by Karen Rose
“Yeah,” Annette said with contempt. “Delia Anderson, that slut. Everyone knew she was having an affair with Rob Davis. She probably still is. And she had the nerve to spread that lie about Lila. Lila had a bad heart, and after that, everything went downhill. She had to sell everything, too. She had to pull Mack out of Bryson Academy and he was furious. He was wild. He scared me, even before I knew what Jared had done.”
Now the murders of both Sean and Delia made sense. “Mack was violent?”
“Oh, yes. Mack got into fights all the time, even before the bankruptcy. He never got in trouble. Somehow all the charges would just go away. I thought it was O’Brien money until I found out there wasn’t any left. When I found the journals, I knew. All the others had been supporting Jared, giving him enough money to get by, to stay one step ahead of the IRS and his creditors. They must’ve smoothed the way for Mack, too.”
“That makes sense. I would have come to the same conclusion.”
Her smile was sad. “Thank you. Most of the time when I thought about telling anyone, I thought they’d think I was crazy. That maybe I’d made it all up. And then . . .”
“And then?”
“Then I’d pull the brick out just enough to prove to myself the journals were still there. And I’d know I wasn’t crazy.”
“When was the last time you pulled out the brick?”
“The day they dug up your brother’s grave and found someone else buried there I thought, ‘Now I should tell. Somebody will believe me.’ ”
“Why didn’t you?” he asked gently.
“Because I’m a coward. I kept hoping one of you guys would figure it all out. That you’d come and make me tell and that I could tell myself I had no choice. And because I didn’t tell, all those girls are dead.” She looked up, her eyes bright with tears. “I have to live with that for the rest of my life. I don’t think you have any idea how that feels.”
You’d be surprised. “You’re telling me now. That’s the important thing.”
She blinked, sending the tears down her face, and she wiped them away. “I’ll testify.”
“Thank you. Mrs. O’Brien, do you know about any keys?”
“Yes. Simon took pictures of all of the attacks. If one told, they’d all go down, and the pictures kept everyone ‘honest.’ Simon kept the pictures as insurance. He never did any of the rapes, he just took the pictures.”
“So what about the keys?”
“Simon kept the pictures in a safe-deposit box at the bank. It was a special box that needed two keys. Simon had one and everyone else had copies of the other. That way it balanced the power. When Simon died the first time, Jared was terrified it would all come out, but time passed and no key was found. Why, do you have it now?”
He let the question pass and asked one of his own. “Did you find Jared’s key?”
“No, but he did have a picture of it in the journal. A drawing, like he’d traced it.”
“Did Jared say under which name the safe-deposit box was listed?” he asked, and held his breath until she nodded.
“Charles Wayne Bundy. I remember being horrified. And I remember thinking that would be an important detail to keep inside my head in case I ever got pressed to tell. That maybe that would buy protection for my children. But you’ve already promised me that, so . . . there you are.”
Charles Manson. John Wayne Gacy. And Ted Bundy. It all fit. Simon had had a fascination with serial killers as a teenager, copying their art. Susannah had been the one to find the art he’d hidden under his bed all those years ago. This was gold. If Simon had taken incriminating photos of the rapists to ensure their compliance, Daniel would have all the proof he needed once he got the contents of that box.
“Do you have any idea of where Mack might hide?”
“If I did, I’d tell you. I know he’s not in his old house. It was torn down while he was in prison.”
Daniel raised his brows. “Why?”
“Someone broke in and ripped everything up. The walls, the floors. What was left wasn’t worth saving.”
Daniel thought of Alex’s bungalow. “They were looking for the key.”
“Probably. Rob Davis benefited. After the house was gone, he bought the land dirt cheap and put in a warehouse for the mill. I can’t see Mack hiding there. It’s used daily.”
He’d check it out anyway. They had to find Mack O’Brien before he killed again. And he was a warrant away from identifying the final member of Simon’s club. Charles Wayne Bundy’s safe-deposit box awaits.
