“It’s completely covered by trees,” Charlie added, looking up.
“Right,” Paul answered. “I wonder what would have shown up in winter?”
“I told you already,” Charlie said. “Come November, it’s cold as ass up here. What’s now covered in trees would have been covered in snow, and lots of it.”
“Cold as ass?” Seriously sleep deprived, I laughed as I spoke. Paul chuckled, but then howled in pain.
“Maybe you two clowns can shut up so we can get the fuck out of here,” Charlie barked.
Paul and I weren’t the only ones in the car who were dead tired.
“Relax, Charlie,” I replied. “We’re alive. An hour ago, I never thought I would ever be laughing again. Shit. I never thought I would ever be breathing again.” I started the car then suddenly reached for the door handle and stepped out.
“Where are you going?” Charlie asked irritably.
“He’s checking the tires,” Paul answered.
Sure enough, the rear tire had a bubble in it, which coincided with the tread mark on the shoulder of the roadway where Billy’s bicycle was found.
“Son of a bitch,” I said to Paul as I got back behind the wheel. “Just as you thought.”
After I turned the car around and started speeding down a dirt road covered by overhanging tree limbs, Paul didn’t waste a second. He called Donald Riggins on Charlie’s phone. Mustering up whatever energy he had left, he filled him in on the horrors of the evening, while emphasizing that the local police could not be trusted—especially Deputy Carter, whom Paul suggested Riggins run a full historical on. “I’m fine…I’m fine,” Paul kept repeating. Concerned about Paul’s injuries, Riggins made him promise to get to a hospital, and fast. He also told Paul that once they hung up, he would be calling the FBI Field Office in Syracuse. Considering the FBI is federal, Paul said: “Tell them it’s an interstate child trafficking ring. And they’d better get forensics here, too—and bring facemasks. There’s a well full of the decomposing bodies of dead children under the cabin, and we believe they’re all boys. We’ve also got the ringleader’s laptop with us.” Then Paul sounded less certain. “It should provide us with a whole lot more information.”
Paul then moaned in pain and added: “By the way—and for the record—we’re driving the ringleader’s car. It’s our only way out of here.” Then the cover of overhanging trees ended, and we found ourselves approaching the dead-end street behind the sewing shop. “Tell the FBI to cross over the railroad tracks when they get into town,” Paul’s voice became raspier and more restricted the more he spoke to Riggins. “When you get to the sewing shop on the corner, make a left. It’s a dead end, but there’s a road back there. You can’t see it from the air and barely from the ground. Tell the FBI to follow it to a cabin. Once they get in, they’ll see an open hatch in the living room floor.”
It was some time after 5:30 a.m. The sunlight was beginning to rise over the treetops as I drove faster than I should have off the dirt road, past the shop, and into town.
I parked the killer’s SUV behind my rental, and threw its keys under the front seat. I was completely exhausted, but with the remaining adrenaline in my system keeping me awake, I managed to get Paul and Charlie back into the Altima—all the while afraid that a confederate of the killer or a corrupt deputy would pull up with a shotgun in his hands. Though considering the time of day and one lazy police force, I figured no one could possibly have known what transpired down in that tunnel just yet. But despite how anxious I was to get out of there, as soon as I started the car, Charlie had other plans for me.
He tapped me on the shoulder. “Nick…my chair?”
“Shit,” I blurted. The last thing I wanted to do was go anywhere near the shop again. Just the thought of going back inside made my skin crawl. But I had no choice in the matter. Charlie needed his chair. So I got out, crossed the street, and walked over to the shop’s front door. Using one of the monster’s credit cards, I slid the lock aside in the door jam, and I was in.
Garth must have closed up because the wheelchair was bedside the rear counter, exactly where we had left it. Completely exhausted, I grabbed it more quickly than I meant to and accidentally tipped over a mannequin nearby. Fearing I was being attacked from behind, I nearly jumped out of my skin as it knocked into me before it fell to the floor. Spooked as a result, I didn’t even bother to pick it up, but just rushed out the door, and left it there.
Returning to the Altima, I threw the chair in the trunk, jumped behind the wheel, and gunned the accelerator.
While heading back to The Red Mill Inn, I used Charlie’s cellphone to call Lauren. Since she didn’t know Charlie’s number, I had to call three times before she picked up. When I heard her voice, I didn’t waste a second. “Did you get it? Did you get it all?”
“Get what?” she asked.
“The details, the killer’s confession while he had a gun on me.”
“Nick, you called me at two-thirty in the morning. It was a terrible connection. I stayed on the line, figuring it must have been important, but you were fading in and out. I repeated “I can’t hear you,” but you didn’t answer.”
“I had turned the volume down on the phone so he wouldn’t know you were on the line.”
“I’m sorry, Nick. But are you okay? What happened? Who had a gun on you?”
“The killer. I’m okay, I guess…banged up, but okay. I didn’t think I was going to make it.” I then told Lauren everything and gave her the same directions to the cabin that Paul gave Riggins.
“Just take care of yourself. And have Charlie send all the photos to this number,” she answered. “I’ll get a crew together and catch the next plane out.”
