Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (10 page)

CHAPTER 17

C
radling luscious Ha
nnah in
his arms, Adam covered her with tender kisses as she responded to his every touch. He’d never felt so powerfully drawn to any woman. He pulled her to him and...

His cell phone’s insistent chirp jerked him abruptly from deep sleep, melting his consuming dream. Groggy, he blinked awake and sat up. “Iverson here.”

“This is the eye on your Forbes guy,” said Jake Torres’ familiar voice. “He’s on the prowl tonight. We’re in Vienna. Not much traffic this late, so it’s hard to do a close tail without tipping him off. Maybe he’s just taking his target’s night-time temperature or maybe he’s going to hit the place. You want in?”

Already on his feet, Adam held the cell phone with one hand, pulling on his trousers with the other. “I’m on my way. Where in Vienna? Okay, 15 minutes tops. Thanks for the word.”

His car sped down Dolly Madison Boulevard and past Tysons Corner’s brightly lighted but largely deserted office complexes and shopping malls. A foaming beehive of activity during the day, at this hour even the hotels and restaurants buttoned down. Maple Avenue, Vienna’s main street, was nearly abandoned.

Adam spoke into his phone. “Okay, I’m on Maple entering Vienna, just passed Westwood Country Club. Is he still on the move?... where did he stop?... parked there how long?... Okay, I’ll park a block away and come in on foot. What are you driving?... no, I’m plain clothes and packing concealed. Make sure you know who you’re shooting at, buddy; I’m the guy wearing dark green.” Adam laughed, dropping the phone onto the seat and putting both hands on the wheel as he glided into the wealthy neighborhood of large lots graced with big, pricey houses.

Little transpired in this suburban residential neighborhood’s wee hours except for occasional ghostly movements of deer grazing in the lush residential gardens or a dog’s distant bark punctuating the monotonous drone of summer insects. Very far away, probably on Route 66, a siren wailed faintly for a moment before the night swallowed the sound.

Grabbing his cell phone, Adam crouched behind bushes in the yard opposite Forbes’ van. According to the surveillance team, the van hadn’t moved for fifteen minutes. Everyone waited. Due to his hunched position in the shrubbery, Adam felt uncomfortable pressure from the shoulder-holstered gun compressed against his chest.

Slowly, quietly, the passenger door of Forbes’ van opened. The inside dome light did
not
illuminate. The figure slipping out the door resembled a shadow more than a person. Clad entirely in black, including shoes, gloves and ski mask, the specter slipped quickly across the road and into the side yard of a large, prestigious house.

Forbes’ driver/lookout stayed in his car. He might have a clever way to alert Forbes of trouble, Adam thought. He could follow the thief inside the house, but if the owners were home, apprehending him there could invite risky cross-fire. Adam chose a different tack. He’d wait for Forbes’ return to his get-away van with the loot in hand. The on-sight team in the next block provided instant backup if Adam spearheaded an arrest. If the get-away car sped off, they’d call in a Be-On-Look-Out for quick apprehension. Adam recognized Forbes’ van from his earlier surveillance in Arlington. What could go wrong? That question always made Adam uneasy!

Long minutes ticked by while the pastoral night-time scene continued unchanged. Adam shifted to a more comfortable position, growing impatient. Waiting was tough!

A large, very old dog plodded along the sidewalk in front of Adam, closely followed by an even older man shuffling behind. At this hour, the master expected no one whose scent the animal might detect. But tonight, the protective old dog stopped to sniff the air. Catching Adam’s scent, the graying animal emitted a gravelly bark, persistently repeated despite his old master’s efforts to quiet him. Lights snapped on in a neighboring house as this unusual nighttime warning awakened sleeping occupants. If they saw the strange car, they might dial 9-1-1.

Inside the van, Fred froze with fright. He alerted Ralph to trouble by activating the vibrating cell phone and knew his brother would
not
return to the van now. Fred prayed he could remember everything Ralph told him to do. If not, his older brother would be furious later.

