Chasing Evil (Circle of Evil) (27 page)

“Is that when you practiced your vocabulary, too?”

“I’m no dummy. Neither was this guy.” Price’s gaze was intent on Cam. “He was only in for five years for his second breaking and entering. Thing is, he told me he committed hundreds of B and Es that they never looked at him for. Did a lot more than that, too, if the bitch of the house was home when he called, if you get my meaning.”

“I’m still waiting for you to get to the part where I start to care.”

Price flashed a palm. “Wait for it. So we were doing time in Nebraska, but turned out he’d spent a lot of summers in Iowa growing up. We hit it off. He made a decent haul carrying off electronics and jewelry and what not, but cellie says how he’s got bigger plans than that. How he was putting something together when he got out where instead of breaking into houses, he’d be snatching up these rich bitches and making them draining their bank accounts.”

“You like TV, Jerry?” Cam made a point of looking at his watch. “Bet you do. Because you got every bit of that story off the news. There’s not an original detail in it, and you are out of time.” He made to rise.

“I didn’t get this from TV, swear to God.” Price thumped his folded hands on the table. “That stuff I said, about him grabbing up wealthy women, that was his deal. So when I heard the news shows, yeah I thought about him.” When Cam continued to look unimpressed, Price said, “I got a name. You check out my cellie, bet you won’t find him in Nebraska. Know why? He said he might go to Iowa when he got sprung. Had a grandpa he used to visit by Ankeny. Said the old man used to live on a farm and raise ostriches.”

Everything inside Cam stilled. There was no way Price could know the lab results. No way that information had been leaked to the press.

“Yeah, I had a grandpa that raised do-do birds. We used to race them. Tie them up to dog sleds to pull us through the snow.”

Beckett’s sarcasm broke the silence. Price looked from him to Cam. “Okay that was probably one of the things he was lying about. But you check him out. I’m saying, whoever is snatching those women is pulling exactly the same gig my cellie was planning.”

“Name.” Cam kept his tone bored although mental gears were spinning. The mention of the ostriches was too unique to ignore.

Price’s expression went sly. “I get consideration with the judge, right? The prosecutor agreed?”

“You’re getting way ahead of yourself,” the sheriff said with a scowl. “What was the cellmate’s name?”

“Mase Vance. Mason Vance, but everyone called him Mase.”

“I need a description.”

Price frowned at Cam’s demand. “I don’t know. Dirty blond hair, I guess. Sort of bushy. Blue eyes. Tall as me, but solid. He took some knocks when we were inside. Always thought he was a tough guy, but there’s always someone tougher. He bulked up a little while we were in. Said he was going to get serious about it once he was released.”

Cam had heard enough. “Why would he come to Iowa?”

“He said his grandpa was going to leave his place to him. Not the farm, some house in a little craphole town around here. I don’t remember where. Never heard of it before.” He stopped then, leaned back in his chair. “That’s solid info right there. You can use it, right? Swing some weight with the judge.”

“Is there any chance at all that he heard deputies talking about the lab analysis?”

They were back in Beckett’s office. Cam was in a chair barely more comfortable than the one in the conference room, his computer balanced on his lap as he combed through databases to verify Price’s story.

“It’s doubtful, but hard to tell. I knew, and so did Owens because he was with me when we checked out the Quade Ostrich Ranch. Pleasant couple,” he added sardonically. “Had to get a warrant before they allowed me to step foot on their property. And I can’t be certain the dispatcher didn’t mention our location to one of the other deputies. So…” His shrug was its own answer. There was no way to be sure.

“Okay,” Cam said, scanning the computer screen at the information he’d pulled up. The first part of his tale is true. He bunked with a Mason Vance for Vance’s entire five year stretch.”

“The best lies begin with a kernel of truth.” The sheriff turned to his own computer. “You got a date and place of birth for him?”

It was contained in the man’s arrest record, so Cam read it off. Then he brought up a photo of Vance along with the terms of his release. No parole, as he’d served his entire sentence. Which meant he’d been free to leave Nebraska upon his release and go wherever he wanted, with no one keeping tabs on him.

