Authors: Fredric M. Ham
When Averly reentered the house, both Carillo and Wilkerson were talking to the Rileys. They were trying to explain that the letter may not mean anything. Carillo reminded them that the abductor said Sara Ann would be returned, and the letter had to have been written before the phone call. Averly stood by patiently and listened.
Dawn leapt from the couch, firing back at Carillo. “But the letter my sister wrote said: My thoughts will always be with all of you . . . (it’s almost over),” she said. “What the hell does that tell you?”
“Dawn, stop,” Adam said.
She looked at her father. “No. I have the right to say what I think.” She turned her attention to Carillo again. “I’ll tell you what it means to me—she’s not coming back to us alive.”
“Don’t say that!” Valerie shouted.
“It doesn’t necessarily mean that,” Carillo offered.
“Stop it!” Adam shouted. “You aren’t helping the situation!”
Dawn’s eyes never left Carillo. “Okay, then what about: Please do not be afraid, Gabriel and God will watch over me?” she retorted, flailing her arms. “Why do you think she put that in the letter? It’s obvious to me. Why isn’t it to you?”
“Stop it now!” Adam bellowed.
Carillo was silent. This is going nowhere.
Dawn had finally had enough and stormed out of the room.
Averly’s cell phone rang. He glanced at Carillo and pointed in the direction of the front door with his thumb. Once outside he answered the call.
“This is Detective Averly.”
“This … Sid Harr … ton, how … you Rob …?”
Averly checked the signal-strength indicator on his phone. It was at its maximum.
“Sid, you’re cutting out really bad.”
“Okay, I’ll ca … you back.”
Within seconds Averly’s phone rang again.
“This better?” asked Harrington.
“Much.”
“Sorry ’bout that. I was on my cell phone. There are pockets in this building where my cell signal is horrible. Anyway, you called me. What’s up, buddy?”
“Have you followed the story about the missing girl in Cocoa Beach, Sara Ann Riley?”
“Ah, yes. I saw something about that last night. You’re on the case?”
“Yes. I’m in Cocoa Beach right now. In fact, I’m at the missing girl’s house with her parents. The case is … peculiar.”
“My favorite kind. How so?”
“Well, first of all the way she was abducted.”
“Yeah?”
“Looks like she was taken in broad daylight, right in front of her house, when she stepped out of her car for barely a couple of seconds to get the mail. Busy street too, neighbors on both sides, and the dad waiting for her in the house—but no witnesses.”
“Tough break.”
“Whoever it was must have been stalking her. Maybe at the soccer field that morning and followed her home.” Averly shifted his weight and continued. “Then early this morning—I mean 3 am early—the Rileys get a phone call from a guy who claims he has the girl, but says he’s going to return her.”
“You mean with no ransom?”
“Exactly. He even told them that.”
“Very strange. You’re not going to let the family believe that, are you?”
“We’re trying to keep their spirits up, but you know that never works well in these cases.”
“What else?”
“Oh, there’s more, and it gets better. Or worse, I guess. The guy said the family would get a letter in the mail today.”
“What kind of letter?”
“We intercepted it at the post office this morning.”
“And?” Harrington asked. “I assume you opened it.”
“Sure did. However, there’s no clue about where he’s holding the girl … But get a load of this.”
“What?”
“The letter is entitled Last Will and Testament.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. The father says it’s his daughter’s handwriting—both the letter and the envelope. Again, no demand for money or anything. Sid, my instincts tell me we have a killer on our hands, a real sick, whacked-out one.”
“Could be. Abduction of a blonde teen in broad daylight, midnight phone call, Last Will and Testament—”
“In the letter, she writes: Gabriel and God will watch over me.”
“What the hell do you think that means?”
“Right now, God only knows. Hey, there’s more.”
“More?”
“You should hear the recording of his voice.”
“What about it?”
“He’s using an electronic distortion device.” Averly looked up as a light breeze rustled the fronds in the three husky royal palms towering in the front lawn. “This one knows what he’s doing.”
“Sounds like it.”
“Damn, I hate it when the wackos are smart, competent, and know exactly what they’re doing, especially when they blend in and no one suspects them. Remember, it took over three years, and twelve bodies, before that professor at the University of Miami was finally caught?”
“I remember. Okay, here’s what I’m going to do. First I need to call the Brevard County office. Eddie Neilson’s in charge over there. It’s his jurisdiction. Then I’m going to call someone I know in Quantico, Virginia.”
“Why Quantico?” Averly asked.
“I’ll fill you in later. Let me make some calls. And hold on to that letter—don’t have any tests run on it. Just wait until you hear from me.”
“Okay, Sid. Thanks.”
“You know if we come in on this one, we’ll take the lead?”
“Yeah, I know.”
14
THREE HOURS LATER Sid Harrington called back. Averly was at the Cocoa Beach police station bullshitting with Wilkerson. Mostly trying to convince him they needed the FBI’s involvement.
“Detective Averly.”
“Hey, Rob, this is Sid. Here’s the situation.”
Averly straightened up in his chair. “Okay.”
“I talked to Eddie Neilson in Melbourne, and he agreed with my plan.”
“What plan’s that?” Averly asked.
“Well, I believe the best shot we have to nail this guy fast is to ask for help from the FBI Investigative Support Unit in Quantico. That unit is part of the Behavioral Science Division of the FBI Academy.”
Harrington paused.
“I got about half of that, but go on,” Averly said.
“So I called a friend at the academy, and guess what?”
