Caching Out

by Cheatham, Tammy

  “This one’s yours,” she said.

  Tate took the paper bag full of burgers and slid some bills over to Reva. “I appreciate you telling me that Reva. You know that we can’t talk about the Babcock case any more than we can go into the details of Saralyn’s murder, but we are working both cases and we will do our best to catch this guy. You have to believe that.”

  “I believe you; it’s just that some of the folks around town think that because you come back to Pine Ridge that you must not have been a very good FBI guy. I mean, who would quit the FBI to work here?”

  Tate gritted his teeth to keep from cursing. “I don’t have time to go into my life with you or anyone else right now. I left the FBI for personal reasons that had nothing to do with my work performance. This is where I grew up, it’s where my family is and that’s why I came back to Pine Ridge. I gotta go, but first I need you to promise me that you won’t forget our conversation about things you might overhear at work or in town okay?”

  Her eyes grew wide. She dropped her voice even lower and said, “Yeah, Tate, I do remember…I do.”

  “Don’t forget.”

  A few minutes later Tate and Martin sat in Tate’s office eating their burgers and comparing the ME reports from the Parker and Babcock cases.

  “No surprise here,” Tate said between bites. “We already knew that it was the same guy, the signature is too strong to think otherwise. I expected that we would see Ketamine on the tox report and with no trace of marijuana on the report it further confirms our conclusions regarding Parker’s drug use. I don’t fully understand the incomplete rape. Daniel suggested that something forced him to stop before he could finish but since he called in the murder at Parker’s that can’t be right either. Bastard must not be able to get off.”

  Martin shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why did he have to drug the kid? I know he would have had to give Saralyn something to subdue her, but this was just a little boy. For that matter, why the change in victimology? Why a kid at all?”

  Standing to refill his coffee cup, Tate raised the half-full pot silently asking Martin if he wanted more as well. He did. Tate thought aloud for a moment, “It’s true that most killers will stick to the same type of victim, but it’s not a hard rule. I searched the crime databases looking for killers that fit the M.O. using female victims, but now I need to go back and broaden the search. In fact, I think it’s time to call the big guns and ask for some under the radar help.”

  Martin raised a brow, “You still got connections at the FBI?”

  Tate nodded. “I don’t want to make an official request for help from the bureau just yet because I don’t want them sending a team to take over the investigation which might scare our killer off. But I do know a very good criminal profiler who won’t ask too many questions if I call her for help.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Gavin stood in the shower of his hotel room and tried not to think about the scheduled meeting with the realtor later that morning. He cursed. “Why the hell did I agree to meet at the house? I hate that fucking house.”

  He grabbed a towel and quickly dried himself then stared at his reflection in the mirror. Water dripped from his short hair onto his shoulders and ran in little rivers down his chest to be sucked into the towel now wrapped at his waist. Leaning forward, he met his own stare in the mirror and warned, “Get a grip Gav. It’s no big deal, just an old house that you need to unload. Right. It’s just a viper pit of memories you don’t need and the quicker you unload it the quicker you can forget it.”

  Thirty minutes later, Gavin turned the red convertible into the driveway of his childhood home. He stepped out and looked at the place. A post WWII cottage, a little worse for wear, but it was mostly how he remembered it. He stared at the faded white exterior and the gray painted porch. Yard looks good. Guess that kid next door takes his job pretty seriously.

  Pushing back dark memories of this house and his childhood, Gavin took the steps of the porch two at a time. He slid a new key into the lock of the freshly painted front door and let it swing inward. He stepped over the threshold he just as he’d done a million times before in his life.

  The house smelled of bleach and lemons. Guess the cleaning service did their thing, too. Gavin stopped in the blue painted living room and stared at the old, worn furniture there. A green vinyl covered sofa flanked by two tables that were straight from the 70’s, a scarred coffee table in front of the sofa was where he did homework as a child. In the corner sat his father’s recliner.

