by Roger Hayden
Harris suddenly stood up from the car and stepped forward. “You need to trust Mike on this. This might be our one chance to catch this guy before he kills again.”
Jones looked away with a sigh. “I understand that, but what if we’re wrong? What if this is just one big waste of time?”
“It’s not,” Dobson assured her as his cell phone buzzed.
He reached for it in his pocket and examined the screen. Rachel had just sent him a text message. She was safe with Penny and they were doing fine.
I don’t like being cooped up though. It’s not good for Penny, the message said. But I understand your concerns. I just want this all to end.
He told her that they were monitoring the vigil fiend and that he hoped to be home soon. The last thing he wanted was for his family to be held in a hotel room for endless hours with some maniac out there. There was hope just yet that it would change. Dobson just needed to be vigilant. And above all, they had to get Sterling back, which meant Landon had to be taken alive. If everything went as planned.
In addition to uniformed officers offering security, undercover police were all over the park, watching for suspicious activity. Dobson had given a description of their suspect as a white male, approximately five feet, nine inches, and most likely wearing a mask, wig, or disguise among several articles of clothing. He had no picture to go on. All he had was his memory.
He recalled Landon’s appearance many months prior when he inadvertently ran into him in the records department at the station, thinking him nothing more than a stranger. The man asked for help finding the records department.
At the time, he was dressed in all black, from his pants and jacket, to his T-shirt He had also worn a dark blue hat that shielded his face. There was something strange about his face, even then. It had a synthetic quality to it. His eyes were concealed behind thick sunglasses.
At first, Dobson thought that he might have been blind. The more he thought of Landon’s face, the more certain he became that Landon would arrive in disguise. He turned to Jones and Harris, eager to pass his theory on.
“I want you guys to be on the lookout for anyone wearing sunglasses, hats, or a mask.”
“What do you mean? Like a ski mask?” Jones asked.
Dobson put his hands to his face and pulled at his cheeks, hammering the point home. “No! A latex mask. Something that’s not their real face.” They both looked at him with understanding as Jones held her hands out.
“Then what?” she said. “We put Sterling’s lift at risk in addition to all these people here?”
Dobson hadn’t seen her so opposed to an idea in some time. He did know, however, that she was very protective of people, especially rookies on the force. Dobson tried to think of an answer that would put her at ease when his cell phone buzzed again. This time it was a call. He didn’t recognize the number and the 555 area code had him immediately suspicious.
He briefly excused himself and walked toward an unoccupied gazebo. He was concerned that it was Rachel, calling from the hotel. He hoped that there hadn’t been any issues, but with Penny’s condition, he never knew. He said “Hello” and waited as static crackled over the weak connection. “Who is this?”
“Greetings, Detective Dobson. Word on the streets is that you’re looking for me.” The gleeful voice was intentionally distorted. Dobson felt a clear realization of whom it was.
“Landon? Is that you?”
“Whoa,” he said. “You are good. Your partner spilled the beans, and told me everything I needed to know. You were setting a trap for me at the reunion, and with that canceled, you’re waiting for me to come to the vigil. Is that correct? Do I have all of that straight?”
Dobson clutched his phone and looked around the park of vendor stands, bleachers, and people ushering onto through the field under the watchful eyes of dozens of plain-clothed officers. “I want to speak to her now. You hear me?”
A calm chuckle followed over the line. “Afraid that’s not going to happen. Have you even tried to find her?”
“We’re closer than you think,” he said, keeping his calm. Harris glanced in his direction as Dobson waved him over.
“Don’t be foolish, Detective. You’re not as good as you used to be. Or maybe you were never that good in the first place.”
Harris hurried over with concern. Dobson held a hand up and then pointed to the phone, covering the receiver end. “It’s him,” he whispered.
Harris stared back in disbelief. “What do we do?” he whispered back.
