Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  The greater good, Danielle’s ass.

  What an absolute jerk. She huffed, then again as she stared down at the papers.

  Her meeting with her father yesterday at the cemetery might prove pivotal to Hank’s next action. She didn’t want to wait to see. She wanted to confront him with the knowledge growing inside—a tumor more disgusting than any that ate away at Nancy.

  Danielle reread the words, her ears roaring as she began to understand why her mother never wanted to talk about her brother. Why Nancy refused to spend time with her husband. Why Nancy’s depressive episodes became worse in those months after Danielle’s sixteenth birthday.

  Nancy found the truth. Hank did not kill his son. No. He was too smart for that.

  Yet. Yet…

  Her father set up his foundation on his son’s own blood.

  29

  Arlen

  He flipped through the pages first, noting that each was short—about a paragraph synopsis of people’s lives and their connection to Jonathan. Better than what most of his guys could do. Arlen pulled out his file on the potential suspects, scowling at the list. One of them knew something—probably was the murderer. Investigations had changed, thanks to DNA testing and cell phones, but if the police didn’t get on a kidnapping within twenty-four hours, forty-eight at most, the evidence started to dry up, disappear, making it harder to put together the motive and the person involved.

  Still, Arlen felt certain he’d spoken to Jonathan’s killer. Happened way too often. But without proof . . . he was back at square one. For now, he compared Nancy’s notes to the meticulous ones he’d taken thirty years ago.

  September 19, 1991

  Hank liked to hunt. He and that Leonard Framb talked about the best way to hunt and kill deer at the Framb’s Christmas party just weeks before Jonny was killed.

  Hank field-dressed a lot of deer over the years. He used to have a big buck knife.

  Like the detective said was used to stab Jonny.

  I can’t find that knife.

  Arlen tapped his pen cap on his legal pad. Hank liked to hunt. That never came up in their interviews. Could have been because the FBI suit led the questioning and never bothered to ask that simple question.

  Arlen and the suit had interrogated Franklin Framb. Leonard hadn’t been in town then. Off visiting relatives, Franklin had said. Up in Tennessee, he’d said. His wife’s family.

  Arlen had spoken to Leonard about the case when he’d come back. Not that Leonard said much. A quiet man who’d gotten quieter after returning from Vietnam. Franklin was dead now and Leonard was nearing sixty.

  Thirty years was too long to let a case like this molder.

  He read through the next entry.

  Franklin Framb. Rancher. Last seen at the feed store at the time of the abduction. Drove an old gray Chevy truck; there are multiples on the Rocking F Ranch. I didn’t see the logo on the one that passed by while I waited for Jonny.

  Could it have been painted over? Or scratched off?

  Detective Hardesty said the model used to abduct Jonny was a ’73. Framb trucks were purchased between ’72 and ’77. Physically, Franklin was capable.

  Motive? The boys (Jonny and Trevor) pestered his son, Leonard, about his time in Vietnam. Franklin didn’t like that.

  But Franklin helped with the search.

  Jonny was found in his pasture.

  Danielle called. He’d planned to listen to her recorded conversation with Janice, Hank’s former secretary, that evening. “I have something to give to you,” she said without preamble.

  “All right. Whatcha got?”

  She blew out a breath. “It looks like it was yanked from my mother’s journal. One of them. Have you noticed any pages missing?”

  “Not yet,” Arlen said. “I got about eight more to go.”

  “Okay. Well, the page says, Voluntary stay in Houston for hallucinations. Log says he checked out the morning of March 28, but no one saw him from 10:00 p.m. the night before.”

  Arlen narrowed his eyes. “Rusty’s Trucks is between Mansfield and Houston. Up in Humble.”

  “What’s that?” Danielle asked.

  “Up from Houston,” Arlen said, his tone meditative. “Hmm. That could’ve worked. Can you bring those papers by?”

  “Tomorrow,” Danielle said. “Our oldest son has a baseball tournament tonight.”

