“I’m not sure, man,” Cat said. Jake imagined him sitting in a darkened basement in front of glowing computer monitors and wearing a dirty, Cheetos dust-stained t-shirt while drinking Mountain Dew straight from a two-liter bottle. Cat fit the stereotypical hacker image like a glove. “Angela Goertz married Andrew Connelly three years ago. She’s originally from Chicago, graduated high school and then went to some private college in Illinois I’ve never heard of with a degree in English and became a schoolteacher.”
“Anything on the husband? Andrew?”
“That’s the weird part. He’s an investment banker at Houghton and Ingram in Kansas City, been there for fifteen years after graduating from the University of Iowa with a finance degree.”
“What’s weird about that?”
“Give me a minute. No criminal record, pays his taxes, and they still owe two-hundred thousand on their house in Overland Park. They attend the Church of the Resurrection in Leawood where he serves on the finance committee, and he’s the high scorer on his Sunday night bowling league. He makes sporadic posts on a Facebook account, but no Twitter, Instagram, or any other social media.”
Jake sighed. “Again, not weird.”
“Exactly, one of the most boring men you’ve ever asked me to dig into. The one interesting tidbit, according to his birth certificate, is he was supposedly born near Chicago to a Martha and John Connelly.”
“What do you mean supposedly?”
“Well, the birth certificate checks out. There was an Andrew Connelly born at the Good Samaritan Hospital in Downers Grove which is west of Chicago. There’s also a death certificate for an Andrew Connelly four days later.”
“You sure it’s the same Andrew Connelly?”
“Positive. He uses the same social security number at Houghton and Ingram listed on John and Martha Connelly’s old tax records. I can’t find shit on the guy before he graduates from college. University of Iowa’s system doesn’t even show a record of his attending the school.”
Jake scratched his chin as Bear’s truck crunched up the drive. “Can you get me his parent’s name and address? I could call and ask them some questions.”
“Good luck. They’re six feet under at the Oak Hills Cemetery. Both killed in a car crash a month after Andrew died.”
“Well, you’re right. That is weird.”
“Am I off the hook now? You’ll leave my kneecaps alone and keep your immense mouth shut about my name?”
“You did good, Cat. Keep poking around in your spare time on this guy. Bonus dollars if you can find anything interesting.”
“I’ll send you my bill. You still see Bear?”
Jake waved a greeting to Bear who stopped in front of the cabin. “He just pulled up as a matter-of-fact.”
“Tell him to fuck off for me.”
Jake huffed. “You want to tell him yourself?”
“Hell no, I don’t want to get my ass beat,” Cat replied before clicking off.
Bear ambled up the stairs and placed his massive paws on the top of the porch, stretching forward. Rollie slumped in the truck’s cab, scrolling through his phone, far more lucid than earlier. “Who was on the phone?”
“Cat,” Jake replied. “He said you should fuck off.”
“Sounds about right,” Bear said, the corner of his mouth ticking up. “I got a little rough with him last time we met. He give you any info?”
“Some.” Jake looked to the truck. “You going to let Rollie out or at least crack a window for him?”
“Probably should. He’s already sweating out last night’s beer. We’ll get him in a minute. The husband?”
“Yeah, we might have a bit of a problem. Angela’s abusive husband died when he was four days old.” Jake told the rest of the story, and Bear stroked his trimmed beard.
“Interesting, but not helpful. Cat is pretty good, but I wonder if Snell could dig up something more?”
“I already dumped the hospital deaths leads from my bail jumpers, Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, in her lap. Guess we could see what she can dig up on Connelly,” Jake said. “If the guy is using an assumed identity, she might be able to figure out why. You could call her. Give you guys a chance to make up.”
Bear’s face scrunched like he caught a whiff of milk baking in the sun for a month. “Jesus, don’t make me do that. We made up after Ares, but we have an unspoken agreement you will be our intermediary for future discussions. Speaking of discussions, you tell your new client Rollie here is going to do some work on the cabin?”
