by B J Bourg
“No!” Connie wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulders. “That’s impossible. She just stopped to pee. We didn’t hear any sounds or see anything. She just got turned around in the forest. She’s lost, that’s all. We need to keep looking—”
“Mrs. Taylor, she’s not lost.” I cast a nervous glance around the ever-deepening shadows. “She was taken and the two boats were disabled. The creature left y’all stranded out here and he swam away with Gloria.”
There was some confused chatter amongst the members of the group and I raised a hand to quiet them. “I’ll explain everything, but y’all need to come with me. It’s getting dark and I promise you one thing—y’all do not want to be out here at night with that creature roaming around.”
I was staring at one of the men in the group who was voicing his objection, when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a gradual sliding movement. When I turned, I saw Gloria’s mother falling to the earth. I quickly stepped forward and caught her before she crashed to the ground. Her eyes immediately came alive and she stared about in confusion.
“What…what happened?”
“You fainted, ma’am,” I said soothingly. “We need to get you back to town, okay?”
She suddenly remembered the horrible news and began crying again. She didn’t put up a fuss as I helped her to her feet and supported her on the walk to the Boston Whaler. I had holstered my gun and now felt vulnerable. I kept looking over my shoulder, but visibility was low now, thanks to the waning sunlight.
“Everyone needs to remain close together,” I said. “And keep talking. Sing a song or something. I need to know y’all are still with me.”
CHAPTER 36
Two hours before daybreak…
There must’ve been a hundred boats out on Le Diable Lake the next morning. The sky was still dark as sin, but the lights from the many boats lit the area up like Christmas in the Oaks in New Orleans. The boats had been crisscrossing the lake since arriving in force about two hours after Gloria went missing, and they had covered every inch of the waterways. Two helicopters from neighboring parishes had joined in with the helicopter from the Chateau Parish Sheriff’s Office, and they had covered every inch of the airways. We had at least seventy volunteers searching on foot—all of them well-armed—but there hadn’t been a hint of Gloria’s presence, nor that of her captor.
My shirt was plastered to my chest and the smell of marsh mud had been singeing my nose hairs all night. I glanced at Susan, who stood beside me on the Boston Whaler staring abaft. There were a dozen boats behind us, relentlessly searching the same areas they’d searched earlier in the night.
While I was beside myself with grief for Gloria’s parents—I kept imagining Grace at that age and how I would feel if she were to be kidnapped under such horrific conditions—my heart also swelled with pride due to the outpouring of support from our community and those of the nearby parishes. It was during trying times such as these that people learned what they were made of, and I was once again reminded that south Louisianans had hearts of gold and would die for their fellow man and woman.
The boat rocked gently and I shifted my weight slightly as I continued to watch Susan. Her dark eyes were half closed, but that was only to block out some of the lights from the boats. She was carefully scanning the surface of the water, looking for the slightest break in its continuity. I found myself thanking God silently for having sent me such a strong and beautiful woman to call my wife. I didn’t have to worry so much about her safety. Although there were unavoidable risks in police work, she could fight with the best of them, was tougher than any person I’d ever met, and was smarter than most, so I knew she would be okay out here on her own.
“I’m thinking about heading to town,” I said after a long minute of living in the moment and enjoying her natural beauty. She had told me late last night that someone was supposed to be bringing detective Sergeant Chad Robinson’s case file down from La Mort today, and I wanted to be there when they arrived. “Out here, I’m just another set of eyes. I want to be at the police department when the courier comes with the file. I need to start digging into this case and find out what’s making our suspect tick. I’m afraid we’ll never catch up with him like this, and I need to find the finish line in a hurry.”
She turned her mysterious eyes in my direction. “What do you plan on doing?”
“Well, I think it’s now clear that we’re dealing with the same individual who took Sherry, Flower, and Sergeant Robinson years ago.” I paused to consider the evidence, and knew there was no other explanation. “Apparently, June second, ninth, and fourteenth mean something to someone, and I’m going to try and find out what it is.”
It was her turn to consider the evidence. She slowly began to nod. “If you can run an internet search on the second, ninth, and fourteenth, you can find any incident of significance that happened on those dates throughout the years.”
I sighed as I broke from her gaze and regarded the boats on the lake. “That means I only have four days to figure out what it is and get everyone out of his hunting range. If I can’t capture him by then, I’ll have to come out here and wait for him.”
“Do you mean use yourself as bait?” I could hear the concern creeping into her voice.
I shifted my feet. “Something like that.”
“No way!” Anger flashed in her eyes. “I won’t have the father of my daughter—the man that I love—playing Russian roulette with his life. I mean, if you were to get shot while making an arrest or while protecting someone from a violent person or you were to get killed while performing some other duty, that’s one thing. I hope to God it never happens, but those are some of the risks associated with law enforcement work. But we don’t trade ourselves for hostages. We don’t use ourselves as bait. If we become reckless and get ourselves killed, we can’t save anyone else—”
I quickly leaned forward and pressed my lips to hers, shutting her up. I kissed her for a long and passionate moment, ignoring everything that was going on around me. I’d been so busy with this case that I couldn’t remember the last time I’d kissed my wife. It made me mad to think I could forget to do such a simple thing each and every day.
