Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  The officer asked a few questions, listened intently. He spoke into his walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder. It crackled. Voices rose from it. In the distance, sirens wailed.

  Code Adam.

  Danielle’s knees gave out. Garrett caught her, wrapped her in his arms. She clutched at him, using him as a lifeline.

  “He’s not in the parking lot. He’s not there, Dani.”

  Oh, God. Reid.

  33

  Arlen

  Those first few hours would prove the most critical. Arlen sprinted toward a city cruiser, still talking to the patrolman on Danielle’s phone.

  “You sure it’s the same guy? A serial killer?” the younger man sounded skeptical.

  Like Arlen would make up something so heinous. “Son, I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, I reckon, and I’m going to tell you right now to get your ass in gear and help me save that little boy. Yes, there’s been a serial killer working in the region, murdering boys. Stabbing them. I’ve seen it and its damn ugly. Ugliest thing you’ve ever seen.”

  “Um . . .”

  “You listen to me, son. He’s got mere minutes on us right now—he always drives an old pickup. Chevy or Ford. You get out an APB and shut down those games. Get those other kids with their parents pronto. Hear me?”

  “Yeah.” The patrolman swallowed in a loud, reflexive attempt to process Arlen’s words. “Yeah, I heard you. I don’t have that kind of authority. I have to get an okay from my boss, my precinct.”

  “I give you the goddamn permission, and I’ll deal with the consequences,” Arlen barked. He started the car and flipped on the flashers. The sirens wailed. “Get those kids safe and get more officers there. ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll call Danielle back. You let her know I’m coming.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Arlen hung up and tore out of the parking lot. Even with his lights and sirens, getting up the snarled, bumper-to-bumper highways would take too long. Way too long.

  34

  Hunter

  The kid sniveled. The boys always whined and cried and asked for their mamas. Hunter smirked. Never did them one lick of good, and it was such an unattractive quality in them. Made Hunter want to touch ’em less. Made killing them easier.

  “Where are you taking me?” the boy asked.

  “Somewhere fun,” Hunter answered as he turned onto Coit Road, which would take him north, farther outside this new city’s limits and into pasture land. Well, once he passed on through Prosper, the next new city in this area. Goddamn towns popping up faster than army barracks in the jungle.

  After Prosper, he’d clear out of the populated area and turn on a back road. Always head toward the land—that’s what he’d been taught back in Nam. Away from potential threats. To the quiet.

  Didn’t always work out so great back in that godforsaken jungle. He’d lost his lover there. Barely legal—some said years from being legally old enough to fight—young Jackson was supple and smooth, always quick to laugh and kiss. Hunter had loved him, felt free with him--planned to build a life with him.

  Until that Viet Cong piece-of-shit blew Jackson out of the rice paddy and straight to hell for loving Hunter back.

  Sick freak.

  No, Hunter wasn’t. He was a man. A real man—tough enough to slaughter the commie enemy and animals he killed. Tough enough to resist the urge to touch little boys.

  “I don’t wanna go,” the boy responded. Hunter had heard the boy’s mama scream his name as Hunter carried him, hand over the boy’s mouth, to his car. Reid.

  Cute name. He glanced over at the boy. Cute kid. Looked like her—rosy cheeks and bright hair. If he’d have liked girls, he’d have gone for one like Danielle Foster.

  Would have made his father proud of him.

  But he was a man. A strong man who never gave in to those urges.

  “You’ll like it. It’s the woods.”

  “No. I don’t want to,” the boy screamed, his face turning such a bright red, Hunter felt the first inkling of concern.

  Most of the time he was around kids, they feared him. At least stood in awe of him. From what he’d observed of this one, the boy was quiet, more of a follower.

  “I don’t want to be here!” Reid screamed again. He clawed at the door.

  Hunter yelled, “Hey, now!” as he lunged toward Reid.

  Taking his eyes off the road proved a mistake. An SUV slammed against the driver’s side door, crumpling the old, damaged sheet metal and shoving the interior into Hunter’s leg, pinning it between the edge of the vinyl bench seat and what was left of the door’s interior.