“Yeah, she was a little nervous at first, but I assured her Rollie was harmless.”
“That mean we can go spelunking for Peter?”
Jake laughed. “Spelunking for Peter? Sounds like a depraved sexual act.”
“Think you have to pay triple price for it in even the most respectable whorehouses. Or so I’m told.”
They snagged Rollie and entered the cabin. Jake made introductions to Angela and Christopher. Judging from his gaping mouth, the boy seemed rather awed at Bear’s size. Angela cast sideways glances at Rollie who got busy sizing up the blank wall space next to the fireplace with a yellow tape measure and writing notes on a small pad.
“You’re good with him being here?” Jake asked Angela.
She gave Rollie one more peek. “You sure he’s harmless?”
“I promised him a bonus if he finished by today and an epic ass beating if he even looks at you sideways,” Bear said. “You’ll be fine.”
Jake promised they’d be back in an hour and made sure she had the burner phone with his, Bear’s, and Maggie’s numbers programmed in. Angela stuffed the phone in her pocket and took Christopher outside. He grabbed the fishing rod and ran toward the dock.
“She seems nice enough,” Bear said.
“She is. Kid’s all right, too.”
Bear rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get this Peter Pickering kid so you can get back to babysitting.”
“You check the high school?
“Of course. Pete’s a no-show today. Might want to grab your gun.”
Jake frowned. “What for?”
“Pickering has a revolver. We should be armed too in case things go sideways. I’m not getting shot again.”
Jake patted Bear on the shoulder as he headed back to the bedroom. “But you’re so good at it.”
Chapter Twenty
Jake fetched his Sig Sauer 1911 Elite from the back bedroom along with a couple of extra magazines and followed Bear back out to his truck. A few minutes later, they were on the road to the cave outside Hastain, a little unincorporated town in Benton County along Route V, twelve miles southeast of Warsaw. Stony was a local history buff, and Jake remembered him saying it was once home to a post office in the 1880s, which closed in the 1950s, and the town was named after the local Hastain family.
“What’s the story on this cave?” Jake asked. “I remember playing in the creek in front of it as a kid. Nicky went into the cave once, and the old man whipped his ass six ways from Sunday.”
“There’s a whole mess of caves in this area, some go back a hell of a long ways. I remember my dad telling me some ghost story about a guy called Fiddlin’ Jake who got lost and disappeared.”
“Never heard it.”
Bear wound his truck around the tight, narrow curves, sunlight dancing in and out of the turning leaves. “Surprised your old man never mentioned it. Story goes that in the 1880s, there was this tall drink of water named Jake something who had one possession—a battered, old violin. He’d play at town meetings, church, dinners and even funerals. Once he quit showing up to church, they sent out a search party, and some boys reported the song ‘My Old Kentucky Home’ playing on a violin coming from the caves. They sent people in as deep as they could, using a ball of string to help ensure they didn’t get lost. Nobody ever found Fiddlin’ Jake, and there’s some urban legend his ghost finds kids going into the caves and cuts their heads off with the violin strings.”
Jake eyeballed hi
m. “And you’re telling me this ghost tale because?”
“Because it’s interesting.”
“That’s not the reason.”
Bear laughed. “You’re right. I know you hate tight, dark spaces, and I’m being an asshole.”
“We’re not going in there, right?”
“Shit no.” Bear steered with a knee while he shoved a dip of tobacco against his gums. “There’s two caves off the creek. The first one is right off the road, but to get to the second you have to climb down a bluff. If that little dick Pickering is in the second one, we’re screwed, because I’d probably bust my fat neck trying to get to it. If he’s in the first, it doesn’t go very deep and we’ll find him easy. I’m going to encourage him to come out peacefully.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“That’s where you come in. I’ll drop you on the side of the road and you make your way to the side of the cave. Should be able to get the lay of the land, but you’ll be out of Pickering’s line of sight. I’ll come in from the front to flush him out.”
“If he’s even in there.”