Averly waited. Finally he asked, “What, you want me to guess?”
“He knows Douglas Goldman, and he called him. Goldman wants to work the case. Goldman himself—personally!”
Averly rolled his eyes. “Who’s Goldman, Sid?”
“Agent Goldman? Special Agent Douglas Goldman?”
It finally hit Averly. “Oh, that Goldman!”
“Yes, that Goldman. Father of the whole idea of criminal personality profiling. That Goldman.”
“That’s good news. But, Sid …”
“What?”
“Why would he personally take on this case?”
“He gets to pick his cases, and you’ve got one that piqued his interest.”
“Okay. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great.”
“Wait ’til you meet him. I talked to him briefly after one of his seminars, and I can safely say I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”
“Why?”
“Because he has the drive and ability to work several cases simultaneously, and is always up for a challenge. Although I heard his case load almost cost him his life once.”
“What happened?”
“He got viral encephalitis.”
“How’d he get that?”
“Working too many cases, it was caused by acute stress. He was found in a hotel room in Chicago by two other agents. Goldman was supposed to meet them for breakfast that morning but didn’t show. The agents had to have hotel security let them into his room.”
“Sounds like it was bad.”
“Real bad. They hauled him off in an ambulance. He was in a coma for five days, the doctors didn’t expect him to live, but he pulled through. Then they were worried about permanent paralysis on his right side, especially his right arm. But after three months of therapy he fully recovered.”
“That’s amazing.”
“He’s tough.”
“I can’t wait to meet him.”
“You will soon. I’m picking him up at the airport at nine forty-five tomorrow morning. Another thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He wants their lab at Quantico to do the analysis of the letter. He needs you to overnight it to his office.”
“Sure, it’s here at the station. I’ll make sure it gets out of here immediately; probably send it FedEx priority overnight.”
“Great.”
“Okay then, so I’ll see you and Agent Goldman in the morning. Here at the Cocoa Beach police station, right?”
“In the morning, on your doorstep.”
15
DAVID SIKES PUMPED his bike pedals as fast as he could. He turned and looked behind him. The two boys were in fierce pursuit but not gaining on him. He quickly settled on his escape plan. I can make it … I can make it home before they catch me.
Moffitt’s Hardware Store finally came in sight up ahead on St. Claire Avenue. David pulled his bike to the left and across the street. The opposite curb approached fast, and he jerked the front end up, clearing the concrete lip with room to spare. The back tire hit, rattling the chain. He glanced back. His two pursuers were now just cutting across St. Claire Avenue.
David’s hands were solidly fixed to the handlebars. His fingers ached as he gripped harder. He reformulated his getaway strategy. I’ll take the shortcut.
Instead of taking the sidewalk past Moffitt’s, he pedaled straight ahead through an open wooden gate beside the hardware store. There were countless stacks of large plastic fertilizer bags under a shelter behind the store. Their pungent odor floated in the hot summer air.
The muscles in David’s legs burned as he pumped the pedals.
“Where are you goin’, Chubby?” one of the boys shouted from behind David.
David slowed down and, using his foot, slid the bike left. Dust kicked up from behind. He was now between a row of bags and the wooden fence at the back of the lot. He pumped the pedals hard again. A dust cloud swirled around him. He sucked the gritty brown air into his lungs. Where’s the hole?
David could hear one of the boys shout again. “Hey, Chub Boy. We’re right behind you.”
He spotted the section of the fence he was looking for, but something was wrong. New slats now filled the hole that was once David’s secret shortcut. He continued pedaling. I got to get out of here.
At the end of the row of bags he stopped and looked behind him. No one was there. He eased forward, stopped, and peeked around the end stack.
“Gotcha, asshole!”
It was Kyle Barnes.
Something hit his rear tire. He turned and saw the other boy perched on his bike seat.
“Where you think you’re goin’, fat shit?” Barnes said.
David inched his bike ahead and stopped. His eyes were fixed on Barnes, but he didn’t offer a response.
“Not talkin’, Chubby?”
David continued staring at Barnes but remained silent. Both hands still gripped his handlebars, and his right foot was planted on the pedal.
Barnes let go of his bike, dropping it between his legs. “I ought to beat the shit out of you right here.”
David looked down and saw Barnes’s hands form into fists. Barnes then took a step forward, attempting to step over the front tire of his bike. Instead his right foot lodged in the spokes, and his body twisted. He hit the ground hard. David yanked his bike from Barnes’s reach and pedaled furiously. He looked over his shoulder. The other boy was on his bike, stopped beside Barnes, who was still face down in the dirt.
“Get him, you stupid shit,” Barnes ordered the other boy.
On David’s way past the rear of the store he glanced right and saw old man Moffitt limp out of the back door, shaking his fist in the air.
“You boys get the hell outta here.”
David spun out of the lot and down the street, taking the direct route home.
The house was empty when David arrived. His mother wouldn’t be home from work for another hour. After gulping down two glasses of water from the kitchen faucet, he walked out the back door and into the yard. He could hear Clyde, their chocolate-brown half-pit-bull, half-chow crossbreed yapping behind the tool shed.
He stomped through the tall grass past the shed and stopped five feet short of the taut chain. Clyde stopped barking as David inched closer. White froth hung from the dog’s mouth, the chain still stretched tight. David took one more step forward and stopped. He stood motionless, hands planted on his hips, staring at Clyde. The dog started snarling in a savage baritone growl, his upper lip curled under, exposing long, sharp canines and incisors.