  Arlen smiled as he leaned back in his black ergonomic chair. “I remember those days. My son, Paul, loved being out there on the field.”

  “So does Kevin. It’ll be a late night and tomorrow’s my carpool day. I’ll text you a picture. Oh, and I have a Bible verse. From Janice. She took it from my dad’s briefcase.”

  “Interesting,” Arlen said. “Shoot that over, too. Might not be permissible as evidence, but then, I don’t know if it’s useful.”

  “Why else would my dad take it?” Danielle asked.

  “Don’t know,” Arlen said. “That’s why I want to see it. I’ll finish these journals up tonight. I want to see where the ripped out page fits in your mother’s writings.”

  “Chief?” Danielle asked in a hesitant voice.

  Arlen’s heart lurched. “Yep?”

  “My dad . . . you’re sure it wasn’t him?”

  30

  Hunter

  Proved easy enough to find out where Danielle Foster lived, who she married, the age of her boys. Hunter chuckled as he shook his head. Amazing what computers offered up these days.

  A quick search on the internet gave him a whole lot of information—thanks, in part, to her husband’s open-access Facebook account. Why people would want to be on those types of sites was beyond his understanding. While Danielle had her account locked up tighter than a steel drum, Mr. Garrett Patterson dropped tons of pictures of his wife and a couple of cute boys. Even posted today about how excited he was to see his eldest—that pride and joy of his sweet little family—get the pitching role for the first game in a big tournament up in Frisco.

  Hunter studied the photos of both boys. The younger, blond kid was awful damn small.

  Slight. That was the word his mama used to use. A slight child.

  Hunter curled his lip. He’d hated being called that.

  He clambered into an old pickup he kept out in the back shed. He’d bought it for cash over in Arkansas about two years ago. He puttered down the road, keeping his speed a couple miles under the limit. Had to be careful since this baby wasn’t registered.

  He rolled down the window to enjoy the late winter breeze. He patted the edge of the rusted and dented door, smirking a little. Not hard a’tall to dump an old beater like this one. Just took a bit of planning.

  Hunter was good at planning but also good at taking the moment as it came.

  He’d see what was what and go from there.

  He stopped at a light and glanced over, his smile turning down when he noticed a Mansfield police cruiser. Damn patrol would be out. Well, he’d keep it slow and easy.

  Make sure he made it to Frisco in plenty of time to watch Danielle’s boy pitch some youth little league.

  Anticipation hummed through his veins as he entered the highway. Yep, today the hunger would abate.

  And Hank Foster would remember how he’d set this whole set of events into motion.

  He began to hum a Johnny Cash song.

  31

  Danielle

  The ball fields and surrounding metal bleachers were jam-packed with people. Kids yelled, crowds cheered and groaned. Danielle and Reid waved at Kevin, who looked determined and nervous as he took the field, his brown leather glove folded against his chest. Danielle pulled out a baggie of baby carrots and offered them to Reid.

  “How much longer till his game starts?” Reid asked. Each time he inquired, his voice shifted closer to a whine. Hanging out, waiting for his brother’s best-of-three game to start wasn’t easy for an active six-year-old.

  “Not too much longer. It’s already five. How about some Mad Libs while we wait?”


  Reid’s eyes lit up. “Okay!”

  She bent her head close to Reid’s as they worked on the next page in the book. Reid snorted as he answered the questions, getting a faraway look in his eyes as he thought of the most outrageous words possible.

  “So, we have ‘A swan in Kalamazoo was arrested this morning after he hurdled in front of a tractor trailer.’”

  Reid’s giggle fits grew louder as he nodded his head three times in a row. “That’s so funny.”

  She leaned over and ruffled his hair. “Indeed, it is. Want to finish the page?”

  But Reid’s attention moved to a group of his friends running toward him from an adjacent ball field.