Dobson held up a finger for them to wait and then spoke into the phone. “You’re right, Landon. I’ve gotten a little rusty with retirement on the horizon. But I do know what happened to you, and I’d like to end this where no one else gets hurt.”
“What do you know?” Landon hissed. “Nothing!”
“I know that you greatly suffered after that factory fire. I know that you’ve been living in hiding since then. Just release Sterling and let’s talk about this.”
A long pause followed. Dobson feared that he may have hung up. “Your partner tried to play the good cop too. I corrected that quick. She saw what I was capable of.”
Anger rose in Dobson, but he held back. “I’m not playing with you, Landon. I don’t want to anyone else hurt.”
Landon laughed and continued. “Don’t worry. I’m far away now, and you’ll never hear from me again. As far as your partner goes, if you haven’t heard from her by now, all I can say is that she’s probably dead.”
“What are you talking about?” Dobson asked, his eyes stern and livid.
“She had a chance to escape, but her pursuit of knowledge surpassed all reason. Nice talking to you, Detective. Do enjoy the candlelight vigil.”
The call ended, leaving Dobson with a slew of questions and a fearing the worst.
“Hello?” he said, pacing back. “Talk to me, you son of a bitch!”
A horn sounded on stage in the distance, signifying the ceremony’s beginning. The crowd so far looked just under eight hundred, all gathered at the front of the stage with candles in their hands. Families, men, women, and children of all ages were there. The quiet, somber mood in the air remained undisturbed. The blue sky had faded to gray, and the hour was near. Dobson wasn’t buying the Landon’s story. Nothing, however, could cover up the fact that he was truly frightened. All the answers in the world couldn’t help him. At that moment, he had never felt so alone.
End Zone
Charleston, South Carolina
Regional Hospital
Friday 9:00 a.m.
Doctor Calleson, a forty-eight-year-old physician, was about to leave for the morning, when he got an urgent call to the emergency room. A young woman had been airlifted to the hospital, rescued from a cabin fire. He had never seen a case quite like it. Police suspected a gas leak, among other theories. The woman had no identification on her. She looked to be in her thirties, and suffered from second degree burns, severe dehydration, fractured collar bone, and a mild concussion on first diagnosis. Most of her hair had been burned off, and she was brought to the hospital unconscious.
From her injuries, Calleson surmised that she was simply lucky to be alive. The local fire department had dropped one thousand gallons of water onto the fire to put it out. Some hours later, there was nothing left. The woman, identified as Jane Doe, had arrived with multiple injuries, a high temperature, and an erratic heart rate. Calleson was summoned to the ER where the woman had been taken for treatment. They administered high doses of saline to stave off dehydration, removed her clothing, and tended to her first-degree burns. She was eventually stabilized and transferred to a room in intensive care.
An hour after, the woman lay in her room, sleeping. Calleson was off the clock, but didn’t want to leave until he spoke to her. He wanted to find out what had happened, and he wasn’t the only one. Two police officers were waiting outside the door for answers. Calleson told them that it might be a while, as he entered the room to check on her.
The
woman lay under the covers in a hospital gown with a fresh IV bag running through her veins. An oxygen tube ran up her nostrils and several wires ran from her monitor to her chest and arms. Despite her improved status, she had yet to wake up. Calleson stood over her bed and ran a hand down his unshaven face, tired from his long shift. He didn’t understand why she was still unconscious and considered administering her for a CAT Scan.
He pulled up a chair next to her bed and sat as his white doctor’s robe touched the floor. Here head had been shaved and she had bandages on her face. A blood pressure finger monitor was clipped to her right index finger. Her mouth was remained a straight line. She looked peaceful lying there. Calleson tried to leave but couldn’t.
“Miss,” he said, leaning closer. “Can you hear me?”
The woman didn’t respond, which was of no surprise.
“I don’t know who you are, but we’re all talking about you. To survive what you did is nothing short of miraculous. Your injuries were minimal given the pictures I saw of this fire.” He paused and cleared his throat. “What happened? They found you about one hundred yards from the fire. The paramedics thought that you were dead at first.”