“Thank you, Mrs. O’Brien. You’ve been more help than you know. Let’s go get your boys and we’ll get you someplace safe. We can send someone for your things.”
Annette nodded and followed him out the door, and she didn’t look back.
Chapter Twenty-three
Arcadia, Georgia, Friday, February 2, 11:35 a.m.
It fits,” Luke said over the speakerphone in Chase’s office.
Daniel was on the phone in Sheriff Corchran’s office, relating Annette O’Brien’s story while he waited for an agent to take her and her two sons to a safe house. “Now we just have to find him.”
“We revised the APB,” Chase said. “We got his parole file. He’s a lot bulkier now than he was when he went in.”
“They usually are,” Daniel said grimly. “He may also have changed his hair. While we were driving to Corchran’s office, Mrs. O’Brien remembered that a box of blond hair coloring she’d bought was missing.”
“I’ll update it again,” Luke said. “Here’s something else—Mack O’Brien was often put on roadside cleanup while he was in prison. He’d been on crews assigned to every one of the areas where he left the bodies.”
“We need to search the mill property—especially the new warehouse that was put up where the O’Briens’ house used to be.”
“I’ve already dispatched a team,” Chase said. “They’re going in as pest inspectors so we don’t raise the alarm too soon. What about a warrant for that safe-deposit box?”
“Chloe’s working on it. As soon as we’re done, I’m driving to Dutton so I can go right to the bank as soon as she gets it signed by the judge. What about Hatton?”
“He’s still in surgery,” Chase said. “Crighton’s lawyered up. Won’t talk to us.”
“Sonofabitch,” Daniel muttered. “I’d so like to get him for Kathy Tremaine.”
“After all this time . . .” Luke said, a shrug in his voice. “I don’t see it happening.”
“I know, but at least Alex could get some closure. Has she asked to see him yet?”
“No,” Chase said. “She hasn’t mentioned him at all. She’s pacing the floor over Hatton, but hasn’t asked word one about Crighton.”
Daniel sighed. “She will when she’s ready. I’m headed out to Dutton. I’ll call as soon as I get inside the box. Cross your fingers.”
Atlanta, Friday, February 2, 12:30 p.m.
Alex stood, pacing the short length of the outer office. “They should have called.”
“Surgery takes a while,” Leigh said calmly. “When Hatton’s out, they’ll call.”
Leigh’s face was calm, but her eyes were scared. Somehow that made Alex feel a little less alone. She’d opened her mouth to say as much when her cell phone trilled. It was a Cincinnati area code, but she didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Miss Alex Fallon?”
“Yes,” she said warily. “Who is this?”
“My name is Officer Morse. I’m with the Cincinnati police.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your apartment was broken into last night. Your building manager noticed the door was open this morning when she came to bring in your mail.”
“No, I called my friend yesterday to ask her to check my mail. She must have forgotten to pull the door shut.”
“Your apartment was ransacked, Miss Fallon. Pillows and mattresses are slashed, contents of your pantry are all dumped on the floor, and—”
Alex’s heart had started to race at ransacked. “And my clothing’s been slashed.”
There was a hesitant pause. “How did you know?”
Trust no one, Wade had said in his letter to Bailey. “Officer, could you give me your badge number and a phone number where I can call you back after I check you out?”
“Not a problem.” He gave her the information and she promised to call him back.
“Leigh, can you please check this officer’s ID? He says my apartment was trashed.”
“Oh my God.” Wide-eyed, Leigh took the information. “I’ll do it right now.”
“Thanks. I need to make a few calls before I call him back.” Alex called the hospital and was relieved to hear Letta answer. She told her to be careful, then asked her to give the same message to Richard, who was on shift.
Leigh was hanging up her phone. “The Cincinnati cop’s legit, Alex.”
“Good.” She called Morse back. “Thanks for waiting.”
“You were prudent to check. Do you know who could have broken into your place?”
“Yes, kind of. Probably the same ones who ransacked my rental house down here. Can I refer you to Agent Daniel Vartanian? He’ll know what information to give you.”