  A blast from the past, Gav. Only it wasn’t so much fun. Stepping to what was once his father’s favorite chair, Gavin flopped down and pushed back to extend the foot rest.

  Gavin laughed out loud, the sound echoed in the small house, “What do you think of that old man?” Gavin demanded aloud. “I’m sitting in your chair today while you rot in hell.” He pushed out of the aged recliner without putting the foot rest down and laughed again, “That used to drive you crazy, didn’t it old man?”

  Gavin turned to inspect the kitchen. His mother had painted the kitchen yellow when he was twelve. The paint had lightened with age and was chipped around the doorway, but overall it still looked the same. The cabinets had been emptied and the counters cleaned. There was a note on the bar addressed to Mr. Wheeler and Gavin opened it. The maid service he’d hired to clean the house had boxed the kitchen and other personal items left behind and placed them in the basement for his review.

  Jamming the note into his jacket pocket, Gavin walked to the kitchen stairs that lead down to the basement. That’s right, old man. I’m Mr. Wheeler now. You never even existed. Half way down the dusty wooden stairs, Gavin stopped. Damn I hate this basement. Used to flood every spring and while I was down here shoveling dirty water that stupid bastard just sat on the steps and watched.

  He could still hear his daddy’s voice, “Time to empty the bucket boy. You missed a spot boy. Hurry your lazy ass up boy!”

  He shook his head and struggling to push away a different set of memories. Darker, more sinister memories. He sank down on the next to last step.

  Gavin saw his daddy standing in the shed out back, heard his voice, smelled his sweat.

  “Time to pay the bills boy. You got any money?”

  He’d been seven years old the first time he heard that question.

  “You gotta pay for your keep boy, come on over here and let me see if you have any money in those pockets.”

  Gavin couldn’t stop the memories now; they took control and consumed him. Rocking on the steps, he felt his old man sliding a big dirty hand into the pocket of his shorts.

  “No change in there, but wait, what’s that I feel? Maybe a little folding money all rolled up?”

  “Stop laughing, you ugly bastard!” Gavin heard his own voice tear through the fog of the past, but it wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t strong enough.

  “Pull those shorts down and show me that roll of money boy. I’ve got a big roll of money. Come over here and I’ll show it to you. That’s it, just relax. It won’t take long to pay those bills.”

  “I’ve got money. That hurts! Stop! Oh, please stop!” Gavin heard his voice begging, saw his own tear-stained face, felt the pain. Rocking harder he begged the memories to leave him, let him be.

  “I’ll stop in a minute, before it gets messy. You know what messy is don’t you boy?”

  “Mr. Wheeler! You in here, Mr. Wheeler?” The high-pitched voice of a woman pulled Gavin back to the present.

  “Bastard,” Gavin hissed. He sat for a moment composing himself then slowly climbed the stairs.

  “Ah, there you are, Mr. Wheeler!” The middle-aged realtor said. “I see that you got the house all cleaned up and those planters of ivy on the porch really were just the best touch.”

  With a smile that didn’t reach further than his lips, Gavin approached the irritating woman and shook hands.

  She pulled her bag up on her shoulder and chattered, “Now, I think that with a few more impr
ovements, we should be able to get a fair price for the house.”

  Gavin frowned, “No.”

  “Now, whatever do you mean, Mr. Wheeler? New interior paint and flooring would go a long way in getting you a higher bid. Don’t you want to get a good price for the house? I think. . .”

  “Sell the house as is,” Gavin interrupted. “I’ve only kept it this long because it belonged to my mother. I don’t ever intend to step foot in it again.”

  A frown creased the woman’s forehead and he recognized that she was thinking of her commission. “Twelve percent,” Gavin barked. “Sell the house in sixty days and your commission more than doubles what it would normally be. That should more than make up for any loss on the asking price.”

  Her beady eyes widened at his proclamation then narrowed appreciatively, a slow smile turning her lips upward. Gavin swore could see the calculator in her brain clicking away at the numbers.