They’d rehearsed the contingency plan. Ralph would take off on foot, using his wits and the money in his pocket to eventually find a way home if their subsequent cell phone communication failed. Meanwhile, Fred would drive slowly and inconspicuously out of the residential area until he reached the main road, obeying speed limits. If not followed, he’d circuitously drive home. If followed, he’d head toward the District or Maryland, introducing the jurisdictional complication of
s
tate
lines while leading pursuers away from both the crime scene and from their evidence-filled Arlington house. The brothers would then attempt coded communication on their cell phones every hour on the hour until successful.

Fred hated making decisions on his own because of Ralph’s unfailing criticism; therefore he relied totally on his brother’s specific instructions for every situation. Turning the key in the ignition, Fred started the engine, shifted into gear and eased down the street. As he crept along the subdivision’s residential roads, a car unexpectedly fell in behind him. Fred’s eyes widened. He accelerated a little faster. The follower kept pace.

Out of the residential neighborhood at last, Fred ached to head for the safety of their Arlington house but stuck to the memorized drill. As Fred turned onto Vienna’s main road, his panic grew as the car behind also turned. Torn between speeding away with at least a chance of escape or continuing at the speed limit and hoping the tail lost interest, Fred struggled to do as he’d been told. His anguish escalated to stark fear when the flashing light of an unmarked police car pulled him over three minutes later on Maple Avenue.

Back on the dark residential street, Adam rushed toward Forbes’ target house, hoping to catch the thief in flight. Pausing in the poor light of a moonless night, Adam blindly followed the sounds of movement and pounding feet ahead. He lurched after Forbes as they dashed through yards, over fences and across streets. Several times they both fell quiet, each listening for the other. Then Forbes led the chase again, darting off in yet another direction.

Backup gone but still in hot pursuit, Adam faced a judgment call: to continue solo at increased personal risk or regroup for a safer future try with cover. He forged on. Ahead, he heard metal crashing, more dogs barking. Only a few years older than the perp and in good physical condition, Adam assumed he could keep up, but could he overtake?

The chance light from a porch lamp illuminated the dark ground where Adam spotted and scooped up Forbes’ discarded black ski mask. If Forbes shed his other black outer garments, could he emerge normally attired on any residential street and stroll unnoticed to freedom?

Rather than moving toward town, the suspect headed instead for the wooded preserves flanking this suburban area. Possessing only rudimentary Boy Scout survival skills, Adam was no woodsman. But Forbes might be! Out of the residential area now, both men struggled through thick brush and dodged woodland trees. Adam had a cell phone to call for backup, but where the hell was he? He packed a gun, but perhaps Forbes carried, too.

Suddenly, Adam heard crashing in the bushes ahead, followed by a splash and silence. Proceeding cautiously, he peered into darkness under the thick canopy of trees, caught his balance in time to jerk back quickly and avoid sliding down the bank and into a creek.

Adam stood quietly, listening. He couldn’t use his flashlight because if Forbes were armed, he’d become an illuminated target. Instead, using his eyes and ears as tools in the darkness, Adam stood absolutely still, straining to hear any sound. He waited, listening.

“Officer, may we be of assistance,” said a soft-spoken voice at his elbow. Adam whirled around, gun in hand, to stare at the well-dressed man standing before him. A big dog of unrecognizable breed sat obediently at the man’s side.

“Who...?” Adam began.

The man continued in the same quiet voice, “I’m a resident here, Edward Wilford, and also organizer of our neighborhood watch. Here’s my ID, though it’s hard to read here in the dark. May I see your badge also?” Adam complied and Wilford continued. “This is Jackie,” he patted the dog’s head. “We spend a lot of time outdoors together and we know this parkland well. We also hunt together and she is well-trained. I see you have a piece of clothing from the man you’re chasing. Perhaps Jackie might help you find him.”

Processing this improbable development, Adam made a decision. “Thank you for any help you can offer.” He handed the ski mask to the man, who waved it near the dog’s nose. Ears forward, the dog appeared energized by the scent.

