by Simon King
Nicholas Potts had attended with his wife Julie and their young son, Nick Jnr. Mumma had spent some time sitting for the family when young Nicholas was still a baby, giving the parents some valuable time to spend on themselves, time she now thought of as maybe the most precious she had ever given someone.
“The body isn’t Mr. Nightingale, Chief. It’s someone else and they’ve been shot in the head.”
Despite the news of the fresh body in the grave not being that of Ruben Nightingale, it gave Mumma and her two helpers a starting point. John considered placing another call to Wally, but Mumma advised against it, reminding John of the probable time period that had passed since the murder.
Their best chance was to analyze the footage from as many places as possible and try and triangulate the possible location of any notable suspect vehicles. John looked a little less enthused at Mumma, stating that the number of possibilities might be considerably larger than she expected.
But luck has a way of making an appearance during the most unlikely moments and it seemed that this time, it came at just the right time. Given the influence luck would have on the moment, John wondered whether it was more fate than luck.
A brief storm had torn across the Elgin township shortly after midnight and during its short 5-minute fury, had uprooted a large Elm across 69th Avenue. It reduced the vehicles traveling south from the town to just two. After rechecking the footage several times, Jim Lawson came up with what he believed happened, because it made the most sense.
Each previous body had been carried approximately 982 miles from where they were exhumed. This meant that if the killer continued down that same line, he would need to head south, given the short distance to the Canadian border and he doubted the killer would risk trying to cross an international border. After said killer had finished what he needed to do at the cemetery, he then tried to avoid as many cameras as possible because he would know Pogrom would access the footage and track him. So instead, he turns left out of the cemetery, takes the next left and wheels back around to 69th, which he knows is camera-free until almost the state border.
But luck had not been on the perp’s side, the elm tree effectively shutting the road down. And given the lack of services on that road for quite some time, it wasn’t a popular choice for the residents needing to travel, who would instead use Route 21.
The two solitary vehicles Jim found traveling along 69th between midnight and 5am, neither of which were Highlanders, was a black Ford SUV and a white Savana. The latter piqued his interest immediately.
“Oh my God,” Jim said as the footage of the Savanas played on his monitor. John, sitting in his home office at the time, looked up to see what Jim had found. “He’s been planning this for a long time.”
“You got something?” John asked, reseating himself in front of the monitor.
“He’s been planning this for a hell of a long time. See that vehicle?” He pointed off screen, but John knew what he meant. “I found four registered in different company names, all based in Milwaukee. One of them is the van from New Mexico. The addresses for the companies are vacant lots in one of the industrial estates on the northern fringe of the city. But want to know what’s even more interesting?” He didn’t wait for John to reply. “There’s two more registered to different companies in an industrial estate on the southern side, all vacant blocks.”
“All Savanas?”
“Yaha. And all white. I think he’s parked them across multiple states for his little road trips. And I think he’s dropped other random vehicles around the country to throw us off track. I’m not sure about America, but here in Australia, all tradies drive the same looking white vans, regardless of their profession. Only the roof racks change. I think he’s chosen white Savanas so he fits in, draws the least attention to himself and can travel from one state to the next virtually undisturbed. Because the cops aren’t going to focus their efforts on a working man, are they? They’ll pick up private cars, those that draw their attention.”
“What about the license plates?” Mumma asked.
“I think he keeps a heap on hand and as he needs them, simply pulls over and changes them. Only takes a couple of minutes. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has some for each state he drives through. Think about it. Cop runs the plates and unless they’ve been reported stolen, they belong on a white Savana. It’s not like anyone is going to pop the hood and start comparing VIN numbers.”
“Don’t most car yards that sell new cars keep license plates handy?” Mumma asked. “What if he’s registered himself as a car yard. Wasn’t Red’s brother a car salesman?” John flicked his fingers and pointed into the camera.
“You’re right,” he said, and then to himself, “Clever boy. Think we can track them, Jim?”
“If he sticks to these vans? I don’t see why not?” Jim said.
“OK, see if you can find him.”
“Oh my Lord,” Mumma suddenly cried from her own control room. Both men paused and looked at her via their webcams.
“Everything OK, Maddie?” Jim asked, the only person to still use her christian name.
“I’ve got it.”
Tim showed Sam the message as soon as it hit his cell. She read the two single words as her eyes grew wider.
Tracking Him. The message was short and sweet and from the only woman Sam would ever trust with her life. If Mumma was on the job, she knew that there was a very good chance of success.
“I have to get out of here,” Sam said, sitting up sideways and sliding her legs off the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” Tim said, jumping to his feet. “Wanna get in the shit? You know what the doctor said.” Sam turned and looked at him with an expression of sarcasm.
“You’re going to tell me to play by the rules?”
“Hey, weren’t you the one who just told me like a few minutes ago how important it was for us to play as a team? You’re not up to it. I mean, look at you,” he said, pointing at her. “Can’t even sit up without grimacing. How the hell are you going to back me up if we go up against this guy?”
“That’s for me to worry about,” Sam said, reaching for her pants. “Now give me a moment to get dressed.”