“Better hurry. Once the wrong people get wind of what happened, no telling what they’re willing to do to cover it up.”
When we got back to The Red Mill Inn, I didn’t go anywhere near the main entrance; I looped around back and parked behind a dumpster. I was about to cue Paul in on my plans to make a quick and surreptitious entry and exit, but he was visibly in a lot pain and barely conscious. Since I not only had to pack his bag, but empty the safe in his room, he did manage to give me the combination. “It my wife’s birthday,” he said sadly. This was the very first time I heard Paul even remotely sentimental, which only worried me more.
After we snuck into a service elevator and got to our floor, I told Charlie he had five minutes to pack. I then went to Paul’s room and opened the safe in his bedroom closet. A box of ammo and another pistol were inside it; but it wasn’t until I reached all the way in, that I made the best discovery of all—two cellphone chargers, one for the wall and one for the car.
I threw the gun and ammo into Paul’s suitcase then stuffed the chargers into my pocket. Keenly aware that Charlie’s phone was the only working one we had, I expected—like the three of us—it would soon lose all power and ability to function.
After I checked the room one more time, I grabbed Paul’s suitcase, packed haphazardly, and hurried to my hotel room where I found Charlie waiting outside. He had changed his clothes and was sitting calmly in his chair. A duffel bag was across his lap. I slid my key into the door, and he followed me inside. Though he appeared to have freshened up a bit, his eyes were still red and watery from lack of sleep. Once inside, the first thing I did was pull my own phone charger out of the wall and give it to him. “Charge your cell while you’re waiting. I’ll use Paul’s to charge mine,” I said anxiously, but then thought again. “Where’s the killer’s gun and where’s your gun—the one you had in the tunnel?”
“Mine is in my pocket. The killer’s is in my duffel bag.”
“Give them to me.”
“But mine is illegal.”
“Doesn’t matter. It saved our lives. I’ll put it in my bag as evidence, along with the killer’s.”
After Charlie handed the guns to me,
I tossed them into my suitcase, then hurried into the bathroom, undressed, and stepped into the shower. My big mistake––I didn’t cover my head, and it started to bleed again. When Charlie saw me enter the bedroom with a dry washcloth pressed against my ear, he immediately pulled a First Aid kit and camouflage hat out of his duffel bag. He handed both to me and said: “Bandage yourself, put the cap on your head, and let’s get the hell out of here while we still can.”
After I threw on some fresh clothes, I grabbed a stack of cash I had placed in the safe, took half, and stuffed the rest inside the sleeve of my suitcase.
After I finished packing my bag, I casually said to Charlie: “You know, for a veteran with PTSD, you’ve handled yourself quite well today.”
He looked up at me and smirked. “That’s because I don’t have PTSD.”
“What the hell are you talking about? It’s on your medical chart, along with your anger issues. It’s no secret that you’ve been known to be quite difficult at times.”
“You try going through life with no legs. See if you don’t act out once in a while.”
“C’mon Charlie, you’ve been evaluated by experts. You may not think that you have PTSD, but you do.”
“You think if I had post-traumatic stress disorder, I would have made it through the last twenty-four hours? Nick, there’s a simple explanation. Sure, I’ve got anger issues, so when the shrink suggested I have PTSD, I just went along. To bolster her case, I even added that I zone out sometimes when I hear loud noises.”
“Well, we know that’s not true.”
“Of course, it’s not true.”
“Then why did you go along with it—why did you let them diagnose you that way? Why not just object?”
“I not only didn’t object, I pretty much confirmed it.”
“Now you’re confusing the hell out of me. We’re in a hurry, and I’m stressed out enough already.”
“Have you met the shrink that I get to spend forty-five-minute sessions with—two times a week, every week?” he asked.
“No,” I said, impatiently.
“She’s given me all the reason I need to get up in the morning. I think I’m in love with her.”
“Dear God, Charlie. You have got to be kidding!”
“You brought up the PTSD, not me.” He looked worried. “You’re not going to drop a dime on me with the shrink, are you?”
“Not exactly tops on my list of things to do right now.”
Once I started driving, I realized that it was impossible for me to get us to Syracuse safely. I was tired to the bone, stressed to the max, and could not stay awake behind the wheel for more than a few minutes at a time.
I pulled over onto a quiet street in a residential neighborhood somewhere south of Cartersville and called the closest limo service I could find on Google. I told them I would pay double and in cash to get a driver to take us to the best hospital in Syracuse.
I described the Altima we were in, and when the driver arrived—a small, heavyset man in his seventies—he knocked on the car window to wake us. Kind and considerate, he tried his best to move Paul and Charlie into the limo with what little help I was able to provide in my weakened state. He asked no questions—even when he saw Paul wearing a holster and pistol—which until that moment I had forgotten to remove and pack. That’s what “double and in cash” buys you. No surprise there.
It was a stretch limo, so Charlie’s wheelchair fit easily into the rear seating area. Evidently, the driver had his instructions: He drove us to the emergency room at Saint Joseph’s Hospital.
A crew from the Syracuse affiliate of CNN got to the cabin first, but they were under strict orders from their programing head not to go in. It was a crime scene. But that didn’t stop them from airing a BREAKING NEWS story, along with Charlie’s photos preceded by a warning that the pictures would be disturbing.