He leaned back in his chair and lifted his left foot to his right knee, studying her. “I was just about to leave when you came in. Now, I don’t think I can go. ‘Fraid I’ll have to sit here for however long it takes.”
He’d never done so for a patient before, and couldn’t quite understand why. His arms dropped to his side as a sudden realization hit him. He covered his mouth with a gasp. He then pulled his chair closer, scraping against the tile ground. He studied her face. Even with her bandaged cuts, the resemblance was uncanny. It looked like the daughter he had lost many years before.
Leesburg, South Carolina
Hyde Park
Friday 6:30 p.m.
Detective Dobson held his cell phone out, staring ahead. Harris approached closer with greater worry. “What happened? What’d he say?”
Dobson called the number right back without response. It rang endlessly, and no one picked up. He held the screen up, displaying the 555 number. “We need to get a trace on this immediately.”
Harris examined it as his face sank in disappointment. “Probably a burner phone. But we can still try.”
Dobson brought a hand to his forehead, short of breath. “We’ve got to find Sterling. I don’t want to believe him, but he said that she was probably dead.”
“Probably dead?” Harris asked, astonished. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that he’s still messing with us,” Dobson said, grabbing at a banister near the gazebo. “I don’t know what he’s planning. I don’t know how he got my number… I just don’t know.” He fell back and sat on the wooden steps with his stomach in knots. Harris looked equally stunned. Jones took notice and walked over, a confused look on her already perturbed face.
“What’s going on with you two?” she asked. More of the crowd began filing into the park from behind her. The mayor arrived with his entourage of suits, flanked by two police officers. The ceremony was well underway.
Dobson felt off as doubts entered his mind. Nothing or no one seemed safe, no matter what he did.
“I failed her,” he said under his breath.
“What are you talking about?” Jones asked with an arched brow.
“Sterling. He said that she was dead.” Dobson slammed his fist onto the step and hung his head.
Jones shifted her focus to Harris for a clear answer.
“Landon Kearney just called his cell phone,” Harris said. “At least, we think it was Kearney. Probably used a burner.”
“I can’t do this,” Dobson said in a vacant tone. “This case. It’s beyond me.”
Undeterred, Jones stepped forward and crouched at the steps below Dobson, taking his hand. “Stop that nonsense. I need to know everything he said to you.” She squeezed as he looked away. “Listen to me! Don’t let this scumbag get the best of you.”
Dobson shifted his gaze in her direction. “He told me that he’s leaving town and not to look for him. Said that Sterling was dead and that he knew we were setting up a sting operation here.” His head went back down as Jones thought to herself.
“I should call the captain,” Harris said, pulling out his cell phone.
Jones raised her arm up. “Wait. Let’s all get on the same page here.” She paused and leaned in closer to Dobson. “Mike. This guy isn’t going away. Kidnapping Sterling, sending that chain letter to your wife—it’s all been one big distraction. Our role here is to protect these people. Don’t get swept up in all this other stuff.”
Dobson looked up, tears welling in his eyes. “What if she’s dead?” His loud voice cracked as Jones again gripped both his hands.
“Don’t believe that. You hear me? I can feel it in my heart that she’s still alive.” She then rose to her feet, guiding him along. “Now let’s do what we came here to do and find this bastard.”
Harris looked at her in disbelief. “I don’t get you, Gabby. Just a minute ago, you said this whole plan was stupid.”
“I never said that,” she said as Dobson rose. “It seemed counterproductive, but now I know that he doesn’t want us looking for him, which leads me to believe that he’s here.”
“Good point,” Dobson said, walking down the gazebo steps. “Let’s find him.”
They walked off together and approached the forming crowd in the field. Two large floodlights were on next to a makeshift stage where a large crowd had assembled, most of them with unlit candles in hand. Flowers adorned the stage with framed pictures of the victims displayed on stands.
