Thread of Fear (25 page)

“Carlos—”

“Save it, J.B. I’m coming. Tell me what you got.”

Jack handed over the papers and thrust the truck in gear. “Rap sheet for Melvin Schenck. Operating a vehicle without a license. A couple DUIs. A domestic.”

Carlos looked over the papers as Jack pulled onto the highway.

“All this shit’s from ten, twenty years ago. Looks like he cleaned up his act.”

“Yeah, after his wife died.”

Carlos raised his eyebrows.

“Hunting accident. I found a newspaper article about it, but I didn’t bother getting a copy.”

“This guy’s in his sixties,” Carlos pointed out. “Too old to fit the profile.”

“A witness says he’s the spitting image of our suspect sketch, so I’m looking for a younger male relative.”

“Hey, you ever think to hand this over to Randy? Or the feds?”

“I intend to,” Jack said. “Soon as I see whether there’s anything to hand over. Right now we’re just taking a little road trip.”

Fiona scoured the video arcade at Dot’s Truck Stop but didn’t see any nine-year-old kids toting a sock full of quarters. She cut through their kitschy gift shop, taking a quick peek down all the snack aisles, and decided to try Dairy Queen. Also, she should probably call Jack. She’d agreed to call when she arrived in town, but she hadn’t gotten around to it, mainly because she knew he’d tell her to get her butt to the station house and stay there until the cops located Brady.

Which was unlikely to happen with Randy in charge.

Fiona walked briskly toward her car. It was nearing dusk, and getting chilly again. Her exhibition would be well under way by now, and just thinking about it tied her stomach in knots. She’d definitely burned a bridge this afternoon when she’d told the gallery manager she wasn’t coming.

Fiona neared her Honda and noticed a kid with a purple bicycle on the other side of the giant parking lot. He was crouched beside the air station, attaching a hose to the front tire of the bike.

“Brady!” she yelled, walking closer. It was definitely him. “Hey,
Brady
!” But he couldn’t hear over the hiss of brakes and the grumble of truck engines.

A white pickup pulled in, obscuring her view. Her footsteps quickened.

“Brady!” She broke into a trot. What was that truck doing?

The driver heaved the bike into the truck bed, then jumped behind the wheel and roared off.

“Brady!”

Fiona’s heart skipped. He was gone. Must have been shoved in through the driver’s-side door.

The truck squealed away, and she sprinted for her car.

T
his address seem hinky to you?” Jack asked Carlos as they sped down the highway.

Graingerville’s newly appointed acting chief of police took the sticky note and frowned.

“I MapQuested it,” Jack added. “Got a post office in Meyersberg. That was it.”

“Live Oak Trace? Isn’t this out toward that big oil field? Del Toro Minerals or something?”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Jack said, nearing the turnoff.

Sure enough, several miles down the caliche road, they detected hydrogen sulfide, what Fiona had called the rotten egg smell. In the waning daylight, Jack looked beyond the barbed-wire fence and saw half a dozen bobbing pump jacks. Less than a mile later, a rusted gate came into view and then a weathered wooden sign: del toro minerals. trespassers will be prosecuted.

Jack wasn’t discouraged by the message so much as a complete lack of lights, mailboxes, or any other sign of residents within miles. He followed the road another few miles until it dead-ended at a metal gate. About fifty yards back from the fence sat a small, dilapidated farmhouse. Kudzu
had overtaken the western side of it, and the windows were boarded up with weathered plywood.

Carlos took out his cell phone. “Don’t look like Melvin lives here. At least not anymore.”

Without asking for Jack’s approval—which he didn’t need, Jack reminded himself—he called Santos. After giving the agent a quick update, he clicked off.

“Says he’ll check it out,” Carlos reported. “Let me have a look at that paperwork.”

Jack handed it over and pointed his truck back toward the main highway. He was getting that tingly feeling in his spine, the one he hadn’t had since his last homicide case in Houston had come together. Jack had learned early on that the
why
plus the
how
usually equaled the
who
in any investigation. And a motive beyond simple racism was starting to take shape in his mind. The Schencks had been farmers some time in the past, but they’d “fallen on hard times,” as the gas station guy put it, and sold out to an oil company, one that had apparently profited from land the Schencks had once considered theirs. And what could cause a farmer to fall on hard times? A crapload of things, including a sudden cold snap, the kind that could transform months of a backbreaking work into acres of rotting mush in a matter of days. Maybe someone in the Schenck family had a violent temper—one that was set off by weather that reminded him of all the shit he’d been through in his life that was somebody else’s fault.

But, hell, what did Jack know? Maybe his theory was just a bunch of psychological mumbo-jumbo, and their killer simply got off on torturing women.

“Here’s something,” Carlos said, flipping through the
printouts. “Melvin’s got a tattoo. Double lightning bolts, same as Lowell.”

Jack frowned. “Lowell has a tattoo? Where?”

“On his chest. Big-ass thing, probably eight inches tall. But you wouldn’t see it unless he’s got his shirt off.”

