by Lisa Gardner
“How long ago do you think she left?” Quincy asked Rainie.
“I don’t know. Thirty minutes.”
She could tell he was doing calculations in his head. “Technically speaking,” he reported, “German shepherds can run at speeds over thirty miles an hour—hence their attractiveness to law enforcement. But Sharlah will be going for distance, not to mention having to adjust for the heat. Given that, I’d assume they’re moving maybe eight to ten miles an hour? Of course, cutting through the woods has shortened their travel distance. So say she’s made it five miles north of the house. Meaning . . .”
Rainie took her eyes off the window long enough to glance over at the odometer. They’d already traveled three miles. She sat up straighter, eyes on the road, on the lookout for any sign of Sharlah, pedaling away, Luka by her side. Except . . .
Nothing.
A field stretched out to their right, ending abruptly at the rise of the mountains, miles away. To their left, Rainie spied a drainage ditch, high grass, and then more farmland, dotted with grazing cows. She identified copses of trees, old barns, plenty of places to stop and hide, she supposed. Assuming Sharlah had already stopped. Assuming Sharlah had wanted to hide.
Quincy kept driving. After another moment, Rainie reached over, took his hand.
But they still didn’t find any trace of their daughter.
—
“WE TRUST IN THE BOLO,” Quincy announced an hour later. They had looped through downtown, then headed south, in case their assumption of a northern route had been wrong. They still had nothing to show for their efforts. “She’ll need water, shade, rest for Luka. With all the patrol officers out there, someone will see something.”
Rainie nodded. She prowled their kitchen restlessly, cracking ice into glasses. Even driving beneath the glare of the relentless sun had worked up a thirst for both of them.
“We’re profilers,” she said abruptly. “We need to stop chasing, start thinking.”
“Okay.” Quincy accepted the glass of water, eyeing her as she took a long drink from her own.
“Unfinished business,” she said. “That’s what this is about. Sharlah and Telly, they have unfinished business.”
Quincy nodded. “Once upon a time, Telly took care of his little sister. According to what we’ve heard, was bonded with her, versus their parents.”
“But then that night,” Rainie continued, “in a fit of rage, he broke her arm.”
“Sharlah went away. He never saw her again.”
“I think it’s reasonable they both blame themselves,” Rainie said. “In fact, I think guilt is what they share.”
Quincy looked at her.
“Think of abusive households. What’s the common denominator we always see among the kids? They assume whatever happened to them was all their fault. Meaning it’s reasonable Sharlah blames herself, while Telly blames himself, for what happened eight years ago. Hence neither one of them talks about it. And both accepted being separated. Maybe they each thought of it as their punishment, the least they deserved.”
“But Telly was starting to reconsider his past,” Quincy stated. “Urged on by his foster father.”
Rainie shrugged. “Maybe he got tired of feeling guilty.”
“Or started feeling angrier and angrier on the subject. He’d done the best he could; it wasn’t his fault. Either way, he located Sharlah. He took her pictures.”
“And instead of getting on a plane with me tonight,” Rainie filled in, “Sharlah headed out to meet him. I’m telling you, there’s something more to what happened eight years ago. Now it’s driving both of them. If we can figure out that, maybe we can finally figure out Telly. And stop his killing streak once and for all.”
Quincy nodded. “Okay. The first time around, a forensic psychiatrist, Dr. Bérénice Dudkowiak, interviewed both Sharlah and Telly. She probably knows the most on the subject of their parents’ deaths. I have her contact information from Tim Egan’s office. She should have received the subpoena by now, if you’d like to follow up with a phone call?”
Rainie nodded. She wasn’t fooled. “And you?”
“I’m going to return to the Duvalls’ residence. We need to know more about that household. You were right earlier; spree killers always have a trigger. We know the slow-burn stress Telly was under. But what lit the fuse? I have to believe those four walls hold the secret.”
“I’ll work on the riddle of Telly past,” Rainie murmured.
“And I’ll tackle the riddle of Telly present.”
“And then?”
“One way or another, we’ll get Sharlah home safe. I promise you, Rainie. I promise.”