Victoria Owens, Elizabeth Hayes, Betsy Wade, Gordon McDonnel, and Cooper and Janet Erickson were all visible with healthy smiles from better times, a somber reminder that they had been taken too soon. A microphone attached to the stand had been set up in the center of the stage with a Summerville High banner hanging in the back. A middle-aged woman with curly orangish-red hair soon took the stage and introduced herself as the senior class president of 1991. The audience cheered as she continued.
“Today, we’re here to not only honor the spirit of our wonderful high school, but to show love and solidarity in the face of hate. Our fellow classmates and friends were taken much too soon, and we want them and their families to know how much they were loved.”
Dobson walked the side of the field with Harris and Jones at his side. The crowd was growing larger by the minute, and most of their faces were a blur. He stopped next to a cone on the ground and grabbed a hand-held radio from his belt holster. “We’re looking for one individual, white male, five feet nine, and in his early forties. He suffers from third degree burns all over his body and will most likely be in disguise or wearing several articles of clothing.” He lowered the radio and pulled a pair of mini-binoculars from his coat pocket.
“Keep them at bay,” Harris advised. “We don’t want anyone to move in just yet and spook him.”
“If he’s even here yet,” Jones said.
Dobson signaled among the crowd. “Let’s split up and cover all sides here. Just don’t make it known that we’re detectives. A nonchalant stroll through the park, if you will.”
Harris and Jones agreed and walked off toward the crowd, separating from each other. Dobson looked around for the other undercover officers. Several were mulling around the stage. Others were near the bleachers. Some were watching the crowd. If Landon was there to create havoc, Dobson felt that there was no way they couldn’t weed him out.
He kept his distance from the gathering and scanned the crowd with his binoculars. Normal families held onto their candles, staring at the stage with resolve as the speaker introduced Mayor Norman Brown of Leesburg. He approached the microphone in a suit and tie, slick back hair, and a calm southern drawl that seemed to further put the crowd at ease. After welcoming the crowd, he delivered emphasizing resilience and vigilance.
“The last thing we will allow ourselve
s to do is to live in fear. The perpetrator or perpetrators will be brought to justice, I can assure you. As I look into the crowd, I see people from all over who have come to celebrate our wonderful town and school that has meant so much for this community.”
As the mayor’s voice echoed through the PA system, Dobson moved to the far end of the field to better see the faces of the crowd. The sky was getting darker, and with it the chances of seeing one person in a large crowd. He held the binoculars firmly against his eyes and tried to focus on any face that looked the least bit concealed or suspicious. His cell phone buzzed again, and he reached for it immediately. The number this time he recognized as a Charleston area code. He briefly watched the crowd for anyone on their cell phone and then answered.
“This is Detective Dobson.”
“Hello, Detective. This is Dr. Calleson at Charleston Regional,” the man said in a voice much different from Landon’s distorted tone.
“Yes, Doctor. How can I help you?”
“I have a woman here. She’s a bit banged up, but she’s doing fine. I don’t know all the details but she was flown in to our hospital this morning. Her name is Angela Sterling.”
Dobson’s heart skipped a beat as he dropped his binoculars and turned from the crowd. “What-what happened? Is she okay?”
“Yes. As I said, she’s doing better. She suffered some burns and a minor concussion, but we’re getting her back to health.”
“Where did you find her?” Dobson demanded.
“There was a cabin fire. I don’t know what she was doing there. All I know is that she insists on only talking with you.”
Suddenly, nothing else going on at the park mattered. All he wanted to hear was her voice. “Put her on, damn it!” He paused and changed his tone. “I’m sorry. Please.”
“Of course. One minute.”
He heard the doctor shuffle around and then he was back on the line. “She’s still recovering, but she says that she’s ready to talk to you.”
“Okay. Fine. Thanks.”
He listened as the doctor handed the phone over and Sterling’s faint voice came over the line. “Detective Dobson. Is it really you?”