He studied the man’s mug shot intently. It definitely didn’t match the man in the sketch Jenna had drawn of the man Muller had seen in the Edina park. But the code in Sophie’s last profile had said as much. According to her they were looking for a bald man, a change easy enough to affect. Similarly the man’s missing tooth could have occurred at any time since his release. It wasn’t noted in the physical description of the man.

Tattoos were. Half-sleeves on each arm and a fire-breathing dragon on his back right shoulder. Give him a couple years on the outside to bulk up, and this could be the man Sophie had described.

Trouble was, her description would also likely fit dozens of others.

Nevertheless he picked up his cell phone, dialed Jenna’s number. When she answered, he gave her an abbreviated account of the conversation he’d had with Price.

“Do you believe him?” She knew as well as he did how little credibility these guys had.

“Verifying the details of this story,” Cam said noncommittally. “According to the details Dr. Channing coded in the revised profile, the UNSUB is a weightlifter. Call around to every gym and fitness center in Des Moines and its suburbs. See if they have a Mason or ‘Mase’ Vance on their membership roster.”

After hanging up he did a quick Internet search, but found no current listings for a Mason Vance in either Iowa or Nebraska. Undeterred, he checked the DMV records. No license had been issued to someone fitting that name and age.

“I don’t see an owner of a white cargo van listed under that name,” Beckett muttered, scrolling down his screen.

After thinking for a moment, Cam logged on to a genealogy site that offered free one-month subscriptions. He had Vance’s name, and his place and date of birth. That was enough for a fishing expedition.

After wasting several minutes registering and typing in a search, he muttered, “There he is. Found the son-of-a-bitch.”

“Vance?” The sheriff spun around in his chair to stare at him. “How?”

“His name pops as a descendent when I do a search of his grandpa. The one who was born in Polk County.” Real excitement started to hum in his veins. He couldn’t forget what Sophie had mentioned in the geographic profile she’d developed. That the offender would be in the area because of something familiar that anchored him here.

If Price was correct about Vance being an heir to his grandfather’s estate, that anchor could be the home the old man had left him.

“Ivan Stanford.” He read the information off the site. “One daughter, Evelyn Marie Stanford, deceased. She was married to Walt Vance, also deceased. One surviving grandson, Mason Vance. The old man’s address last listed address was Alleman, Iowa.”

“Alleman?” It was clear from the expression on Beckett’s face that he was trying to place the town. “Little bitty place. Somewhere around Ankeny, right?”

Cam didn’t answer. He was busy typing in another search on the computer. Finding the phone number he was looking for, he stood, powering off the laptop as he made a phone call. “Justin Jeffries,” he said as soon as someone came on the line. When the younger man answered, Cam said without preamble, “That place you were telling me about today. The guy who raised ostriches in the eighties. What was his name?”

“Stanford,” came the answer. Cam scooped up the laptop and headed for the door at a half run at the response. “Ivan Stanford. Last I heard he was retired and living in some small town nearby. Alleman, maybe.”

The flat hinges stretched from door to jamb, and should have taken far less work than had the boards in Sophia’s cell. This time, however, she was working one-handed, so her movements were slower than normal. Awkward. When she had removed the hinges, the lower part of the split door still didn’t budge. So she used the tines of the pitchfork to pry the old wood away from the jamb. Weathered and rotting, it gave easily. She was able to pull most of the lower door away. A wide shaft of sunlight poured through the opening. The sight of it had her heart kicking a faster beat.

Outside. Freedom.

The sheer joy of being this close made her dizzy for an instant. There were two two-by-fours hammered across the doorway from the outside. She dropped the pitchfork and picked up the solid metal pipe and used it as a hammer to pound the lowest board outward. This timber was fresher, and far more solid than the barn door had been. Sophia was sweating and panting by the time she’d knocked it free.

She turned to go back for the other woman, before hesitating. There was no way to know how close her abductor was. He could be living in a house right across the farmyard from where they were being held. He could live across the road. Somewhere close enough to see them immediately when they left the barn.