I hate body art. You couldn’t pay me enough to let some nut job near me with a needle.

Jack looked at Carlos, still not sure he believed him. “You’ve seen Lowell with his shirt off?”

Carlos pulled out his toothpick. “Yeah, Fourth of July picnic couple years back. Flag football. It was my kid who noticed it. Asked me if it had something to do with Harry Potter.”

“It’s not a literary reference,” Jack said grimly.

“What’s it mean?”

“Double lightning bolt stands for
SS
. As in Nazi henchmen.” Jack pounded the steering wheel. “Holy shit, I can’t believe I didn’t catch it.”

“What’s that?”

“Lowell. He’s fucking involved.”

When she called, Jack answered on the first ring. “Where are you?” he demanded.

“Brady’s been kidnapped.”

“What?”

“By the killer, I think.” Fiona struggled to keep the panic out of her voice, but she was nearly hyperventilating as she raced down the highway. “They’re in a white Ford pickup, license plate C-C-Z-6-something-or-other. The plate’s muddy. I can’t see the rest.”

“You’re
following
them? Are you freaking crazy?”

She didn’t bother arguing. “We’re on Dry Creek Road heading west.”

“Dry Creek Road. Viper lives around there.”

“I know.” She clutched the steering wheel. “I’m hanging back now so he won’t notice me. But it’s getting harder because there’s not a lot of traffic way out here.”

“Pull over. Call 911. Then call—”

“I already did. I called Santos, too, but the call dropped. He’s trying to get together a hostage-rescue team. I haven’t been able to get through again, so I thought I’d try you. Okay, I just passed a sign. I’m entering Borough County.”

“Borough County,” Jack repeated, and she heard a muffled voice. He was talking to someone. “Yeah, she’s tailing them. There’s a map in that glove box. Fiona?”

“I’m here.” It was getting dark now, too dark for landmarks. She hadn’t turned on her headlights, because she didn’t want to attract attention, but she was about to have no choice.

“Wherever you are, just pull over. I’m on my way. We’ll be there soon.”

“Okay, he’s turning.” Fiona slowed nearly to a stop. The pickup was merely a distant pair of taillights on the horizon, but she didn’t dare get closer. She just hoped she’d be able to spot the turnoff in the darkness.

More mumbling and crinkling of paper. It sounded like Jack and someone were looking at a map.

Straining her eyes, she spotted what might be a road up ahead. Relief flooded through her, then apprehension. “I think I see the turnoff.”

“Fiona, you need to stop.”

“Okay, I’ve got the turn, but no sign. I’m making a right. North. It’s a gravel road—
ouch
!”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just hit a bump. Shoot, this is really tough—hey wait, there’s a low-water bridge. Jack? Are you getting this?”

Muffled arguing on the other end. It sounded like Carlos, or maybe Lowell.

“Jack? Did you get that? I don’t have a road sign, but there’s a low-water crossing.”

“I got it.”

“Okay, the taillights are gone now. I think there’s a bend up ahead. Maybe a driveway or a gate—”

“Fiona. Honey, please listen to me.” She heard the strain in his voice, and she tried to block it out. Like her churning stomach. Like the fact that she was tailing a serial killer to his home. “I need you to turn your car around right now. Go back to the main highway. Put your hazards on—”

“Jack, did you hear what I said? He has
Brady
! I need to see where they go.”

“Stop it, goddamn it!” His voice leaped an octave. “Are you out of your
mind
? This guy’s dangerous! Shit. Carlos, read me that crossroad, will you? Fiona, we’ll be there soon. Just
stop,
okay? If you want to help, call Santos. Give him all the information you just gave me.”

She tried to discern the road, but this was the country, black as tar, and the moon wasn’t visible yet. If she careened into a river or a tree, she couldn’t help anyone.

“Okay, I’ll call Santos.” She eased her foot off the gas,
and her throat tightened as she thought of Brady. “But you have to hurry.”

Jack was sweating bullets by the time he disconnected. “Fucking hell!” He flung his phone onto the dashboard. “She followed him down that road. She’s probably almost at his fucking driveway.”

“I don’t know about this, Chief.”

“What? What don’t you know?” Jack tore his eyes off the highway to see Carlos bent over the map.

“We got two choices. Viper’s digs, and then there’s Lowell.”

“What about him?”

Carlos shook his head, and Jack felt, suddenly, like his chest was too small for his hammering heart. He was going to have a heart attack, right here, doing ninety-five-fucking-miles-per-hour down the highway.

She’d
followed
him.

“Dry Creek Road. Lowell lives out that way, too. Don’t know the address, exactly, but it’s something out there. Don’t you remember how he’s always bitching about the drive?”

Jack clenched his teeth together until his gums hurt. “Check the map again,” he said finally. “She said a low-water bridge. There’s one on there? A river? A creek? Something?”

“This don’t have bridges on it.”

“Fuck!”

“There’s Mesquite Creek to the north, but it parallels the whole damn highway. Any road off of there’s likely to cross it.” Carlos looked up at Jack. “So we got two choices. Viper or Lowell.”