“Sam, I think,” he began, then stopped knowing how little chance he had of actually changing her mind. If Sam and Evie shared any similarities, it was their stubbornness when it came to work. “Fine,” Tim said reluctantly and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Sam started to dress herself, despite the pain rocking her body. Whilst most of the pain was manageable, the plaster cast wasn’t. It had been annoying from the moment she awoke and now served to turn even the most mundane of jobs into laborious tasks requiring diehard concentration.
Her pants were only the beginning of an exercise that felt like a marathon workout. By the time she sat on the sofa chair trying to put on her shoes, Sam was huffing as if she had just sprinted the final two hundred yards of a marathon. Her body ached in its entirety and when Tim came back into the room, almost collapsed to the floor as she tried to stand.
Tim took one look at her and knew she wasn’t going anywhere. But whilst the obvious was sitting in front of him, he knew it wasn’t for him to say and thus remained silent. What he failed to realize was that she had been trained tough and no car wreck was going to keep her out of the game. Samuel Rader’s daughter wasn’t some prissy nancy girl and if she had a job to do then she was going to do it, broken arm or not.
“I’ll be fine,” Sam said, rising to her feet and pausing for a moment to ensure her legs would support her.
Just as she was about to head for the door, the doctor came in, shaking her head the moment she saw her patient standing beside where should have been resting.
“This is not what I wanted to be seeing during my afternoon rounds, Miss Rader.” Sam looked at the doctor surprised, then smiled.
“I feel fine. I need to go back to work.”
“Work?” the doctor asked surprised. “The only work you need
to be doing is working on getting better.” She helped Sam sit back on the edge of the bed, a small win from her side. “Do you realize how serious your injuries really are? You were mere inches from death. Your concussion, if that’s the worst of it, will hopefully not leave any serious scars, like the broken arm certainly will. The risk of you falling unconscious again, from even the slightest jolt, is too high to ignore.”
“Doctor Becker. I appreciate the concern. But this is nothing compared to the world of pain that will come down if we don’t do what we need to.” The doctor leaned in a little closer.
“You mean the SK?” Now it was Sam’s turn to look surprised. “Yes, my dear. I know all about what you get up to with John. I’ve known him for a very long time and you, you are not my first patient from Pogrom.”
“OK, you got me there. But I really need to go. I’m not helping anyone by lying in here.”
“Actually, you are. You’re helping yourself to heal.” The doctor looked down at her feet, contemplated her words, then looked Sam in the eyes. “A day. Give it a day and I’ll wheel you out of here personally.” Sam considered her own response, looked at Tim and slowly nodded her head.
“One day.”
As if needing to fulfill a life-quest, Doctor Becker returned the following day as promised, pushing a wheelchair ahead of herself.
“Ready to go?” she asked, waiting as Sam slowly slid off the bed. Tim picked up her bags and followed close behind as she dropped gingerly into the wheelchair and sat back as the good doctor swiveled her back around and headed for the door.
“Now I know you’ll probably ignore this, but I need you to take it easy. As easy as possible, anyway.”
They reached the end of the corridor, the sliding doors retracting for them and the sunshine welcomed Sam with a gentle breeze. Doctor Becker applied the brakes once they were next to Tim’s car and confronted Sam again, kneeling down to her patient’s eye level.
“I need you to be absolutely sure you want to do this.” Sam looked back at her and smiled, despite the throbbing in her arm.
“Thank you for your help, Doctor.” Dr. Becker’s lips pursed tightly as she reached into her lab pocket, rifled around, then brought out a small pill bottle.
“Here,” she said, holding it out to Sam. “Take one when the pain’s really bad. I promise they’ll fix it.” And then whispered, “And don’t operate machinery afterwards.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Sam said, shaking the woman’s hand. Once her patient was safely seated in the car, she returned the wheelchair to the hospital’s foyer and watched as Sam was driven away, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time she treated her.
“Have to get back to the motel and grab our things. Then we’re on the plane back home,” Tim said. Sam looked at him, surprised.
“Home? But what about the hunt?”
“John texted me earlier saying he needed to regroup with several teams. Apparently something’s come up that’s changed the game some.” He stopped for a traffic light and looked at his partner, a purple bruise on the side of her face just starting to lighten into the yellow shade of healing.
“Changed the game? He didn’t say what?” Tim shook his head, then took off as the lights changed.
“No. All he said was that they found the latest corpse in Unman, Indiana. Set the poor guy afloat on an air mattress on some pond. Sick prick.”
“I don’t understand. They haven’t been tracking him?”
“I’m not sure. John asked me to focus on you for the time being. Said he had enough people working the case.” He paused and Sam sensed something off about him, something resembling regret. “He said I needed to heal myself just as much as you did. Said that my obsession nearly cost more than one person’s life and I should take a day to clear my head.”
“Well,” Sam said, nodding her head in agreement. “I think he has a point.”
“Yah, well, I tend to agree. I just hope that eventually people can stop reminding me of it.”
“They will.”