She scanned the area outside the door she’d broken open. Ahead of her was a scruffy farmyard, rolling to a steep ditch. Across the gravel road was nothing but a sea of green surrounded by barbed wire.

In mid-June the corn would only be halfway to her calf. The wide-open expanse of the field offered nothing in the way of cover. If they went that way and the sadist returned, he’d spot them immediately. She craned her neck to look in either direction. Corn to the left and. More farmyard to the right, bordered by another field.

Not wanting to take the time to go back for the comforter, Sophia crawled through the hole she’d created and sidled along the side of the barn to the right to ease a look around the corner. More weeds and brush. A broken down wooden wagon with rusted steel wheels leaned precariously off to one side. A bean field was ahead of her, the plants only inches high. Scarcely daring to breathe, she made her way quickly along the side of the barn, flattened against it, barely tilting her head to see around the corner.

Nothing. No house. No vehicle. Nothing but more corn.

Relief had the strength streaming out of her, and it took a moment before she could be certain her legs would hold her. Then she made her way back to the door she’d broken open, keeping a careful eye for a plume of dust that would herald an oncoming vehicle.

The horizon was still. The sky an eye shattering blue, unmarred by clouds. The sun was already fading, signaling late afternoon. Everything around her was peaceful as an Americana painting.

It was such a stark contrast to the evil permeating the barn that she felt a chill work down her nape to snake down her spine. It was all Sophia could do to force herself to go back inside the building. She wouldn’t leave without the other woman. She couldn’t be certain help would arrive before the monster returned.

But it was hard. So hard to stand inside the relative coolness of the barn and squelch her impulse to bolt for freedom again.

Determinedly, she made her way the length of the building to Van Wheton’s cell. This time, with the sun slanting in through the door she could easily make out the key hanging from a nail two feet from the gate. Retrieving it, Sophia fumbled it a little as she fit it into the lock. Turned it. The gate was heavier than she expected. But when she pulled it open, the other woman just stared from her seat on the mattress, a mixture of hope and fear on her battered face.

“We’re free. But we have to hurry. I don’t know how long…” How long before he comes back, she almost said, but swallowed the words. This woman didn’t need a reminder of the precariousness of their situation. “There’s no one around. No house that I can see.” She tried to force a reassuring smile, but it quickly faded when Van Wheton made several attempts to stand, and failed.

“I’m sorry.” The words were so raspy they sounded painful to utter. “I can’t…I don’t think I can…”

The key still wrapped tightly in her hand, Sophia picked up the comforter and entered the cell, draping it around the woman’s shoulders. “Courtney Van Wheton?” she asked gently, wincing a little as her hip protested when she went down on both knees before the woman.

A jerky head nod was her only answer. “I’m Sophie.” The nickname was uttered without thought. “Put your arm around my shoulder. Let me help you stand.” Staggering a little under the woman’s weight, she rose. For the first time she wondered if the woman had internal injuries that could be worsened by moving her.

After a moment of indecision, she slid her arm around Courtney’s waist and tried to provide as much assistance as possible as they left the cell, using the metal pipe as a crutch for support.

Their progress through the barn was excruciatingly slow. “It’s going to be okay. It won’t be long now.” She kept up a reassuring whisper along the way. But she was already revising her original plan. There was no way the other woman was going to be able to flee to safety once outside. Sophia wasn’t even certain how long she could keep Courtney upright. She’d have to find a grove of trees to hide her in. Some brush, or barring that, wrap her in the comforter and leave her partially covered by the tall grass in one of the deep ditches edging the gravel road.

Helping the woman through the half door she’d opened sapped an alarming amount of stamina. As much as she mentally railed at herself for being a wimp, the ordeal had weakened Sophia, and her struggle to assist Courtney was tapping the adrenaline-fueled strength she’d drawn on. Her bruised hip hampered her movements, and every time her left wrist was jarred it sent up a screech of agony.

But then she caught sight of the woman fully in the daylight, and a vise squeezed her heart.

Courtney was barely recognizable. Bruises covered her face and body like an overall tattoo. Her nose was swollen and at an odd angle. Dried blood matted her hair, and crusted on cuts and scrapes all over her body. One arm hung limply at her side.