Ten minutes later, the FBI arrived at the same time as the Cartersville Police. Interim Sheriff Rifts was there, along with Deputy Carter, who complained the loudest about the FBI involvement in what he termed “a local matter.” Off-duty at the time, he became so belligerent that the chief FBI field officer threatened him with arrest if he didn’t “stand down.”
Rifts was visibly embarrassed by Carter’s behavior. He had, on prior occasions, noticed Carter’s mood swings and questioned whether he suffered from bipolar disorder. But each time he confronted him about it, Carter just apologized, disclosed that he was on antidepressants, and insisted that he was getting better. Rifts apparently didn’t buy any of it and had documented his concerns.
While on the scene, the FBI was more interested in speaking to the three of us than the local police, who appeared clueless to the goings-on in and under the cabin—all of which became a cordoned-off crime scene where experts in all aspect of forensics—serology, toxicology, blood splatter, and firearms—as well as on-site photographers, documented and gathered whatever evidence they could find. That the late Richard Holcomb and his son were guilty of heinous crimes was without question. That they weren’t acting alone was also clear from the waiting room full of chairs. That they had the protection of certain members of the local police was no longer in doubt. That Richard Holcomb chose to lay roots in the small town of Cartersville back in the mid-1950s could only be explained by family ties to the area—and the police protection he was able to buy. Before and after his son was born, Cartersville provided him with a convenient, accessible, and clandestine small town location to act out his perverse desires, and encourage others like himself to join in. In a terrifying way, Cartersville—as a home base for his criminal mind—made perfect sense.
I suppose father and son figured that someday, before or after their deaths, their criminal enterprise and club for miscreants would be discovered. Regrettably, the precautions they took proved largely effective in averting any and all investigations. One such precaution was located in a hutch next to the front door of the cabin, where stacks of surgical gloves lined the drawers which every guest was required to wear to ensure fingerprints were not left anywhere in the cabin or the rooms underground. As a result, the only prints the FBI found were those of Paul, Charlie, the killer, and myself. As far as witnesses to the crimes, the only one they found and identified was the killer himself; and since he was no longer breathing, he was no longer talking. Then there were the victims. From the body count in the well and the bone fragments later found in the furnace, the killer made certain that no child lived to talk about their ordeal. As far as adult participants were concerned, I was convinced that he kept a list somewhere. Such a list, however, was never found. As for the TOR app and the dark web from which all communications and searches emanated, it was impenetrable—one big dead end.
But there was yet one more source of information that was almost entirely untapped and locked away in its own secure and guarded vault.
And that was Mia’s subconscious memory.
While CNN waited outside and broadcast footage of FBI agents going in and out of the cabin, Paul and I were in the emergency room of Saint Joseph’s Hospital in Syracuse, where I was getting stitches to my head and Paul was being examined by a team of doctors for his head, leg, and ankle injuries.
When the doctors heard that we were headed to New York City, they suggested that we get Paul to the Hospital for Special Surgery, since his bone breaks from the knee down were excessive and severe. After they gave him a heavy dose of morphine, they wanted him to have an MRI and EEG of his head to determine if there was any blood buildup in his brain that required immediate attention. Since I wanted to get him to back to Manhattan, and fast, I asked the chief surgeon if the tests were just precautionary or if he really thought the lumps on Paul’s head would require emergency surgery. In response, the doctor said that he was more concerned about Paul’s leg and my lumps, which was all I needed to hear to make a final decision for both of us.
Paul and I
immediately checked ourselves out of the hospital.
Since I had paid the limo driver an additional five hundred dollars to wait outside until he heard from me, I had him take us right to the airport, where I had arranged to have a chartered plane fly us to LaGuardia.
Though Charlie nearly jumped out of his wheelchair when he heard the cost, Paul was in need of specialized emergency medical care and the boarding protocol, or lack thereof—no baggage check and no inspection for guns and ammo by airport security, which would have seriously delayed our departure—made a flight in a private plane mandatory. Besides, despite the morphine, Paul was still in severe pain. Not the best patient myself, I still wasn’t sure he grasped the seriousness of his injuries. I had to ask him several times before he finally agreed to let me call his wife.
The knowledge that all three of us had left the scene of a crime––though the crime was not ours––was not lost on me. Using the phone on the plane, I called Donald Riggins. After I brought him up to speed, he immediately put me on hold and called the FBI’s field supervisor in Downtown Manhattan. When he got back on the line, he told me that two agents would be meeting us at the airport.
“And, Nick,” Riggins added. “I’ve got more information on that former girlfriend of yours. I know you’ve been through a lot, but you need to hear this.”
“Now? I need to hear this now?”
“Yes, now.”
“You know, you’re like a bad Santa with bad tidings. But why should this call be any different from your others? I suppose after what I just went through, I should be able to handle anything.”
As was often the case, Riggins ignored my comments. “You said that she sometimes stayed over at your house. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“At least a dozen.”
“You ever go out to the store, for example, or to pick up a pizza, and leave her alone there?”
The Criminal Mind Page 24