the girls, he guessed that they weren’t too far away—otherwise, how could he get rid of them and still have enough time to clear up his tracks?
Then a thought suddenly hit him.
Branson!
Where in the hell was Branson through all of this?
Alan bolted upright in the chair. That’s what he had overlooked! Fowler’s right-hand man. He had failed to ask Chief Myers if Branson had been at the mansion during his investigation or if he had even questioned Fowler about his assistant.
It all suddenly fit: Fowler had ordered Branson to cart the girls off while he went about cleaning up every sign that they had ever been in his house. And now that he felt in the clear after the chief’s visit, Fowler could now focus on transporting his former models to the people who would eventually determine their next gig.
He had to find out where Branson had stashed them. He took out his phone and started to call the chief but changed his mind. He didn’t have time to haggle with the guy and had a feeling that the chief hadn’t discussed Branson with Fowler. If he had, he would probably have mentioned it, had there been anything significant to report.
He called Marcia instead. She picked up after two rings.
“Hey, it’s me. Do you by any chance know where Harold Branson lives?”
“He has a place out in the boonies. An old farmhouse, actually. Why do you ask?”
“I think he is the key to finding the girls. Could you show me how to get there?”
“Jesus, Alan! Are you serious? You think Martin Fowler has held on to those girls all this time?”
“I do. In fact, I’m almost certain of it. But I need to get moving. I think that Fowler had Branson ditch the girls somewhere nearby and if he lives on a farm in the boonies, I’m thinking that would be a great place to start looking.”
“Shit, Alan, I wish I could help you. But I have to work the bar this evening. Randy called in sick and Tom’s out of town.”
“I understand—can you tell me how to get to Branson’s farm, then? Is it hard to find?”
“It’s a little tricky but you shouldn’t have much trouble since it’s still light out. All you do is take—“
“Wait a second, let me get something to write on.”
He went over and fumbled around in his bag until he found his notebook.
“Okay.”
“You take Route 119 north back towards Charleston for about five miles or so. Once you get to the old Gulf gas station, start looking for Hartford Road. Take a right on Hartford for a couple of miles until you reach Bentdown Hollow Road. Take a left onto Bentdown and Branson’s place is another half mile or so on the right. You’ll see a big barn and a grain silo there.”
Alan said, “Great, thanks. Oh, do you know what kind of car he drives?”
“Hmm, let me think. It’s blue and sort of old. A Buick, I think.”
“Okay. Well, I better get going—I had a great time today, by the way.”
“Me, too. You have to promise me you’ll give me a call or drop by the bar later on, okay?”
“For sure.”
“And please be careful.”
“I will. This could be a dead-end but it’s worth checking out. Whatever happens, I hardly think that some old guy is going to get the best of me.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. Harold Branson may be elderly but he’s pretty damn chipper for his age,” she said.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again, Marcia. Talk to you later.”
Alan hung up and took another gulp of coffee. He felt a surge of excitement he hadn’t experienced in years. It was indescribable and undeniable. Its mere presence was why he had always loved this job so much.
He was going to find those girls. And then Popov and the others were going down.
Alan checked his watch. It was 5:23. There was at least another hour of light. He packed up his gear and summoned Pan then left the motel room.
The Collector Page 64