  A sharp pain was followed by a runnel of blood down his thigh. The hurt didn’t dissipate. Hunter swerved away from the SUV, cursing.

  Reid managed to get the door open. Hunter had slowed down some, not enough to make it safe, and the kid stared at the ground, his face once again pale, almost peaked. His red T-shirt was rumpled and tears streaked down his cheeks.

  Hunter leaned over again, ignoring the pain in his thigh—not too deep, he’d bet. And yanked Reid’s blond hair, hard. The boy fell back onto the seat with a scream. Hunter couldn’t reach the door.

  “Don’t—”

  The SUV came at him again, faster and harder.

  As metal ground against metal in a shrieking blast, Hunter gritted his teeth at the deepening wound just above his knee. Best guess, the old upholstery gave out and one of the rusted springs was now jammed deep into his thigh muscle.

  Hurt bad now. Like a knife wound.

  He chuckled darkly.

  “The lawyer finally found his balls,” he growled.

  He turned his wheel, trying to press back against Hank’s vehicle. Blood trickled from his thigh onto his jeans, widening into a sticky puddle. The wound, its discomfort, infuriated Hunter. With a grunt, he slammed his truck into Hank’s SUV.

  He was in charge. Of his life and of Hank’s. Had been for thirty years and didn’t plan to stop now.

  His tires squealed as he sped up, ignoring the open passenger’s side door flapping in the wind. Hunter managed to catch the edge of Hank’s front bumper with his own fender. The road curved up ahead, the trees only feet away from the asphalt of the road. Hunter smiled. Hank could try to turn his wheel, try to ram him, but Hunter owned control of Hank’s car.

  “Teach you to fuck with me,” he muttered.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the little boy launch himself at the wheel.

  No, not the wheel. The gear shift on the steering wheel.

  Smart brat.

  Hunter had underestimated this one.

  Reid used both hands to shove the narrow black stick upward. The truck’s engine ground and whined as it was thrown into lower gears and then reverse. Hunter slapped at the kids hands with one of his, still trying to maintain his speed so he could slam Hank’s vehicle into the approaching trees.

  Reid shoved harder, screaming. The grinding noise turned to a shriek as the truck lurched, smoke belching out from the engine.

  Hunter slapped harder at the kid’s hands and arms but the boy hung on and screamed one word over and over: no.

  No. No. No. No.

  Hunter’s truck lurched and shuddered, dropping speed and making steering damn near impossible. Hank yanked his wheel to the left, which allowed him to loosen his bumper with a mighty scream of plastic tearing loose from metal.

  They hit the curve as the kid threw the car into park. The brat actually got to the gear shift again and put the car in park, destroying the engine. Hunter backhanded him, and the boy went flying into the front dash board. Hunter pulled out his knife.

  Not the way he wanted to do this, but now he was angry.

  In the next moment, the SUV slammed into the side of the truck again, sending Hunter, the boy and the truck hurtling into the trees.

  35

  Danielle

  She took the phone back from the officer, tears beginning to stream down her f
ace.

  Not Reid.

  He must be here. He must.

  “The guy must have grabbed him,” Garrett was saying. “I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t sure. It all happened so quickly. Big guy. Straw cowboy hat. Um, work overalls.”

  “Straw cowboy hat?” Danielle caught her breath. Chief Hardesty had mentioned a straw hat. From her mother’s journal. Not many people wore them anymore. “Are you sure, Garrett?”

  “Yeah. It looked old. Had a brown leather band with a silver buckled on the right side.”

  Danielle pulled up her recent calls list and pressed the only number not associated with a name, hoping, hoping it was the man she needed.

  “Trevor Dresden,” he said, his voice clipped.

  “Was there anyone who wore a straw cowboy hat?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Danielle. I don’t have time. Straw cowboy hat. Who wore one?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “My son . . . Reid. Someone grabbed him.”