“Find!” Wilford addressed the animal in a normal soft-spoken voice, quite different, Adam thought, from the harsh tone most owners used with their pets. And, for that matter, with their children! The two men waited and watched as the dog raced into the woods.

“And how do
you
happen to be out at this hour?” Adam inquired with caution.

“Back where you parked in my neighborhood, that very old man with the very old dog out at this very late hour was my father with his companion, Maddie. Counting in dog years, they’re about the same age. Neither sleeps well so they’re often restless at night. I try to keep an eye on Dad but don’t always succeed. I’m sorry his arrival interrupted your stake-out.”

Three sharp barks drifted through the air. “Ah,” said Wilford quietly, “Jackie has your man.”

From his own interface with the effective police K-9 unit, Adam respected the uncanny skills of handlers and their well-trained dogs, but he’d never heard of this unprecedented contribution from a volunteering citizen. Still, he and the animal’s owner stumbled through the woods until they spotted Jackie looking expectantly up into a large shade tree.

“He’ll be up there,” Wilford pointed toward the branches.

“Don’t go any closer!” Adam warned. “He may be armed. I’ll call for backup. Where are we?”

“When you get them on the phone, I’ll give you precise directions.”

Twenty minutes later, as backup cops pushed a cuffed Ralph Forbes into the back seat of their cruiser, Adam turned to Wilford. “Thank you, Sir, for your invaluable help tonight. Jackie’s a remarkable dog, but I don’t recognize her breed.”

“Perhaps that’s because she’s a mixture, as most of us are. And we thank
you,
Detective Iverson, and the other police who protect our communities. Here’s my contact information if I can be of further service to you.” He gave Adam a business card and the two men shook hands before Adam climbed into the waiting police car that would drive him to his own vehicle near the stake-out.

“Can we give you a lift back to your house?” Adam asked.

“No, thanks,” Wilford replied in his quiet voice, “Jackie and I will enjoy the walk back.”

The next day’s newspaper headline read, “Prominent Vienna Attorney Helps Solve Crime,” and pictured a pleasantly smiling Edward Wilford standing beside Jackie. The caption below the picture read, “Attorney Says Dog Deserves Credit.”

CHAPTER 18

Five months earlier

E
xhausted
by the long
drive from Texas and despite his determination to force this place to fit his plans, Ruger Yates dreaded spending that first night in his mother’s old house. Finally, he brought his dog inside and instructed it to lie down on the bedroom floor near him. He willed himself to stretch fully-clothed atop one of the uncomfortable twin beds in the room he’d shared with Mathis when they were young boys. At least the heat and electricity worked and the toilets flushed.

As the nighttime temperature dropped, a bitter February wind howled fiercely across the property, buffeting every cranny of the aged farmhouse and intensifying unfamiliar creaks in the structure’s old wood. The wind’s shrieks added eeriness to Ruger’s anxiety and he tossed fitfully for an hour before finally falling into a deep sleep. Then the awful dreams began…

Aching hunger was Ruger Yates’ earliest memory. With no idea of his age, how long he’d been there or anything other than his immediate bleak surroundings, he lay in a cage with bars all around. The boy in the cage with him didn’t hurt him. Sometimes the nice girl and the mean man came. Then blackness and fear and thirst and hunger.

His child’s remembrance differed only in detail from what actually happened. Ten months younger than the brother sharing his fate, Ruger was four years old when he and Mathis curled on the filthy crib mattress, their emaciated bodies weak from meager food and intermittent beatings. They stared listlessly into black space of the windowless cellar as they lay naked in a feces-strewn enclosure constructed from a baby crib topped with a wooden lid. Wire hinged the lid firmly along one side and a padlock secured the hasp on the other. The acrid stench of human urine filled the immediate area, but the small boys no longer smelled it.