Finally, I pulled back. Her lips were parted slightly and she stared up at me, breathless and flushed. But she quickly regained her composure. Licking her lips, she stood a little taller and shook her head. “That’s not going to work on me, Clint Wolf. I won’t allow you to unnecessarily put yourself in harm’s way just to solve a case.”
“Well, Sue, let’s hope I catch him within four days.” I paused for a long moment, measuring my words. I knew she wouldn’t like what I was going to say, but I had to say it anyway. “If I don’t catch him, I’m coming out here—like it or not.”
“I won’t have it!”
“I wasn’t asking for permission.” My voice was as firm as hers and we both stood there locked in a stare-off, neither of us wanting to give an inch. Finally, Melvin’s voice broke the silence from some distance away and we both jumped, forgetting he had been there the whole time.
“Don’t worry, Chief,” he said smoothly, addressing Susan. “I won’t let anything bad happen to him.”
We both turned. Melvin was leaning over the bow reeling in the anchor.
“Will you go with him?” Susan directed her question toward Melvin. “Will you make sure he doesn’t get his stubborn ass killed or taken or whatever is happening around here?”
“Yes, ma’am.” When Melvin heaved the anchor over the edge of the boat and laid it down, he turned and wiped a rivulet of sweat from her forehead. “I’ll make damn sure nothing happens to him, because I’m more afraid of you than I am of whatever it is that’s taking people.”
CHAPTER 37
By the time I’d stopped at home to kiss Grace, eat a quick breakfast, say hello to my dogs, shower, and dress for work, it was almost seven o’clock in the morning. I walked into the police department a few minutes later and found a large figu
re dressed in Class As sitting beside Lindsey at the dispatcher’s station. When the man turned to face me, I grunted. He was still ugly enough to recognize, but his appearance had changed considerably. He’d lost a significant amount of hair and what was left of it had turned silver. Time had etched deep lines into his face and there were heavy bags under his eyes, as though that was where he wore the burdens of all the sins he’d committed. And he was definitely heavier.
“Lieutenant Weaver,” I said slowly, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “It’s been a long time.”
It was his turn to grunt. “Not long enough, Rookie.”
As much as I didn’t want to, I couldn’t help but smile. I approached him and stuck out my hand. “So, are you the custodian of records these days?”
“No, I’m the major in charge of all criminal divisions these days, so I’m kind of a big deal, I guess.” He rubbed his thinning head. “I just wanted to deliver this one myself. I felt I owed it to Chad.”
I looked at the box on the floor beside him. It was old and dusty and I recognized Detective Sergeant Robinson’s handwriting on the faded label. Someone, at some time after his disappearance, had stamped the words CLOSED: OFFENDER KILLED across the top of the box.
“Do you really think this guy’s back?” Weaver asked hesitantly. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I got him that night in the river. I doubt he could’ve survived. There’s no way—”
“Hold up,” I said, interrupting him. “What do you mean pretty sure you got him? I thought you swore under oath you killed him?”
He waved his hand dismissively. “That was during a grand jury proceeding just to determine if it was a righteous shooting. I passed with flying colors.”
“Flying colors?” I asked idly, repeating him. “Is that a legal term? And does it mean you were one hundred percent justified, or ninety, or what? What does flying colors actually mean in the eyes of the law?”
The larger man stood to his feet and regarded me with a scowl. He was aging, that was obvious, but he still cast a foreboding shadow. “Always the smart ass, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m just trying to figure out how in the hell a man that you say you killed showed up in my town and started snatching people.” I stepped closer to him and could’ve sworn he cowered a little. “Forgive me if I’m a little blunt and irritated, but I’ve got two grieving families on my hands, and the only thing I can tell them is that I’m chasing a ghost—a ghost that you supposedly killed sixteen years ago.”
Weaver sunk back on his heels and lowered his head, avoiding eye contact with me. “I really believed I got him. The only bad thing is…”
He stopped talking and rubbed his hands, as though they had fallen asleep and he was trying to get the feeling back in them.
“Go on, Weaver, what were you going to say?”
He shot a glance in Lindsey’s direction. She was eyeing the whole situation with unbridled curiosity, her mouth slightly ajar.
“I’d rather talk in private, because I’ll never admit in public what I’m about to say.”
I nodded and grabbed the box at his feet. I led the way to my office and kicked the door open with my boot. When he was inside, I kicked it shut and placed the box on my desk. I turned to him. “Go ahead, big man, spill it.”
“Well, not only do I believe I got the suspect, but I…I also think I got Chad. I…I saw him flinch when I fired one of the shots.” He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. As impossible as I would’ve guessed it to be, he began to cry. It wasn’t a soft whimper, but, rather, a waterfall of tears that appeared to have burst through the dam of his tough exterior and flooded everything in its path. It was a wall of suppressed guilt that had lain dormant for all of these years, and it now flowed free.