As they pulled into the motel’s parking lot, neither of them noticed the limo parked at the back of the yard, the driver standing by the door as if expecting the imminent arrival of his charge. Tim pulled up out the front of his room and meant to jump out, leaving Sam in the car to wait for his return.
“I need to pee,” she said. “Sorry.” He shrugged, opened his door and came around to her side. After holding the door open and watching her painfully remove herself from the passenger side, Tim held Sam’s arm to support her as she slowly walked to the room, thankful he’d chosen a ground floor option. He turned the handle and as the door opened, Tim suddenly realized that it had been unlocked.
A shadow stood in the middle of the small room and Tim half-pushed Sam aside as a familiar voice called out to him.
“Only me, kid,”John Milton said, stepping into the narrow wedge of light the opened door cast into the room.
“John? What are you doing here?” Tim said, noticing the limo for the first time. John crossed the floor and gave Sam a gentle hug on her good side, doing his best to avoid her cast. After shaking Tim’s hand, he beckoned for them to sit, his face grave with emotion.
“Is everything OK?” Sam asked, wondering whether her and Tim’s insubordination had in fact been taken a lot more serious than John had let on. The older man frowned as he looked at the two sitting on the edge of the bed, himself seated on one of the dining chairs.
“I’m not exactly sure how one approaches this subject, so I guess I’ll just come right out and say it.”
“Say what?” Tim said, the tension rising considerably in the room. Sam felt the uncomfortable throbbing in her arm kick up a few levels as she nervously waited.
“The killer you’ve been hunting. It’s not Red, of that we’re quite certain.”
“How can you be sure?” Tim asked, surprising Sam by sounding open to the idea.
“Because Mumma found something that, well,” he said, but paused, maybe to refocus somewhat. “Tim, we think it’s Fenton Hughes.” John stopped, eyeballing his young agent intently. Tim’s face grew taught as the words seemed to hang in the air. It took him a long time to respond, the other two sitting patiently in silence.
“What?” he finally said, almost too quiet to register.
“Here, look,” John said, reaching for a bag that sat by his feet. He pulled a laptop from it and opened it on the table. After a few seconds, the screen flashed on. “Mumma finally worked out why the long distance between the original graves and the dumping grounds.”
“982 miles,” Sam said, matter-of-factly. John looked at her and nodded.
“Exactly. Every grave,” he began, pointing to where the six cemeteries sat. “He drove the bodies exactly 982 miles to where he discarded them.”
“OK, I’m listening,” Tim said, shuffling uncomfortably. John zoomed out, moved the map of America slightly to the left, then zoomed in slightly again before pointing to a point on the map.
“Recognize that spot?” He was pointing to a small town in northern Nebraska. The instant the name appeared, Tim stiffened, his back straightening as he swallowed hard.
“Please, John. No.”
“What is it?” Sam asked, mystified.
“Springview, Nebraska,” John said quietly. Sam looked at Tim and was shocked to see his eyes well up. His bottom lip was quivering as he struggled to hold in his emotions. John turned to look at her and whispered the name apologetically. “Evie. That’s where Evie is buried.”
“NO!” Tim suddenly shouted. He jumped to his feet and walked to the door, putting both hands on the back of it as he stared at the floor. Sam thought she saw tears falling onto the tiles.
John zoomed the map out again, then left the view where it was. Tim turned back and stared at his adopted father.
“Springview is exactly 982 miles from Sheboygan. The place where she died.” Tim looked up to the ceiling, his emotions gripping him tight. He struggled to contain them, slapped his leg and
stared back at John.
“This is bullshit,” he snarled.
“I wish it was, kid.”
“What does this have to do with Fenton? He died. He died standing right next to Evie. WE FOUND PIECES OF HIM IN THE LAKE, JOHN” John stood, slowly walked to Tim and held his arms open.
“I can only tell you what we found.”
“This doesn’t mean anything,” Tim said, almost controlled.
“Not alone, no. But this?” John went back to the laptop, hit a button and the map disappeared. In its place was a list of names; town names that looked familiar. It was the names of the towns where the coffins had been violated, their occupants driven around the country.
Tim stared at the list, repeatedly mouthing the word ‘no’ as John pointed at the name that was staring back at them from the side of the screen.
“Including Springview, I think it’s pretty obvious.”
“Doodles?” Sam asked.
“Fenton Hughes had christened Tim that name. They’d been partnered for quite some time and Fenton called Tim ‘Doodles’ because of what he did when trying to kill time. Draws on anything he can find, just doodle after doodle.” John smiled, but it didn’t hold.
“Even if you’re right, now what?” Tim asked, dropping back onto the bed.
“We think we know where he’s headed,” John said.
“Where?” Tim asked. John looked uncomfortably at Sam, almost as if stalling. Finally, he dropped the bombshell.
“He’s already dug up Evie’s remains.”
Only once he was sure Tim was under control did John finally agree to return to the airport. He promised to give the pair a direct mode of transport to Sheboygan, just a short flight across Lake Michigan. A car would pick them up within the hour, take them to the nearest airport, where a helicopter would be waiting for them.