  “Shit,” Trevor hissed. “Your son?”

  “Yes. Focus, Trevor. He has my son. He wore a straw cowboy hat and work overalls. Boots. Old. Who wore that? Back in Mansfield.”

  “What are you asking me?” Trevor sounded confused.

  “When you were a kid. A straw hat with a brown leather band, maybe. A silver buckle. Who wore something like that? My mother wrote about it. I know there was a man, Trevor. Who could it be? I need to know now.”

  “H-hunter,” Trevor stammered.

  “Who the hell is Hunter?” Danielle nearly screamed in frustration. A crowd gathered around her. Well, let them look. Her son was missing and she was not going to mourn him for the rest of her life like her mother did Jonathan. She was going to find Reid.

  No matter what.

  “Leonard Framb. The rancher’s son. We called him Hunter. Not a thing he couldn’t kill.”

  Danielle sank to her knees, the fight fading from her. She swallowed back the bile that shoved its way up her throat.

  We almost always talk to the killer. Hardesty’s words. Leonard Framb. Jonathan was found in Framb’s back pasture.

  Kevin ran up, a scowl darkening his face, his glove slapping against his thigh.

  “Why’d you make them call my game? Why do I have to stand by you? I wanna be with Noah and Kenny.”

  “Did you hear me, Danielle? Jonny and I called Leonard Framb Hunter. He came home in ’74. Pretty messed up. We—Jonny and me—asked him about killing people. Asked him if it was harder than shooting a deer.”

  She managed to keep the bile down but her throat remained constricted, making it nearly impossible to push out the next words. “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He just stared at us, his lips curling into his mouth.”

  “How long was it before Jonathan disappeared? That conversation with Hunter?”

  “Couple of weeks. Maybe a month.”

  “And you never told anyone about Leonard Framb?” she gasped.

  “No.”

  Trevor’s voice held tears. She wondered in a distant I-don’t-give-a-shit way if he was crying. Let him cry. Reid was missing.

  “I didn’t think it was a big deal. It was just a name Jonny and I called him . . . it wasn’t a big deal.”

  But even as he said the words, Trevor’s voice trailed off. Realization slammed into them both, a tidal wave and a Mack truck and exactly what the knife must feel like as it pierced deep into the skin, muscle, organs: he’d had the answer all these years. If Trevor had told someone then, they might have caught Leonard, stopped other murders.

  “It mattered. He just kidnapped my son!” she screamed.

  Trevor’s vicious cursing was drown out by Kevin’s keening cry.

  36

  Arlen

  Danielle’s frantic voice bit into his ears, swarming through his head. Who could he call? He didn’t know anyone in the Frisco department to help him to get in front of this—fast as possible. Each moment Danielle’s boy remained missing, the greater the likelihood the police would miss talking to a witness—something who caught something key: a license plate, a visual, a name.

  Critical details faded from people’s minds with a frightening alacrity.

  Granted, everyone would try to help find Reid Patterson. Just make the next call, Hardesty. Focus on the case.

  He called his office. The line went to voice mail.

  After hours. He maneuvered around the next set of vehicles and managed to press the right buttons to get him to main dispatch at the Mansfield PD.

  He had the gal working the phones patch him through to Frisco PD, detective unit.

  “Detective Morales,” the woman said.

  Arlen took a deep breath. “I’m Arlen Hardesty, chief of police in Mansfield. I got a bit of a story to tell you, and I need your help. First you need to get as many officers as you can out near that baseball tournament. We got an active killer in the area.”

  “Hold your horses, Chief. I need some more identification and a lot more to this story before I ask my boss to send resources to the ball fields.”

  Arlen launched into the story, keeping the details short and fact-based.

  Detective Morales listened, breaking in every once in a while to ask for clarification in Arlen’s story.

  His phone beeped, signaling another call coming through. He almost didn’t take it, but then he remembered Danielle. He’d promised to call her back.

  “Hang on, Detective.”

