“Croatoan—a word I’m informed you’re quite familiar with. In college you wrote a thesis on how red tides could’ve contributed to the lost colony of Roanoke, correct?”
“Yes, but…”
“You can’t be serious about this?” Anne derides.
“Mr. Edlund,” paying no attention to her he coaxes, “The similarities are too much to be ignored. It’s possible our enemies have contaminated the water. I need someone familiar with both red tides and Roanoke. In short, I need you.”
“General…sir,” Tyler rationalizes, “Try to understand that my thesis was that the formation of a harmful bloom of Pfiesteria caused the settlers to move their settlement further inland. Clearly that’s not what has happened in Hope. I-I don’t see how I can be of any help to you.”
Gathering the photos up Cummings says, “You let me worry about that. Pack your things Mr. Edlund; your country needs you to be of service. We leave as soon as possible.”
Tyler glances over at Anne for some support of his argument but finds none there. Of course she won’t put me down now, not when it might actually help.
Resigned to his fate he silently nods.
“We have a mystery to solve Mr. Edlund.”
Something about his smile unnerves Tyler. Just a feeling tugging at his intuition for the barest of moments and then…it’s gone.
Swanquarter, North Carolina
Sitting on the front porch of his log cabin Jebediah Earl listens to the buzzing of mosquitoes intermingling with the drone of cicadas while contemplating a great many things.
In the distance he can hear the haunting cry of the Common Loon floating across the still water, chilling him as much as the cool summer breeze blowing onshore.
With rough fingers stained yellow he presses tobacco tightly into his pipe, runs a match along the railing to ignite a plume of flame and ignites his smoke. Placing the pipe between cracked lips he holds it steady with his brown teeth while taking several short puffs. In no time his head is encircled by clouds of fragrant blue smoke, rich with the scent of burning tobacco.
Leaning back in his old wooden rocker sets the floorboards beneath him to groaning. He’s dressed in weathered blue jeans and a flannel plaid red and white shirt. Brown suspenders slung over his round shoulders reach down to his paunch where they strain to hold his pants up.
His face is creased and baked from a lifetime spent outdoors, his skin the texture of leather. He has bushy eyebrows, a bulbous nose, an unkempt beard, and intelligent brown eyes that twinkle in the fading twilight.
Tapping his pipe on the railing he proceeds to stuff more tobacco in it before relighting it. With a leisurely pull on it he continues rocking back and forth. It’s a habit his lovely Maggie despised him doing.
She used to say he would stink up the whole cabin with his foul smoke and would force him to go outside—though she would always seem to follow him, joining him on the porch night after night. His mood turns pensive as his thoughts drift.
It’s been near three years now since he lost her. Sixteen years they were man and wife living a happy existence in the wilds of North Carolina. Sixteen years he lived by the motto “you do good things and good things will be done to you.”
Then a knock came at his door one warm afternoon that changed everything.
Now he’s forty seven, living without her, and somehow he still can’t bring himself to smoke inside.
At the lonely sound of gulls calling his eyes turn to the east. On the other side of the trees and scrub that surround his place is the bluff leading down toward Pamlico Sound and the hamlet of Hope a mile offshore.
Blowing more smoke into the night air he revels in the solitude of the moment. The night is quiet. Something, he opines, it wasn’t more than two weeks ago. He remembers it clearly.
He was out on the sound fishing when it happened. For close to a week leading up to that night the activity out on Hope was noticeable. Ships seemed to be coming and going at all hours of the day and night.
But that night the noises and lights emanating from Hope went way beyond unusual. Paddling closer to the island he saw with his own eyes what happened.
Breathing in another drag before his pipe goes out he cracks a smile over what he knows.
Reporters came sniffing around his place this afternoon asking if he saw anything or knew anything about the disappearances. He gave them nothing and sent them packing. He’s read all about their theories in the papers.
Couldn’t be more wrong they couldn’t. I knows what really happened but I ain’t telling. No sir, not yet. It’s time ol’ Jeb looked after hisself.
‘Sides, he muses, if’n they knew what really happened to all them people…
Setting the pipe down on the railing he prepares to turn in for the night. He’ll tell everything when the moment comes…when the time is right. Right now they’re asking but soon enough he knows they’ll be offering.
And when they do, with his finger he taps a copy of The New York Times right beside Cole Hewitt’s name, I’ll know just who to talk to.
He slinks inside comfortable knowing that if he hangs onto what he knows long enough that the reporters will pay him for it.
It’s just a matter of time.
Chapter 7
August 12
Atlanta, Georgia
The stench of stale coffee and cheap cologne permeates the room. The pungent assault on his nostrils causes Hal Jerome to turn away.
He’s wearing a tailored grey suit coat over a silk shirt of robin’s egg blue that’s unbuttoned at the collar. Dark glasses cover his scarred eyes and blend seamlessly with his ebony skin. At roughly six feet tall he possesses a striking figure—barrel-chested with broad shoulders and powerful arms.
