The Bear

by Dustin Stevens

  Much like the first strike, things seemed to slow, the angles becoming clearer. Every last thing seemed to align, Serena peering past the man’s hateful eyes and his mouth shouting threats, locking on the bridge of his nose, lining up the final blow.

  A blow that would have put the man down for good, if not for the back end of the chain catching on the edge of the mounted toilet beside her.

  Raised onto her left foot, Serena had failed to take into account the new angle, forgetting to accommodate for the added protrusion in the narrow space. Feeling the tug of the chain as it caught along the rim, a jolt went through her core, the serratus and oblique muscles of her core straining against it.

  Jerking her focus back, she felt her mouth gape, her eyes widening in terror.

  “No,” she breathed, her mind barely able to compute what she was seeing. “No, no, no.”

  “Yes,” the man growled behind her, his voice growing closer, mixing with the sound of his hands and feet fighting against the floor for purchase.

  Her mind computing what it saw, Serena twisted her body back to the right, swinging the chain away from the toilet. Continuing her momentum, she allowed it to drop to the floor for an instant, a small pile of coils forming, before jerking back in the opposite direction, hurtling the chain with every fiber of her being.

  As she worked, she didn’t realize that the man had made it to his feet, closing the gap between them.

  Just as she never saw his fist coming for her, the metal coils still hanging in the air as her entire world cut to black.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  “In one hundred feet, turn left into your destination.”

  Reed thoroughly despised the sound of automated GPS. Residing somewhere between a hostile robot and an angry schoolmarm, never had he understood why electronic manufacturers insisted on using such a grating delivery method.

  Even if it was a necessary evil, especially in moments such as this.

  Both times Reed had met with Thad Martin previously had been at the diner on the edge of town. Not having the time or the inclination for another such encounter, he’d programmed the Muskogee Police Department into his phone, enduring the torture of the GPS, his mind working through scads of questions as he leaned on the gas, pressing toward town.

  Right now, he had Deke digging through the electronic back trail of Serena Gipson, Darcy Thornton, and Carly Whitehair. With any luck, Martin would have been able to get ahold of Detectives Dunne and Martinelli, telling them to ask the survivors of Suzanne Bonham if she ever frequented any farmer’s markets as well.

  Combined, that would give them four. Still only a subset of the total group, but more than enough to eliminate any chance at a coincidence.

  The moment Reed saw his destination along the left side of the road, he extended a hand, depressing the power button on his phone, ending the directions being spewed out at him. Slowing just enough to make the turn, he pulled up in front of a building that vaguely reminded him of his precinct back in Columbus, largely because it, too, resembled an old-time schoolhouse.

  Two stories high, the building was constructed of pale brick. A concrete stairwell rose in the middle of it, climbing a handful of stairs to a center entrance, matching wings sprawling to either side.

  Even rows of windows were stretched across both floors, a patchwork number of lights still on behind them.

  Whipping into the drive, Reed bypassed the small parking lot and the handful of cars still present along the side of the building. Instead, he pulled around the roundabout out front, an American flag proudly standing over a flowerbed serving as the centerpiece.

  With the area lit up by a pair of spotlights, Reed made his way to the far side, easing just past the stairwell and putting on his flashers.

  Taking up Martin’s badge, he left the baton in the center console, cracking open his door and saying, “Come on, girl. Let’s go see what they’ve got.”

  Reed’s foot had no more than hit the pavement before Billie spilled out behind him. Moving at a jog, they both made their way up the stairs and passed inside, pausing on the front foyer to get their bearings.

  Directly in front of them was a reception desk more than twice the size of the one in Warner. Raised a foot or more from the ground, a computer monitor sat atop it, an empty elevated chair beside it. Twisted to the side, it looked like whoever was supposed to be manning it had just stepped aside, a jacket still draped over the back, a paper cup sitting beside the keyboard.

  From there, the foyer sprawled in either direction, ending abruptly in matching sets of glass double doors. Behind them looked to be bullpen areas, Reed starting on the right, scanning the even rows of desks.

  Sitting in odd intervals were no more than a handful of officers in uniform, none even remotely resembling Martin. Heads down, they each seemed intent on whatever task they were doing, none so much as glancing up at the new arrivals.

  Barely having time to inventory and dismiss what he saw, a shrill whistle jerked Reed’s attention in the opposite direction. Beside him, he could feel Billie tense slightly, her ribs rubbing against him as they twisted in unison to see Martin standing in the middle of the opposite side.

  With a phone pressed to his face, held in place by a raised shoulder, he lifted a hand, waving Reed inside.

  Resuming his jog, Reed reached the door in time to pull it open, allowing his partner to pass inside before falling in beside her. Moving quickly, they jogged through the deserted space, the area a replica of most every detective bullpen he’d ever been in.

  A space filled with more desks than it could reasonably accommodate, each replete with computers and matching chairs. Interspersed throughout were a few lamps burning bright, the area as a whole looking to be utilized as little as possible by those assigned to them.

  A stance Reed supported whole-heartedly, the thought of spending even an hour sitting and grinding through paperwork his very definition of hell.