  “You can’t leave me there, Chief! I need to know why the guy’s up here in—”

  The damn sirens were making his head pound. Or maybe it was Morales yelling at him. He wove between two cars as he glanced down at the screen and pressed “Accept Call.”

  Goddamn stupid way to drive but he wasn’t going to stop.

  “Danielle?”

  “It’s Leonard Framb!” she yelled and sobbed all at once.

  “What?” Arlen clutched the steering wheel. The world tilted. Righted. Leonard Framb. “What?”

  “Leonard Framb. He’s Hunter. Trevor,” she stuttered. “Trevor and Jonathan. They called him that. You have to find Reid. Leonard Framb has Reid.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” Arlen gasped.

  Talk to Trevor, Nancy had said. He was there. He knows something.

  Goddamn him to hell. Arlen should have listened to her.

  37

  Arlen

  He clicked back to Morales and gave her the information. He whipped up the Tollway, making better time in the emergency vehicle lane. The little sedan shook as he pushed the gas pedal harder.

  He called his wife. She needed to know what was happening.

  “Arlen, you going to make it home for dinner tonight?”

  “No, Reenie. But I got a favor to ask.”

  “What’s doing?” she said on a sigh.

  “I need you to get on the phone. Up to the Dallas PD. Talk to Jim Kondren. Tell them I got a missing boy up in Frisco related to a serial killer cold case. I need all hands on deck, full scale search. You do that for me, sweetie?”

  “Yes, of course. A missing boy?” She sniffled.

  “Call Jim. Tell him we know who we’re looking for. Finally.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. Tell him. I promised to let him know soon’s I knew. Tell him I’ll touch base soon. Soon’s I can.”

  “What are you going to do, Arlen?” Irene asked, her voice shaking.

  “Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart. I’m heading up thataway now. I called in the local detective and working with Frisco while you get in touch with Dallas for me.”

  Arlen hung up, mumbled a prayer and took a hard right exit, his wheels slipping as the car shuddered harder.

  He stared out the windshield, remembering the boys’ fascination with Leonard, a POW.

  Hadn’t talked much. Quiet. Liked to hunt. But then so did most of that group of boys. Pig hunting was popular in those parts as well as deer.
/>
  Put meat in folks’ fridges.

  His phone rang.

  “Chief?” Detective Morales barked into the phone. Sirens screamed through the earpiece, reverberating through Arlen’s already-aching head.

  “Yep.” He squinted, trying to ignore his pounding head. He focused on weaving between the rush-hour commuters.

  “We received a 911 call.”

  Arlen’s heart sank. He bit his lip, his eyes beginning to tear.

  “Already?” he rasped.

  “I’m on my way there now. Coit Road. Northern edge of our city, almost in Prosper.”

  “Yep. Got it pulled up. My ETA is . . . too goddamn long,” Arlen grumbled.

  “I’ll be there in ten,” Detective Morales said. “Seven if I push this Ford.”

  “Push it,” Arlen said, also pressing his foot against the gas until it could go no farther. “He kills fast.”

  38

  Hunter

  The door on the other side of the truck was yanked open. Must’ve swung shut in the crash. Did the kid fly out? Hunter grunted, frustrated. He wanted to kill the boy—teach Hank another necessary lesson.

  His head. Ouch. Felt too big for his skull. He lifted his head, blinking back the blackness. Hank Foster, in his fancy lawyer duds, swam in and out of focus.

  Hank lifted a small, limp body into his arms, hunching protectively over the child.

  Hunter lunged, leading with the buck knife in his hand. But Hank stumbled back, out of range as the seatbelt stymied Hunter’s efforts. He struggled to unbuckle the lap belt and slammed his shoulder against the driver’s side door. Hank’s SUV did more of a number on it than Hunter expected because the door creaked and groaned but didn’t open. He scrambled across the bench seat and out the other side.

  By the time he limped his way around the hood of the smoking truck, gravel spat into his face and the taillights of Hank’s damaged SUV slid around the curve in the road.