Though blind his entire life he’s made himself into a legend in the field of profiling by being able to see things that no one else can. It’s this talent that sees him leading the search for Ryan Heath, a.k.a. the Toymaker.
But all around the room today only one topic is being discussed—the absence of Caleb Fine. The news of his suspension and subsequent removal from the task force is everywhere. Or rather, rumors and speculation are everywhere.
Listening to snatches of conversation Hal has yet to hear anything close to approximating the truth of what happened. He was given the news personally by Hofstra late yesterday. Despite his own protestations there was no changing the Deputy Director’s mind.
Suppressing a yawn, he feels the exhaustion settling in. After a long day here yesterday working with the task force he went over to Caleb’s place last night to see how he was doing only to spend fifteen minutes knocking on his door to no avail.
He knew that he was home just as he knew Caleb knew it was him pounding on his door. But he never received a reply and finally had to relent and just go home. Today, he thought, I’ll talk to him today—when he’s sober.
Turning his attention to the room he clears his throat and waits for the members of the task force to find seats and settle in. These morning briefings have become less frequent over the past few weeks as the Toymaker’s trail has grown colder.
He’s not killed anyone they know of since Edgar Fitzhume was found floating in the Chattahoochee River on the evening of July 22. The post mortem revealed that he had been dead at least three days.
The last confirmed sighting of Heath was July 20 in Toronto right after Lynne Bosworth vanished. There is little doubt amongst them that he took her but what he did with her still rouses vigorous debate among the members of the task force.
The official stance is that she is presumed dead due to the length of time missing and the fact that the Toymaker has never kept any victim alive this long.
However, a few hold to the claim that she is still alive. They quote Hal’s own profile stating that Heath delights in the misery of others and by leaving them alive he can prolong that satisfaction. They champion the fact that he hasn’t killed anyone since she disappeared as proof that he still has her somewhere.<
br />
It’s a theory that Hal himself subscribes to but there’s a problem standing in the way of convincing others to follow along. As its most vocal supporter, Caleb has succeeded only in making it easier for the theory to be disregarded.
Those who decide policy ignore the merits of the idea in favor of believing that Caleb’s personal connection to Lynne is blinding him to the truth.
With Caleb gone now Hal can’t help but wonder what will become of this faction. Will the theory be judged on its own strengths or simply disappear.
One thing is for sure, they are in desperate need of new leads if they are to find Heath because as of now they have no idea where he might be.
“Anything new to report?” he asks the assembly.
“Real leads are still nil,” Jim Cavillo says with a shrug, “A floater was found yesterday morning in the Kalamazoo that the locals of course thought might be the Toymaker’s handiwork but evidence indicates otherwise.
“Aside from that we’re still getting reported sightings everywhere from Alaska to Florida, none of which seem really credible.”
“Our biggest problem is the media,” Ling Tran states, “Ever since DNA confirmed Ryan Heath as the Toymaker and we publicly named him they’ve been working overtime creating fear to sell papers or boost ratings.
“Every time they write up a story claiming some new revelation about him we get inundated with calls from people who swear they’ve seen him. They’re doing nothing but causing mass hysteria that’s forcing us to spend the bulk of our time chasing down false leads.”
“Yeah,” Jim concurs, “For sure the publicity ain’t making the job any easier but if we don’t follow up on a lead and it turns out to be real then our asses will be in a sling.”
Hal considers this statement and its source. In his time with the task force he’s come to know Jim Cavillo as an ill-tempered agent with a hair-trigger temper. The acid he spews in his words has always struck Hal as overcompensating for some perceived shortcoming.
He can imagine the smile on Jim’s lips this morning though. It’s no secret that Jim had it in for Caleb, always believing that he’d screw up the investigation.
He must be over the moon with how things have turned out. The imagined sneer irks Hal.
“All right,” he crinkles his brow in thought while running his fingers over his close-cropped black hair, “Aside from the tip line what else do we have?”
Singling out Brett Flannigan he asks, “What have we been able to discern on Heath’s background?”
Brett straightens his tie before standing and addressing the room in his characteristic monotone. “As you can imagine it’s been slow going finding any information on him after his supposed death.
“He would’ve been living under the radar and almost certainly using a false name. However, prior to that I have had some luck filling in his history.”
Receiving a nod from Hal, he continues, “Ryan Heath was born in 1953 in the port city of Savannah Georgia. He seems to have had a perfectly uneventful childhood until the winter of 1961.”
“What happened then?” Ling Tran asks.
In his flat discourse Brett answers, “Pets in his neighborhood started disappearing. Seems young Ryan found himself a hobby. By the account I got from an old neighbor three cats and a puppy were tortured to death before it stopped.”
“Any charges laid?”
Turning to Hal, he shakes his head, “Ryan was still a minor and nothing was ever conclusively proven, though the neighbor swears up and down that it was Ryan who did it.”
“They I.D. him before or after we went public with his name?”
Looking at his partner Brett says, “Before. The neighbor isn’t looking for the spotlight—they would only talk if I promised anonymity. They told me that even as a child Ryan was…scary.”
“What about the parents?” Hal asks, “How was his home life?”