“I’ll call him. Do you know what they were looking for?”
“Yes, because I got to it first. It was at my ex-husband’s house. If whoever did this realizes that, they might go there next.”
“Give me his address. We’ll send someone out to make sure they’re okay.”
“Thank you,” Alex said, touched and surprised.
“We have been watching the news, Miss Fallon. Sounds like Agent Vartanian has his hands full.”
Alex blew out a breath. “That he does.”
Dutton, Friday, February 2, 12:30 p.m.
Daniel looked down at the heavy volume of poetry in his hands. He’d stopped by a bookstore on his way from the Arcadia’s sheriff’s office. Chloe Hathaway was still working on his warrant, so he had some time to kill. He was now parked across the street from the bench in front of the Dutton barbershop. He wanted to talk to his old English teacher, Mr. Grant, who sat on the barbershop bench watching with a sharp eye.
Daniel got out of his car. “Mr. Grant,” he called.
“Daniel Vartanian,” Grant called back while the other men looked on.
Daniel motioned Grant to come to him and waited as he shuffled his way to Daniel’s car. “I have something for you,” he said when Grant reached him. He handed the man the collection of poems. “I’ve been thinking of your English class,” he said in a normal voice, then whispered, “I need to talk to you, but I needed to be discreet.”
Grant smoothed the volume with a reverent gesture. “It’s a beautiful book,” he said, then whispered. “I’ve been waiting for you to come to me. What do you want to know?”
Daniel blinked. “What do you know?”
“Probably more than would fill this book, but not much of it pertinent. Ask your questions. If I can answer, I will.” He opened the book and leafed until he found the John Donne poem that had been Daniel’s favorite. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“I need to know about Mack O’Brien.”
“Quick mind, but a hot temper.”
“Who did he lose his temper with?”
“Damn near everybody, especially after they lost everything. While he was at Bryson, he fancied himself a real ladies’ man. Like his big brother.” Grant tilted his head as if he were contemplating the poem. “Mack was bad news. He vandalized school property, drove that Corvette of his like he was some hotshot NASCAR racer, got into some major fights.”
“You said he was a ladies’ man.”
“No, I said he fancied himself to be a ladies’ man. It’s different.” Grant turned pages until he came to another poem. “I remember overhearing conversations some of the female students had after Mack changed schools. They’d chatter, thinking I was busy grading papers. They were laughing that Mack had expected to come to Prom—he no longer went to the school and they scorned him. They said he’d only been tolerable because of his car. Without that, they didn’t want to give him the time of day. He wasn’t nearly as handsome as his big brother. Mack had terrible acne, and it left him pockmarked. The girls treated him pretty badly.”
“Which girls, Mr. Grant?”
“The dead ones. Janet was the worst, as I recall. Gemma laughed that she’d gotten drunk and ‘done him’ in his ’Vette. She said she would have had to have been drunk.”
“And Claudia?”
“Claudia usually went along with the others. Kate Davis was the one who usually told them to stop.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
Grant made a show of examining the book before flipping to another passage. “Because Mack wasn’t anything special. They were cruel to a lot of the boys. I wouldn’t have even thought about it if you hadn’t mentioned his name. Besides, he’s in prison.”
“No he’s not,” Daniel said quietly. “Not anymore.”
The old man’s back tensed, then he relaxed. “Good to know.”
“What about Lisa Woolf?”
Grant frowned. “I remember Mack missing about two weeks of school before he transferred in his junior year. When I asked what was wrong with him, the girls giggled. They said he’d gotten bitten by a dog. I found out Mack was home recuperating from a fight. Apparently he’d tried to put the moves on Lisa and her brothers beat the snot out of him. He was pretty embarrassed. When he came back, he’d walk down the halls and kids would howl behind him, you know, like they were wolves howling at the moon. He’d turn and glare, but he never knew who was making fun.”