  Pulling some papers from a briefcase sitting on the floor Gavin saw her smile widen as she bent away from him. Keeping her tone flat the woman drawled, “Well, okay Mr. Wheeler, as long as you know that we probably won’t be getting everything that we could for the property.”

  Motioning her to follow, Gavin took a seat at the kitchen table and pulled a pen from his inner jacket pocket. “Where do I sign?”

  Gavin pulled the door closed behind him and stepped out of the house for the last time. He sucked in the cool spring air, feeling the pressure lift a little. With the turn of a key he locked away the unwanted memories of his past. He pressed the house key and his business card into the realtor’s paper-white hand and instructed her to e-mail him any necessary paperwork as he didn’t plan to return to Little Rock for several months. He stood on the porch and watched as she got in her car, giving him a jaunty little wave before backing out of the drive.

  “Silly bitch.”

  Gavin watched the realtor’s car turn the corner and made sure it was out of sight. He then moved down the narrow cement steps of the porch and walked around the side of the house to the back yard. He paused under a giant oak tree, and looked around. It was so familiar, so very familiar. Nothing had changed. How many hours had he spent out here when his daddy was passed our drunk in front of the television?

  Moving through the yard, he slid into a copse of pine trees lining the back of the property. Without any thought at all, he took an old trail leading through the woods to the small stream where he’d played as a boy. Gavin stood on the rocky edge of the stream. His eyes moved across the opposite bank and then landed on a pine covered hillside. “They’re all still here,” he whispered.

  A slow smile spread across his face. He needed their comfort years ago and knowing they were still here, were still his, gave him comfort once again. It started with a bird that broke its wing. It was soon joined by another, and then another. Then a squirrel or two and many cats of all colors, some from the neighborhood and some strays. Then there was the old man’s dog. That one gave him such joy, such power. Knowing he’d hurt the old man just a little bit was something for a small boy. Even now, Gavin felt his penis harden at the thought of that dog’s blood flowing into the creek. The fear, adrenalin and pure excitement of that moment gave him a high like no other. No one could take them from him; each and every kill scabbed over old wounds, keeping them hidden, at least for a time. He could feel the need building once again. It wouldn’t be long.

  He retraced his steps through the woods and yard without giving the house another look and slid into the convertible. He turned the radio up to drown out his thoughts and reached for the button to lower the convertible top. As the top of the car slid down and the warm sunshine touched his face, Gavin relaxed, letting the music and wind pull him back to the present.

  Once back at the hotel, he turned the car onto the paved, red-brick driveway and rolled to a smooth stop. The colonnade was shaded and cool. The front of the eight story building was tastefully decorated with large planters and iron benches that screamed ‘stay here!’ to passing travelers. Not slowing to lock the car or to speak with the doorman, Gavin entered the hotel and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the second floor. Time to move on, Gav. You’ve seen enough of the old home town to last a lifetime.

  He quickly packed, slid his computer into the leather carrying case and zipped it closed. Grabbling his duffle and backpack he returned to the lobby to check out. One more stop and you’re out of here.

  Gavin drove the short distance to the Alzheimer’s unit and briskly walked down the barren hallway to his mother’s room. He pushed the door open and was surprised to see her sitting on a small stool in front of a mirrored dressing table.

  “Mama?” Gavin moved to stand behind her. She looked up at his reflection.

  “Baby. My baby,” she stammered.

  At first, Gavin thought she meant him, but then he saw the doll in her arms. Squatting so that he was eye level with her, Gavin grinned, “That’s right, Mama.” Pointing to the doll he said, “That’s your baby.” He smiled up at her and said, “I’ve got work to do, Mama, but I’ll be back soon to see you and the baby.” Gavin then kissed his mother on the forehead, ignoring that she flinched at the touch of his lips.

  CHAPTER 18

  Tate pulled into the driveway just after seven in the evening, grabbing his mail on the way in. He sorted through the envelopes as he walked. Junk mail. Well, I guess that’s better than bills. Pushing the play button on his answering machine, he listened as some man tried to sell him insurance, and then deleted it. The next message boomed Mayor Hooper’s voice into the room leaving his name and number but no message.