“Not good,” Brett explains, “His father, John Heath, was born in 1918 and enlisted in the Navy at the age of twenty-one. Naval records show he was deployed to the Pacific Theater shortly after we entered the Second World War in 1941.
“John was shot and captured by the Japanese and held as a POW until his release in 1946. Two years later he met and married his bride Millie Bain—she was six years his junior.
“Even before Ryan was born the family lived in abject poverty. Employment records show that John could only find work in the odd factory doing manual labor. But due to his wartime injuries these jobs never lasted long.
“The family’s situation only worsened in 1956 when they had a second child, Olivia. In fact this seems to have been the beginning of a downward spiral for John. Not a particularly educated man, he took the failure to provide for his family hard and began losing himself in a bottle.
“As hospital records indicate, he grew increasingly abusive to both Millie and his children over the years. The medical records on Ryan I did find reveal that he was the outlet for much of John’s rage. His file going back to 1962 is littered with broken fingers, wrists, arms, ribs, even a hairline skull fracture when he was ten.
“Testimony Ryan gave after he killed his parents in 1970 stated that John began sexually abusing Olivia after she turned eight. The psychiatrist who conducted the interview said that this was a sore point for Ryan as he was fiercely protective of his little sister.
“The doctor postulated that many of Ryan’s injuries might’ve come from standing between his father and his sister though Ryan wouldn’t confirm this.
“When asked why he killed his parents Ryan simply said that he had ‘had enough’. He turned on his father and beat him to death using kitchen knives and his bare hands before turning his attention to his mother.
“Picture what she saw last in this world—her son soaked in her husband’s blood advancing upon her. He put the knife to her throat but didn’t cut it until after he had raped her several times. When asked why he did that Ryan said ‘I wanted her to know what it felt like’.”
“Jesus,” Ling Tran whispers.
“Let’s not feel too bad for the little psychopath,” Jim sneers, “Whatever was done to him he’s done worse to others.”
“And maybe this is why,” Ling Tran contends.
“No,” Hal interrupts, “You’ve got cause and effect reversed.”
The room falls silent waiting for Hal to elaborate.
With a knowing smile of big white teeth that reaches to his dimples Hal reveals, “Ryan’s hospital records show that the abuse started in 1962 when he was nine. But he mutilated those pets when he was eight. The abuse didn’t make Ryan what he is.”
He allows that revelation to sink in before clapping his hands once and saying, “Good job Brett, we may know why Ryan killed Trina McBride but let Billy Roman go and it all goes back to that crucial age of eight.
“His sister is the key to this—his inability to protect her innocence. We know Olivia Heath was institutionalized and committed suicide but we need to know more.
“Brett, look into her life paying particular attention to places she might have traveled to. If Ryan is killing over what happened to her he may be revisiting places of significance to her. We find out where she went in her life and we might just find Ryan.”
New York City, New York
“Time’s up,” leaning back in his chair Anson asks, “What have you got for me?”
Closing the door behind him Cole grimaces. “A request for more time?” he tries.
“No,” Anson flatly denies it, “I need you on real stories Cole.”
Taking the seat across the desk from him, Cole rests on the edge of it to plead his case. “Come on, all you gave me was one day. That’s hardly enough time to get to the bottom of this.”
“Get to the bottom of what?” Hooking his thumbs inside his suspenders Anson continues, “After a day’s work what have you found out?”
Reluctantly Cole admits, “Nothing…yet.”
“Nothing period.” Anson stabs a fi
nger across his desk at his top reporter. “Consider that you didn’t find anything because there’s nothing to find.”
“Just give me another day—I’ll find the story.”
“A wayward intern isn’t a story; it happens all the time around here. Some people just can’t cope with the pressures of working for this paper and they leave. I gave you a day to satisfy your curiosity because he was your friend but now I need you to get back to work because the news waits for no one.
“We got a murder in midtown that the police are reporting as being drug related, pictures of our married state senator with a known escort that have surfaced, unconfirmed reports out of Atlanta that the FBI agent who’s been on the Toymaker Task Force since day one has been suspended, and accounts coming out of North Carolina that have the powers that be planning to pull out of Hope before a potential hurricane lands in their laps. Take your pick and run with it but I need my best reporter on at least one of these stories.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
Running his fingers through his mussed up brown hair Cole steadies his resolve before speaking. “Look Chief,” he frowns as he catches the angry scowl crossing his boss’ face, “Sorry…Anson. Just give me till the end of the day; there’s something here, I know it. I told you he was working a story—let me find his source.”
“And I told you he doesn’t work stories.”
“He obviously listens about as well as I do,” Cole attempts to lighten the tension with a cockeyed grin.
“Hrmph,” Anson grumbles in reply.
“I know Nick,” Cole carries on, “He loves working here. He wouldn’t just disappear without any word unless something was wrong. Please Chief, one more day.”
“All right,” Anson relents, “But if you’re doing this you’re also doing the story on Hope. I want an editorial on my desk by day’s end condemning the agencies involved for even thinking about leaving early.
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