Daniel’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. It was SA Chloe Hathaway. “Excuse me.” He turned slightly. “Vartanian.”
“It’s Chloe. You are the proud owner of one warrant for a safe- deposit box in the name of Charles Wayne Bundy. Hope this is what you were looking for.”
“Me, too. Thanks.” He closed his phone. “I have to go.”
Grant closed the book and extended it. “I’ve enjoyed reminiscing with you, Daniel Vartanian. It’s nice to see a former student turn out well.”
Daniel lightly pushed the book back. “Keep the book, Mr. Grant. I bought it for you.”
Grant hugged the book to his chest. “Thank you, Daniel. Take care.”
Daniel watched the old man shuffle back across the street and hoped he’d been discreet. Too many innocent people had paid for the sins of a handful of spoiled, willful young men. Some rich, some poor, but all with a flagrant disregard for decency, humanity. The law. If tradition held, the men vacated the barbershop bench for the night right at five o’clock. He’d make sure someone was watching Grant’s house. He didn’t want to live with more blood on his hands.
He’d pulled away from the curb when his cell phone buzzed again. This time it was the office, and immediately his thoughts went to Hatton. He’d been in surgery when Daniel had called the last time. “Vartanian.”
“Daniel, it’s Alex. Somebody trashed my apartment in Cincinnati yesterday.”
“Hell.” He blew out a breath. “They were looking for the key.”
“How would they know I had the letter up there?”
“Could Bailey’s friend have told them, too?”
“I had Chase check. Nobody’s visited her and nobody’s called her.”
“There are a lot of ways she could have communicated it if she wanted to.”
“I know, but, Daniel, I was thinking . . . The only other person who knew was Bailey.”
It was a long shot, but he heard the hope in her voice and couldn’t bear to shoot it down. “You’re thinking whoever took her finally got her to talk.”
“I’m thinking she might still be alive.”
He sighed. She might be right. “If she is alive—”
“If she is alive, then one of those men knows where she is. Davis or Mansfield. Daniel, please, bring them in and make them tell.”
>
“If they’ve gone to this much trouble, it’s unlikely they’ll just tell,” Daniel said, trying to soothe without sounding patronizing. “It’s more likely they’ll get nervous and go to her. If it’s Davis or Mansfield, we have them under surveillance. I know it’s hard, but this is the most critical time to stay patient.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know, honey.” He pulled his car into a metered space along the curb across from the bank. “Anything else? I’m heading into the bank to ask Rob Davis to give me that box, so if Davis and Mansfield are watching, I’m about to set off a flare.”
“Well, there is one little thing. The vet’s office called. Riley can leave.”
Daniel shook his head, perplexed at her timing. “I can’t get him right now.”
“Oh, I know, but I was wondering if the agent watching Hope and Meredith could take Riley to the safe house. Hope’s been asking for the sad dog.”
That made him smile. “Sure. I’ll call you later. You stay put.”
“I am.” And she sounded none too happy about it. “You be careful.”
“I am. Alex . . .” He hesitated, a little afraid of the words he wanted to say. It had happened so fast. In the end he decided to keep the words to himself a little longer. “Tell Meredith not to feed Riley anything other than his dry food. Trust me.”
“I do,” she said, and he knew she wasn’t talking about Riley. “Call when you can.”
“I will. This will be over soon.” Feeling as if he stood at the edge of a precipice, Daniel crossed the street to the bank. As soon as he asked for that safe-deposit box, everyone would know, and whatever shit was out there would hit the fan. You gotta love small towns. No, he didn’t.
Friday, February 2, 12:45 p.m.
Annoyed, Mack pulled his earphones from his ears as Vartanian drove up Main Street, out of range. Fancied himself a ladies’ man, my ass. He’d hated Mr. Grant—stuffy, arrogant old prick. When he’d finished off the others, he’d come back for Grant and the man would regret talking to Daniel Vartanian.
Daniel knew about him. It gave Mack a kick, knowing the man was probably combing the countryside looking for him while he’d sat just fifty feet away.