Jack gripped the steering wheel. He didn’t have a clue
what Viper looked like because he’d sent Lowell to check him out instead of handling it personally. But Fiona had flashed the suspect sketch at Viper’s workplace, and no one had recognized him.

And then there was Lowell, who didn’t look anything like the sketch, but who had been lying to Jack since the investigation began. Maybe it was a joint operation or a cover-up of some sort. Lowell had been volunteering his help, right and left, since the beginning. He’d been the one to finally get Melvin to hand over that list. He’d answered phones on the night the suspect sketch was released. He’d checked out the tattoo artist. He’d checked out the tire tread.

Jack’s gut burned as he pictured Lowell’s signature at the bottom of Lucy’s police report. He’d been a rookie then. Barely a year on the job, and he’d interviewed Jack’s girlfriend about her attack at the hands of some racist scumbag. Maybe Lowell had gotten turned on just hearing about it. Maybe he’d purposely screwed up the composite, slapped the thing together—as Fiona had said—like Mr. Potato Head. Maybe he hadn’t given a damn whether they ever caught the guy. Or, shit, maybe they were buddies.

“Call Lowell,” Jack said, watching the speedometer creep up. Ninety-eight. One hundred. He was going too fast to talk and drive. “We need to find out what the hell’s going on.”

“Agreed. But what do you plan to ask him? We know he’s not the murderer. Looks nothing like the sketch. All we know is he’s got some tattoo—”

“We know he’s not the one who dumped the body and who attacked Lucy, but that doesn’t mean he’s not involved some other way. And he lied. That means he’s hiding some
thing. He’s had his hands all over this case from the get-go.”

Carlos shook his head. “I don’t like looking at a cop for this.”

Neither did Jack. And maybe Carlos was right. Maybe Jack was jumping to conclusions. But the reality was, they had to make a decision. Soon. And as much as it pained him, Jack had to let Carlos take the lead.

“You’re chief now,” Jack said. “This decision’s yours.”

Carlos chewed his toothpick vigorously as they raced down the highway. They passed an entering borough county sign, and Carlos looked at the map again. He put in a call to the station house, and after a brief exchange with Sharon, he hung up.

“Lowell’s AWOL,” Carlos announced. “And I’ve got an address.”

Fiona sat in her Honda with sweat streaming down her back. Her skin was hot under all that velvet, and her heart was pounding. No Santos. Still. And she couldn’t call Jack again. She fidgeted with the bracelet at her wrist and tried to decide what to do.

A dog barked in the distance. Through the windshield, she saw a glow of lights just above the tree line. It was a house, probably. A house where someone had Brady.

Was it Viper’s house? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything, really, except that sitting here doing nothing was making her insane. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t just
sit
here, not when a child was in danger so close by.

Her chest tightened, and she closed her eyes. She felt like a kid again, in a tiny apartment in Los Angeles, a place with shag carpeting and paper-thin walls. She remembered
the darkness, the sounds, the frantic pounding of her heart then, too, as she lay there, terrified to get out of bed and go do something about what she sensed was happening in the next room. Courtney had forgiven her years ago, but Fiona would never forgive herself.

She couldn’t just sit here like this. But what could she do?

Inspiration struck suddenly, and her eyes flew open. She started her car again. She did a careful, three-point turn, and made an agonizingly slow journey back to the main highway. She kept the headlights off and prayed for divine guidance as the car dipped down and rolled across the low-water bridge. She couldn’t see a thing past her dashboard, and even the faint glow of the instrument panel made her nervous. At least her Honda was quiet, relatively speaking. She bumped along slowly, and when she felt the surface beneath her change from dirt to asphalt, she turned right and pulled onto the shoulder. Then she grabbed her phone from the console and got out of the car.

Using the phone like a flashlight, she held it low to the ground and made her way to the juncture where the two roads met. After a few moments of stumbling around, she found a post and, atop it, the very thing she was searching for.

A mailbox. Painted like a flag.

Lowell wasn’t home, and no one else seemed to be either. The man lived in a small clapboard one-story that reminded Jack of his own place, except Lowell’s was a dump. Trash bags littered the porch, and the screen on the front door was nearly torn out. Evidently the man hadn’t done a lick of
maintenance work since his divorce two Christmases ago—a divorce that, according to Lowell, had been amicable.

But what did Jack know, really? An hour ago, he would have sworn he knew each and every one of his direct reports. Now, all bets were off.

Jack looked around. He listened. But the place was silent, save the rustle of too-tall grass in the nighttime breeze. There were no vehicles in sight, and the house was locked up tight as a drum.

Carlos came around from the back porch, clutching his service weapon. “Nothing. Don’t think anyone’s here.”

Jack itched to leave. He felt certain they were in the wrong location, but Lowell’s rickety wooden storage shed kept drawing his attention. A lone yellow lightbulb shone above the door. The structure was eight-by-ten, or thereabouts, and the hardware on the door looked a hell of a lot newer than the rest of the shed.