  Delete.

  Tate dropped the junk mail into a small, round plastic trash can then walked through the living room and into his small kitchen. He stood at the open refrigerator door, and sighed before pulling out a package of ham and the mayo. Should’ve stopped at the diner or called Mom. Guess a sandwich will have to do. Pulling bread out of a plastic bag, Tate brought it to his nose and sniffed before shrugging and spreading the mayo on. He slapped the sandwich together and put it on a paper plate from a stack near the sink. Tate grabbed a beer as he returned the ham to the fridge. Sliding the patio door open, he took a seat at a rough-hewn pine table on the deck. His feast, if you could call it that, in front of him.

  He closed his eyes and soaked in the peaceful silence of his back yard, then wondered where the killer was tonight. Was he planning another kill, or would Tate’s phone ring tonight with another gruesome discovery?

  “God, I hope not,” he whispered. He finished the sandwich and grabbed another beer. Tate snatched his cell from the counter on his way back outside. No sense putting it off any longer, Echo. Punching in ten very familiar numbers Tate waited while the call connected.

  Emma answered on the second ring. “Tate?”

  He still loved the almost breathless way that she said his name. He smiled, remembering when he could make her whisper more than just his name in that same soft and husky voice. “Yeah, Em, it’s me. How you been?”

  “I’m fine. Is everything okay? Everyone okay? I mean your daddy--” a pause. “Karlee?”

  “Everyone is fine, Em. That’s not why I’m calling.”

  She sighed, “If everyone is fine, Tate, then why are you calling me? I haven’t heard from you in four months and after the way our last call ended, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever hear from you again unless someone died.”

  Ah, she hadn’t forgotten the last call and Tate wondered if he’d made the right choice to call her now. Before he could stop himself, Tate asked, “You still seeing that guy Jay or Ray or whatever the hell his name is?” Tate heard Emma suck in a sharp breath and blow it out. He knew he’d said the wrong thing, but when it came to Emma, he just couldn’t seem to stop himself. He’d always thought that someday, well, that they’d manage to work it out. She was his.

  “Jay, his name is Jay and no I’m not still seeing him. But Tate, if I want to see someone, then I can do that. We are div
orced. Remember?”

  “Em, I’m sorry. I know we’re divorced. Hell, I remember it every single day when I wake up in an empty bed. Look, I didn’t call to fight with you. I have a problem that I want to run past you; a killer problem.”

  “So what’s going on?” Emma asked.

  Without holding back any details, Tate spent the next half hour relaying the scant information that he had on the two murders.

  Emma listened without interrupting and when Tate finished, she said, “Sounds like you have a serial on your hands Tate. So are you going to make a formal request for assistance from the Bureau?”

  “No, I’m not putting in a formal request just yet. Pine Ridge expects me to handle this and if I don’t, well let’s just say that it will further undermine their confidence in my abilities as chief of police here and right now the town is running scared as it is.”

  “Hmm…I see. So what kind of help do you want from me?”

  “I was actually hoping that you would do some off the radar research for me. My resources are a little more limited than yours.”

  Emma laughed. “I’ll do a little database creeping and give you a call in a day or two.”

  God, he’d missed the way she laughed. Rich and throaty, her laugh was as sexy as hell. Just like the rest of her.

  Tate disconnected the call and was surprised when it immediately rang. “Echo here.”

  “Tate, this is Davis over at the County lab. We got that report you wanted on Parker’s computer and I was wondering if you wanted me to fax it or email it to you tonight? Pretty standard stuff from my perspective, nothing unusual or suspicious.”

  Tate elbowed the patio door open, and went into the kitchen to deposit his empty plate as he talked, “That would be great. Email the report to me and then send a hard copy to my office please. I’d like to review the findings as soon as possible.”

  Tate went down the hall to his home office and booted up his computer. Might as well call Mayor Hooper while I wait.