Bear spit into an empty water bottle. “He’s in there. A little red bird told me he’s camped out in there for the last couple of nights.”
“Who’s your little redbird?”
“Your daughter.” Bear grinned. “I think she wants to be a cop like her Uncle Bear.”
“How does she know Pickering’s camping out there?”
Bear shrugged. “Hell if I know. Her sources are as good as mine in this town.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later they approached the Hastain Cave from the northwest side. Bear pulled to the side of the road. There wasn’t a shoulder, and Jake hoped any cars ripping around the bend spotted him or he’d be turned into a smear.
“Hop out here.” Bear pointed across Jake’s body in the general direction of the cave. “Head toward the split oak. Once you’re in place, I’ll drive in and see if he’ll come out.”
Jake spied the split oak, the various possibilities of what could go wrong running through his head. “What if he starts shooting?”
“I don’t think he will. From what Halle said, the kid acts tough but is pretty soft. If he comes out blasting, drop him.”
Jake turned and scowled. “I can’t shoot the kid for Christ’s sake, Bear. I’m just a regular guy. Why don’t you get one of your helpless deputies out here and let them do it?”
“Good Lord. You’re a sworn deputy of the Benton County Sheriff’s office.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jake said, face crunched in confusion.
“Two months ago, I swore you in after we left the Professor’s house.”
“Because you were too drunk to drive your squad car and said only a member of the police department could drive it. That shit doesn’t count.”
Bear reached across Jake and pulled the latch on the passenger door which opened with the incline. “Sure, it does.”
“You’re an idiot.” Jake climbed out.
“Which is why you love me. Now get going.”
Jake muttered expletives under his breath as he stepped over a corrugated guardrail and surfed the slippery grass slope toward the cave. He hopped over a shallow creek with polished stones lining the bed as its clear waters trickled to the south. The black hole entrance to the cave lurked fifty feet from water.
As he approached, echoes of Nicky and Janey squealing and splashing rolled around his brain. He remembered his mother in the creek’s ankle-deep water with a close-lipped smile and warmth radiating from her eyes as she watched her children play after visiting the Hastain General Store for a rare candy treat. Stony lounged in a shredded fabric lawn chair, drinking a beer, a sneer pasted across his tanned face as if the idea of anyone experiencing joy was abhorrent to him. One long grimy finger dangled from the open hole in the plastic rings holding the six pack together. There’d be six dead soldiers in an abridged period of time before his father would announce it was time to go. He’d bitch and moan the entire way home about his snot-nosed kids getting the ripped upholstery in his rusted pickup wet.
Once Jake reached the fork in the tree, he pulled his pistol from the hip holster and held it to the ground, his trigger finger resting on the side. Bear rumbled along the two-lane blacktop and hooked a U-turn, parking before a worn stone bridge slinking over the creek. He honked the horn twice and climbed out, slamming the door shut. He dipped his head toward Jake before crossing the bridge, stepping off the road and approaching the cave entrance, whistling “My Old Kentucky Home.” What an asshole.
Jake ventured into the cave once before as a teen, if setting one foot of a worn-out sneaker across the threshold counted as venturing. While he considered himself brave and didn’t believe in ghosts like Fiddlin’ Jake, there were tales of past entrants meeting an untimely and gruesome demise. The dark and cold clamped down pretty quick in there. Even from a distance, he smelled the earthy, stagnant air belching from deep within the Ozark hills.
“Peter?” Bear yelled as he approached. He stopped thirty feet from the entrance, his hand resting on the Beretta holstered on his hip. “You in there, kid? This is Sheriff Parley. I have to talk to you a minute.”
There was no immediate answer, but something clanked inside the darkness, maybe a can getting kicked over. Jake ticked his head toward the entrance. Bear rolled his eyes and trudged a few feet closer.
“Peter? Seriously, man. I know you’re in there. Your momma is worried.”
“That’s a load of crap,” a deep voice echoed from the darkness.
Bear chuckled. “You got me there, son. But I do need to talk to you about what happened at school.”