Sometimes the dim overhead light bulbs glowed for days at a time, contrasting with total darkness for other long stretches. The boys had no concept of day or night and thought only of food, despite their knowledge that this yearned-for commodity came with pain, before or after.

When the door opened at the top of the cellar stairs, the crack of light stabbing the darkness should have encouraged hope of rescue from their pitiful plight. Instead, the boys dreaded this moment, for what came next was another installment of the miserable treatment they knew well.

They stared toward the light, unmoving and nearly breathless, as they heard double footfalls on the stairs, one heavy and one very light.

“Are we going to feed them now, Daddy?” asked a little girl’s voice.

“We’ll see, Miriam. Don’t ask so damn many questions,” rasped a hoarse, nasty reply.

“Yes, Daddy. I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, girl. Damn it, you talk too much.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Look at those disgusting excuses for human beings.” The father indicated the crib. “Animals!”

“Animals!” The three-year-old girl mimicked her father’s disgusted tone of voice as they reached the bottom of the stairs and approached the boys’ cage.

“And why do we keep animals around?”

Miriam recited the memorized litany. “To work for us and do exactly what we teach them.”

The father grunted assent. “If they do that, we feed them. What happens if they don’t work for us and don’t do what we teach them?”

“Then we…” Miriam stared at the cage where her brothers averted their eyes, praying she wouldn’t name a punishment he would mete out immediately. Miriam knew the way to avoid being forced into that cage herself meant giving the expected answers, but the boys looked
really
bad today. With a hesitant sideways look up at her father she said, “We feed them anyway?”

An ominous silence charged the still air. The three children knew their father’s wrathful temper when displeased with their responses. He grabbed her tightly, clamping his hands so hard on her small arms that she cried out, her head bobbling as he shook her violently. She screamed, “Feed them so they are strong enough to work!”

Hearing this, he dropped her roughly to the concrete floor. Struggling, she got to her feet.

With a mean sneer the father snarled, “Three times those boys had the chance to work with me in the field but they wouldn’t keep up. They didn’t do what I taught them. They knew they’d get it if they didn’t obey and they made their own choice. Tomorrow I’ll give them another chance and if they don’t make it then, they’re not coming out of the cage again except for discipline. I’ve done my best to train them but they’re too lazy and too stupid to learn.”

This monologue kindled for the boys vague recall of working in the hot sun to pick vegetables while dragging along impossibly heavy buckets, of pushing hay bales until their bone-tired small arms and legs stopped functioning, of working so many consecutive hours they fell into exhausted sleep in the field. And all for a man they could never please.

The sound of a dog’s bark from outside filtered into the cellar. This happened only when strangers visited the farm. All three children focused nervously on their father’s reaction.

“Damn, that’s the hay customer. Here, you feed them.” He handed Miriam the wedge of bread and some bologna slices.

“Daddy,” she fingered the food in her hands, food on which the boys’ eyes riveted, “don’t leave me down here, please.”

“Hell, I’ll
lock
you down here if you don’t do what I say. And don’t fill their water pan,” he shouted angrily from the top of the stairs before slamming the door.

The boys waved their arms through the cage bars. “Miriam, please… food.”

She handed the morsels to Mathis, who deftly tore them apart and handed Ruger half. The food disappeared in a matter of seconds, eaten noisily as fast as they could devour it. Afterward, they licked their fingers for remaining traces of moisture and salt until their tongues were dry.

“Water, please,” Ruger begged Miriam. “We thirsty! Pan empty! He not find out.”

Glancing furtively toward the stairway, she pushed the watering can spout through the crib bars and poured a stream into the pie pan water dish. They took turns tipping the dish and slurping the welcome liquid. “More water,
please
,
”
Mathis asked and she filled the pan a second time.

“Bring more food when nobody sees,” Mathis pleaded.

Miriam shook her head emphatically. “He’d catch me sure and you know what that means for all of us. And Mommy, too. I want to but…” she winced at her brothers’ pitiful condition before anguish twisted her little face in fear, “but… I just
can’t!