  “Alright,” Martin said into the phone as they approached. The same hand he’d used to wave them in was now stretched out before him, one finger raised. “And where are you now?” Twisting the same hand back, he checked his wrist, noting the time, before saying, “Alright, I’ll see you then.”

  Dropping the phone from his face, the plastic implement barely made it back to its cradle before he said, “That was Martinelli. Get this: Eufaula.”

  Like many of the places Reed had encountered for the first time in the last two days, the name rang vaguely familiar, though he doubted he would be able to readily pick it out on a map.

  “Suzanne Bonham went to the market in Eufaula?” Reed asked.

  Shaking his head slightly, Martin said, “Didn’t just go. I guess she was big into crafts. Used to make hair bows and bracelets and different things. Indian beadwork type of stuff. Had a booth there twice a month for the last year before she disappeared.”

  Just as they had a few minutes earlier at the Whitehair residence, flashbangs began to ignite in Reed’s mind. “Did she have anybody there working with her? Anyone that might remember something?”

  Martin pulled his mouth into a tight line, shaking his head slightly. “No. She worked alone, though it confirms exactly what we were thinking. And it gives us another reference point to use.”

  Twice in as many lines the man had used the first-person plural pronoun us.

  A stance Reed didn’t mind in the slightest, a nice change from what he’d been dealing with from Ecklund and his own chief the last few days.

  “Yes, it does,” Reed said. Reaching to his hip, he grabbed for his phone to give Deke the update.

  Not that he needed to, the screen already glowing bright as he extracted it.

  Deke was calling him.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Reed’s phone lay in front of the keyboard on Thad Martin’s desk. On the monitor above it was Reed’s email program, Deke not even bothering to dump the information he had found thus far into a Word document, merely cutting and pasting w
hat he came across straight into an email.

  In total, there were six vendors that he had found from cross-referencing the listings from the various markets in Checotah, Muskogee, and Tulsa. Sprawled out in a vertical listing, he had paired each of the various names with their product offerings. Below each of them was a contact name and number, Reed not even wanting to speculate how such information had been accumulated so fast.

  Or what this case – and many others – might look like if he hadn’t been fortunate enough to have been introduced to Deke years before.

  Even if he was going to owe a staggering amount of back payment once he finally made it back to Ohio.

  Standing to one side of the computer, Reed pressed his weight into his right hand, leaning against the desk. Opposite him, Martin assumed the same position, Billie between them, all three staring at the screen.

  Of the six listings, three were selling vegetables, either naming their stand after the farm they represented or attempting some form of wordplay. A fourth was an egg farm out of Oktaha, touting that everything was free-range and never pasteurized.

  A claim Reed wasn’t entirely sure was a good thing.

  The next in order was a company selling chickens for meat, offering everything from full birds to individual cuts already butchered and trimmed.

  The last was for somebody hawking yak meat, something Reed had never heard of before, the mere thought enough under other circumstances to maybe pique a bit of curiosity, though he couldn’t actually see himself ever paying good money to try it.

  Staring down at them for a moment, the sound of Deke pecking at his keyboard playing out over the line, Reed superimposed the information before him with what he already knew. A half-dozen was a good start, having winnowed away untold possibilities, though it still left far too many options for them to try and track down without arousing any suspicion.

  Especially over a geographic area so large.

  “Darcy Thornton was vegan,” Reed said, returning to his talk with Fisher earlier in the evening, the detail jumping out immediately. “She was a runner; her boyfriend said she was fanatical about what she ate.”

  A few feet away, Martin grunted. Extending a finger to the screen, he said, “So that eliminates the last two right off the bat.”

  “Three,” Reed corrected. “No animal products of any kind, so eggs are out too.”

  One side of Martin’s nose pulled back into a sneer, the implication clear, his gaze still fixed on the screen.

  “Okay, so that cuts the list in half,” he corrected.

  “Any of the names ring a bell?” Reed asked, cocking an eyebrow, alternating his focus between the list and the man beside him.

  Taking a moment to consider it, Martin eventually shook his head, exhaling slowly. “No.”

  Moving only his eyes, Reed flicked his attention down to the phone. “Deke? Anything?”

  The clatter over the line continued. No response came with it, nothing more than the continued pecking of fingers against keys, ultimately culminating in a loud exhalation.

  “No,” he eventually echoed, his frustration plain. “Not a single purchase shared between the four women from any of the markets. Or anywhere else.”

  “Christ,” Martin muttered, his head dropping as he leaned forward over the desk. In the new position, the light of the screen flashed off the perspiration lining his forehead, his skin practically glowing.

  Feeling the same thing, frustration hurtling through him, Reed shifted back from the phone to the screen. Considering each of the listings anew, once more he came to the same conclusion about the last three.

  There simply wasn’t any way someone as dedicated to running five miles every morning as Darcy Thornton would ever go to a farmer’s market and decide she wanted yak, steak, and eggs.

  Just wasn’t happening.