Silence hung in the air. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yes, you did,” Bear said. “But it ain’t the end of the world. You didn’t shoot Quinton or anything. Come on out and let’s talk.”
Two birds settled on the jagged rocks overlooking the cave entrance. A black, smoke-belching sedan with charcoal trash bags for rear windows rumbled by on the road, accelerating as they spied Bear outside the cave entrance. Jake swirled his hand in a circle to keep Bear talking.
“Come on, Peter. Don’t make me come in there. I’ll have to get a bunch of deputies who’ll stumble around in the dark trying to get to you, and it’ll be a giant pain in the ass. You come out now, and I’ll talk to Judge Hawkins and the school. Put in a good word for you.”
A gangly kid in ripped jeans and a stained t-shirt with a St. Louis Cardinal’s logo edged to the light. His long brown hair swept across his eyes and twig arms covered in scrapes hung at his sides. A .38 revolver tucked into the front of his pants. Jake tightened the grip on his pistol and brought it from his side to the front of his body, ready to swing it up.
“Why would you do that?” Peter asked.
“Because I want to help you, son,” Bear said, his voice soft and calming. “I mean it.”
Peter studied Bear for a good thirty seconds before nodding. Bear asked him to hold still and put his hands on top of his head. The kid complied, and Bear drew the revolver out of his waistband. He kicked out the cylinder. “This thing isn’t even loaded.”
Peter pumped his bony shoulders. “Was just trying to scare him. He hits me every freaking day. I’m sick of it.”
Bear tucked the pistol in his waistband and draped a thick arm around the kid’s shoulders. “Well, it’s going to be okay. Quinton and I will have a chat about that, too. I can be pretty persuasive when I want to be. Let’s go.”
Jake followed the two back to Bear’s truck. They put Peter in the back and headed into town when Jake’s cell rang, an unknown number. He answered, “Hello?”
“Jake,” Angela’s voice whispered, “help us.” A shot rang out and the line went dead.
“Angela? Angela?” Jake’s voice rose. His face flushed with an adrenaline dump.
“What is it?” Bear hit the gas pedal before Jake even answered, sensing the danger.
; “Call in the cavalry and get us back to the cabin.” Images of Angela and the boy in a bloody heap on the floor rocked through Jake’s brain and wouldn’t stop.
Chapter Twenty-One
They dropped Peter off at the corner of Wildcat Drive and Poor Boy Road. Bear was hesitant to do it but told Peter in colorful and certain terms if he didn’t get home and he had to track his ass again, he’d make sure the kid would spend some time inside a jail cell.
“Think he’ll go home?” Bear asked as they sped along Poor Boy Road.
“After your warning and ass chewing? I wanted to go home.”
The red and blues from Bear’s siren ricocheted off the trees and into the canopy of shadows as they flashed down the asphalt. As they wailed past Maggie’s house, his fiancée and daughter silhouetted against the glass panes of the living room window, staring out at the source of the lights and sound.
“I’d better call Maggie and tell her what’s going on.”
“That’ll go over like a whore in church,” Bear grumbled.
Jake told Maggie the situation then jerked the phone away from his ear at the tirade that threatened to blow the phone’s speakers.
“What’d she say?” Bear asked after Jake hung up.
“Jesus, you didn’t hear it? First time she’s dropped an F-bomb in front of Halle. She’s not happy.”
The road to the cabin flashed by. Bear slammed on the brakes and threw the truck in reverse. “We gotta get a freaking sign. I keep driving past the turn.”
“Good,” Jake said. “We want people to have trouble finding it. Kinda the whole point of having a getaway, isn’t it?”
“Unless you need the police to come help you. Then the secrecy is kind of a pain in the ass.”
As they bounced on the road, Bear relayed the location of the track to his deputies on the radio. Jake had seen their flash of lights on Wildcat Drive before they turned on Poor Boy Road.
“Who’s closest?” Jake asked.
Jake Caldwell Thrillers Page 60