  “Wanna come hit the ball with us?” one of the boys asked. Reid snatched up his ever-present glove and hopped from the bleachers. But before his feet hit the ground, he turned back to Danielle.

  “That okay, Mom?”

  “Of course, buddy. Have fun. And don’t go—”

  “Anywhere other than that field and never go alone. Got it.” Reid dashed off with the boys before Danielle even said goodbye.

  She settled back on the bleachers, looking at Kevin’s serious expression as he listened to the coach talking to him on the pitcher’s mound.

  Garrett hurried over, his stride long. He settled in next to her. “Good. Thought I’d be late. I had to park back in Dallas, I swear.”

  Danielle smiled, but it faltered when she looked to the left and saw her father leaning against the chain-link fence down the first-base line. Her eyes darted over to catch Reid laughing, his pale hair glinting in the late-afternoon sun.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. Garrett nodded but he scowled when he followed Danielle’s gaze.

  “Want me to talk to him?”

  Danielle shook her head. “Reid’s over there; just keep an eye on him,” she said pointing. Garrett nodded, his gaze landing on his younger son.

  Danielle steadied her trembling legs, a hand on the metal bleacher, before heading toward her father.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, her voice filled with the anger of their last meeting.

  “You invited me.”

  Danielle crossed her arms over her chest. “Or you couldn’t stay away from an event like this, so filled with new potential victims.”

  Hank tipped his head back in a sharp gesture. “What?”

  Danielle moved in closer. “You heard me,” she snarled. “I know you were involved in Jonathan’s death. You may have slipped out of the FBI’s net, but I don’t trust you. I don’t want you near my boys. Ever. Again.”

  Hank’s lips firmed into a thin, narrow line, his mouth all but disappearing from his face. He dropped his gaze to the ground, showing Danielle the graying, balding crown of his head.

  “You hate me,” he muttered.

  A rising wave of noise came from the field behind her as the kids’ started their game. Parents and siblings cheered and clapped, leaning closer in their metal seats to get a better look at the first pitch.

  Danielle’s anger spent and a wave of exhaustion hit her. She wanted to watch her son’s game, to participate in his victory or his loss. She wanted to let go of her father’s ugly past, cut all ties with the man who, at best, exploited his own son’s grisly murder.

  “What’s to like?” Danielle shook her head, her disbelief stronger than his conviction in himself. “You’ve lied and cheated and hurt innocent children my whole life, all while professing to do something noble.”

  Hank opened his mouth, snapped it shut. His jaw clenched and he met her gaze with an angry, defiant one of his own. “I’d never hurt a child, Danielle.”

  Her laugh was caustic and short. “That’s where you’re wrong. You hurt me every day of my childhood. And you knew something about Jonathan.”

  Hank met her glare, his face filled with a sadness she never expected. “I tried to protect you.”

  Danielle shook her head. “You left me alone with a woman who couldn’t take care of herself. You left me.” Danielle let go of the fence and stepped back, away from the man who should have offered her comfort, listened to her stories at dinner, taught her to drive. “And you stole Mom’s journal entry—the one you felt somehow implicated you.”

  None of those actions were to protect Danielle.

  “Just go,” she said, weariness causing her shoulders to sag. “I don’t want to see you again.”

  “Where is it?” he asked, urgency riding his voice. “The journal entry? What did you do with it? How did you get it?”

  The bat cracked against the ball and the crowd cheered. The small figure in right field darted forward to pick up the rolling ball.

  Danielle’s smile was not friendly. “I don’t have it anymore. Neither does Janice.”

  Hank’s shocked expression morphed quickly into anger, then something darker.

  “You can’t hide from your actions, Hank.” Danielle turned away, but Hank caught her arm in a bruising grip, his urgency transmuting through her skin, causing her to shiver.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing—what you’re setting in motion.”

  “Actually, Hank, I know exactly what I’m doing.” She wrenched her arm free and tilted up her chin. “I’m cutting ties with the man responsible for my brother’s death and my mother’s years of unhappiness.”