  That left the first trio, two of them with generic farm names, as bland as the products they offered. The third was given the moniker ‘We’re Salad Gold,’ a name that no doubt made at least a few people stop by based on the pun alone.

  Only a couple of times before had Reed ever been to a farmer’s market, though in every instance, the scene had been much the same. Open-air booths, friendly vendors, cash payments.

  Very little in the way of actual oversight, much of the system predicated on mutual trust and a reliance on the type of crowd that was being drawn.

  “Deke,” Reed said, his eyes blurring slightly as he continued to think.

  Someone wanting to be incognito wouldn’t go the route of using a pun. Even if their primary purpose in being there was to generate income, they still wouldn’t want to run the risk of being remembered, especially for something as cheesy as a funny name.

  They’d have the most generic handle possible, like an internet predator calling himself John Smith, wanting to blend in.

  “Yeah,” Deke said, his voice pulling Reed’s attention back to the phone.

  “Look at Serena Gipson’s statements for the last six-to-twelve months,” Reed said. “Anything that looks like these first two places you sent us. Anything with farm or vegetables or organic in the name.”

  “I already told you,” Deke said, “I ran these. Nothing pops up for all the girls.”

  “Right,” Reed agreed, “but what if this guy was working under a different name at each place? I mean, how hard is it really to get booth space at a farmer’s market? You give a name and a telephone number, drop an address out there, maybe print up a sign?”

  Pushing himself upright from the table, Martin folded his arms, resting them across his stomach. His focus on the screen, he contemplated the thought a moment, his chin pulled back into his neck.

  Remaining bent over the desk, Reed slid his gaze to Billie. Having not moved more than a few inches from his side since they entered, she stood on all fours, the tension in the room too much for her to even consider dropping to the floor.

  Meeting his gaze, the two remained locked on one another, each waiting as Deke continued his search.

  “Alright,” Deke called, his voice pulling the collective stare toward the phone. “Looks like we’ve got a listing from last summer for Prairie View Farms. Address listed is for a P.O. Box in Muskogee.”

  Reed knew the palpitations were coming even before they arrived. Beginning deep in his stomach, they passed the length of his core, settling in his chest as he stared over at Martin, the senior man seeming to sense the same thing.

  Someone who didn’t want to be found would also be more apt to use a post office box, the thing probably paid in cash a year or more at a time, emptied once a month or so just to avoid suspicion.

  A common ruse, Reed had seen it done a number of times before.

  Just never from someone selling produce.

  “Okay, now Darcy Thornton,” Reed said. Working back through the timeline in his head, he added, “Start right before Gipson, go back another twelve months or so if you can.”

  This time, the search took even less time, no more than a minute passing before Deke said, “Son of a bitch.”

  Again, Reed felt the familiar clench in his stomach, a quick glance showing Martin to be having much the same reaction.

  “What?” Reed said.

  “Spring Meadow Farms,” Deke said. “Contact name and telephone number is different, but the post office box in Muskogee is exactly the same.”

  Chapter Seventy

  There was no feasible way to pull the records on whoever had taken out the post office box in Muskogee. Not at ten o’clock on a Friday night, the place having closed up tight hours before, not to be open again until Monday morning.

  Not that there was much point, either.

  In theory, Martin could have called someone in and explained that it was a police emergency. Eventually, after a lot of hand-wringing and red tape, tiptoeing through the various pitfalls associated with local police asking a federal agency for assistance, they would have gotten someone to come in and give them access.

  On
ly to find out that any personal information listed was fraudulent, the box nothing more than providing the slightest veneer of authenticity to a host of faux business names set up throughout the area.

  “You think this is legit?” Thad Martin asked from the passenger seat. Perched with his right hand clutching the handle above the door, his entire body was rigid, his gaze aimed straight ahead, practically boring into the darkness.

  Flicking his gaze to his phone propped in the middle console, to the GPS pulled up on screen, a blue arrow showing their position and heading, Reed gave a slight shift of his head.

  “The post office box is definitely a decoy,” Reed said, thinking aloud, as much to give voice to his thoughts as to answer the man’s question. “But the cellphones?”

  He didn’t bother finishing the thought, knowing the insinuation was clear enough.

  Of everything, the numbers were the one thing that couldn’t be fudged. To maintain feasibility, to ensure that nobody caught onto what was happening, there had to be a way of making contact. A place where someone could call in case of inclement weather or to discuss whatever business might arise regarding the markets.

  At the moment, two of them were off, any attempt at tracing them a non-starter. But the third – most likely the one attached to wherever their target was headed in the morning – was active.

  It was far from being ironclad, but Reed couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the strongest heading they’d had all day.

  Or in the case of Darcy Thornton, much longer than that.

  After hanging up with Deke moments before, Reed and Martin had spread to either side of the room, each with phone in hand, a flurry of arrangements to be made.

  The first call was designated to Martin, reaching out to the local cellphone carriers to get traces on the numbers. As he did that, Reed had contacted both Officer Wyatt and Detectives Martinelli and Dunne, explaining to all what had been found and alerting them to be on standby should things escalate.