I scowled and shifted my feet. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I felt bad for the man. I was still happy about knocking him on his ass so long ago because he’d certainly deserved that, but it was sad that he had carried the guilt for so long. After all, as much of an asshole as he was back then, he was only trying to save Robinson. He never would’ve intentionally hurt a curly hair on the man’s head. Sure, he hassled other cops, but he would throw himself in front of a bullet for any of them.
After what seemed like an eternity, he wiped his face and blew his nose on the front of his shirt. When he looked up at me his eyes were swollen and pathetic, but there was determination in his eyes.
“I’m with you on this, Clint.” He nodded for emphasis. “That’s why I came here today. This thing started with us years ago, and I want to be here with you to see it through. I want to be here with you to finish this guy—once and for all, even if it kills me.”
I hesitated, but only briefly. I then nodded solemnly. “I can certainly use the help.”
CHAPTER 38
An eerie feeling befell me when I opened the dusty box that contained the investigative files from the La Mort case and saw Robinson’s familiar handwriting on the manila folders. Most men I’d known—myself included—had messy handwritings, but not Robinson. He used to take his time forming each individual letter and, while it took him longer than others to take notes, the result was a clean and highly legible official document.
The first envelope contained the initial reports by the first responders. With Weaver sitting across the desk from me, I began reading the first report, which had been written by Officer Heidi Beard. I shifted in my chair when I read my own name in her report. It was all still too familiar to me. When I was done reading Heidi’s report, I handed it to Weaver.
“What ever became of Heidi Beard?” I asked as I reached for the next report. It was mine.
“I’m not sure. I heard she got married and moved somewhere out of state.”
I only nodded. It was strange to read something I’d written so many years ago. Although the incident was still burned in my mind, I didn’t recognize the tone of the report. It didn’t sound like my present self. A lot had transpired in my life since that night, and I didn’t even feel like the same person. When I flipped to the last page, I handed that one to Weaver as well.
The next report in the file was Robinson’s investigative report, which began with a description of the crime scene. I had never read this report, or any other report he authored. After Robinson had disappeared, I had been returned to my patrol duties with a promise from the captain to consider me for the next available opening in the bureau. He kept that promise, and I became a detective after serving only about two years in the patrol division.
I’d often thought about revisiting this case and trying to locate Robinson. I even mentioned something to the captain once, but he wasn’t having it. He said the case was closed, and that meant any discussion about the case was also closed. He told me the families of the two victims had not come forward to complain about the fact that the victims’ bodies had never been recovered, and Robinson’s family was at peace knowing he died in the line of duty as a hero.
With time, the case had faded toward the back of my mind, and it had been completely deleted from my memory the night I lost Michele and Abigail. It was as though it had happened to someone else, in another life. But now, it was all coming back to me, and I was reliving the horror of the time.
I glanced up at Weaver when I found a report from the crime lab that was dated a week after Robinson disappeared. After closer inspection, I learned that the burlap fibers that had been recovered were submitted to the crime lab and processed. Upon examining the fibers, a lab technician had located a dead—
“What the hell?” I leaned closer and squinted, not recognizing the word. I glanced up and asked, “Do you know what a dermacentor andersoni is?”
“A what?” The confused expression on Weaver’s face answered my question. He was as confused as I.
I shook the mouse on my desk to wake up the monitor and typed the name into a search engine. Within seconds, a list of results appeared, along with pictures. I spun the monitor around so Weaver could see.
; “This doesn’t make much sense,” I said. “The lab found a dead Rocky Mountain Wood Tick mixed into the burlap fiber that was recovered from the alley where Heidi Beard chased Sherry Hebert’s abductor.”
He just stared and nodded absently, as though to say, “What’s your point?”
“According to this”—I tapped the screen on my monitor—“there aren’t supposed to be any Rocky Mountain Wood Ticks in Louisiana. If it would’ve been a Gulf Coast Tick or a Lone Star Tick or a Brown Dog Tick, then this lab report would be meaningless. But this tick is only found in the Rocky Mountains.”
“If it’s only found in the Rocky Mountains,” he said slowly, “then what’s it doing in Louisiana?”
I took a deep and patient breath and reminded myself that Weaver was a hell of a good tactical cop, but reasonable deduction wasn’t one of his strong suits. Ignoring his question, I tapped the box that contained the case file. “Who put this file together?”
“Chad,” he said, and then looked backed down to continue reading Heidi’s report.
“Then how’d this crime lab report get in the file?” I handed him the crime lab report and he studied it for a minute. A puzzled expression fell over his face as he read.
“This report was generated after Chad disappeared,” he said in surprise.
“Right…so how’d it get in the box? We know Chad didn’t put it there, so who did? And did anyone follow up on this information?”
“I…I don’t know.” He shook his head slowly. “I think everyone just figured the case was closed since I killed the suspect.”
“And we now know he probably got away.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I mean, we were pretty sure I’d gotten him. After all, the kidnappings stopped. They ended that night. We haven’t had another one in the city since that night—well, we did, but they were all solved. There were no more kidnappings that went unsolved.”