  “Danielle!”

  She turned her back on him and hurried away. Garrett was no longer seated on the bleachers. Danielle’s heart rate shot upward as she lifted up on tiptoe, trying to find him. He sprinted past where she stood, down to the next field. He waved his hands, obviously agitated as he talked to the boys Reid had been playing with.

  Her father no longer stood at the fence line—she caught the back of his head as he jogged toward the parking lot. Danielle ran toward Garrett, who looked ready to bolt, tugging at his hair.

  “What’s wrong?” Danielle gasped, out of breath.

  Garrett’s eyes were wide and reddened, his face ashen. “Reid’s missing.”

  32

  Danielle

  No. Danielle wanted to make the word push past her lips, but it hovered there. Reid, her baby. Her baby who she’d let play with his friends, running between the fields while she and Garrett watched the game. Garrett couldn’t hold her gaze, straining, frantic, searching. Searching for their son.

  “Reid?” Danielle asked, her voice thin, high, frightened. Not her voice. Perhaps the same one her mother used as she called for Jonathan.

  “A man. I think he grabbed him,” Garrett said, his voice raw and his eyes wild. “I didn’t see. I didn’t. Reid’s missing.”

  “Reid?” she cried again, her voice stronger. Instinct directed her to the left, caused her to crane her neck and run . . . search for her baby.

  “Reid,” she screamed, louder than she’d ever yelled.

  “What’s going on here?” A man caught her arms at her biceps, swung her around to face him.

  “M-my son,” Danielle huffed, sobbed. “M-my son is missing.”

  Oh, God. The pain. Her heart, her head, filled with images of Jonathan’s death—what it could be.

  No.

  NO.

  “Reid?” she called again, straining to look around the man, look toward the parking lot. They’d have to go there—more cars were parked beyond. It was Friday night—cars pulled in and doors slammed. People laughed.

  Laughed.

  Her son was missing.

  Danielle tried to dart around the man; she needed to find her son. Garrett was in the parking lot now, running between the rows, calling.

  The man in front of her placed his hands on her shoulders. He wore blue. Had a badge. An officer. She focused on him.

  No, he wouldn’t help. Not as fast as Chief Hardesty. She fumbled in her pocket as the police officer tried to talk to her, tried to gather information. She found Chief Hardesty’s number.

  “My son,” she cried into the phone as soon as Arlen rumbled out a polite hello. “Reid is missing. From
the baseball field. My father was here . . . my father,” she moaned.

  The officer shook her, speaking but Danielle couldn’t focus on him.

  “Jesus H. Christ. You sure?” Hardesty barked.

  “He was playing on the field next to us. I went to talk to my father, to ask him to leave. Now Reid is gone. Garrett said . . . we can’t find him.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Chief Hardesty mumbled.

  The idea of history repeating itself was something Danielle furiously disavowed, even in her head. By not letting the past touch her, grip at more than the edges of her consciousness, Danielle tried to pretend it had never happened, that nothing would happen to her child. Jonathan’s murder had been a random, violent act.

  That’s what she’d told herself.

  She’d lived in a bubble of false security for years. Only Danielle knew it was false, which made it that much more tenuous and precious.

  “He’s gone.”

  “We need to talk to Hank. Pronto. Faster we get information, better chance of finding Reid.”

  “What do I do?” Danielle cried.

  “Get them to shut down those games. Code Adam. Tell the police there it’s a Code Adam.”

  The police officer stopped shaking her when Arlen’s words floated through the airwaves, reaching him.

  “Code Adam?” he asked. “Who are you talking to, miss?”

  “Who’s that?” Hardesty asked.

  “A p-police officer.” Her teeth chattered.

  “Put the man on the phone, Danielle. Now.” Hardesty used his bossiest voice and Danielle complied, too dazed and scared to do anything but obey.