Chapter 22
SHELLY DROVE CAL to the Duvalls’ house. The tracker didn’t say much, just watched the scenery flash by outside the window. She decided she liked him for that alone; small talk had never been her strong suit either.
She pulled into the ranch, surprised to see a silver RAV4 parked in front of the home and a lone figure loitering near the crime scene–taped door. Young. Early twenties. Casually dressed. Worn cargo shorts, a sweat-stained blue T with an open checkered shirt over the top. Dusty hiking boots.
Shelly exited her SUV, hand on her holster. She’d just opened her mouth to demand identification when the man spoke first.
“Are you the sheriff?” he asked. “Because I’d like to speak to the sheriff. I’d like to speak to anyone who can explain to me”—his voice broke—“tell me what happened here.”
“Henry Duvall?” Shelly guessed, coming around her door.
He nodded, running a shaky hand through his dark brown hair. “When I got the call, I wasn’t sure where else to go. Other than here, you know. Home. I came home. Then I saw the tape.” He closed his eyes, as if still in a daze. “I wasn’t sure where else to go,” he repeated.
Shelly understood. One of her uniforms had been in charge of contacting the Duvalls’ son, but with everything that had happened since, Shelly hadn’t had a chance to follow up with either her officer or Henry Duvall. Or, for that matter, with the parents of Erin Hill or the other young man gunned down inside of the EZ Gas. For a moment, the sheer number of fatalities hit her, and she felt a faint shudder ripple through her. Four dead, two wounded, and it wasn’t even three P.M.
Cal Noonan moved around the SUV, coming to stand beside her. She took that as a hint to straighten her spine, shoulder the load.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Shelly told the young man. She turned slightly to her right. “This here is Cal Noonan. He’s one of the best trackers around; he’s helping us find the person who shot your parents.”
“You mean Telly, right?” Henry walked toward them, already sounding bitter. “My parents’ new project. Perfect.”
“You know Telly?”
“Not really. Just met him a few times. Christmas vacation. Spring break. That sort of thing. I was already off to school when my parents decided to get into the fostering business.”
“Did Telly get along with your parents?”
“Everyone got along with Dad. And Mom, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Henry shook his head, clearly agitated. He resumed pacing the front yard. Standing beside Shelly, Cal crossed his arms, still not saying a word.
“Why’d they become foster parents?” Shelly asked.
Henry shrugged. “Dad always believed he could save the world. As a teacher, he logged all sorts of extra hours mentoring misfit A or troubled kid B. Crazy thing?” Henry looked up. “He was good at it. Kids liked him. Adults liked him. Everyone liked him. My parents are good people. Ask anyone you want. This is no case of evil foster parents abusing some lonely teen. My parents cared. My parents tried. Whatever happened here, it’s all about Telly. Not them.”
Shelly thought he sounded very passionate on the subject. Almost too passionate. “Did your parents talk about Telly? It’s a big
job, taking in a foster child.”
“My mom had some problems when she was a teenager. She doesn’t talk about it much, but I know she ran away from home. Except she was only sixteen, all on her own. . . . She’d say she didn’t know what would’ve happened to her if she hadn’t met my dad.
“Fostering was her idea. Personally, I think she didn’t know what to do with herself once I left home. Too much time, too much empty space. I think if she’d had her way, she would’ve raised a dozen children. But apparently the fertility gods didn’t agree, and in the end they were lucky to have me. She called me her miracle boy.” A slight hiccup. Henry drew a deep breath, soldiered on.
“So, uh, last time I was home, Mom was working with Telly on home economics, how to manage a checkbook, how to shop for groceries, do laundry. She’d also taught him some cooking—chicken Parm. Hell, I don’t even know how to make my mom’s chicken Parm.”
“Your parents were preparing Telly to live on his own,” Shelly stated.
Henry gave her a look. “Well it’s not like he was going off to college.”
Take that, foster kid, Shelly thought. Henry still won successful son of the year award, whereas Telly . . . Telly had project written all over him.
“You said your mom left home at sixteen. What about her family?”
“Never met them,” Henry said.
“They’re still alive? She was estranged from her parents?”
Henry shrugged, wouldn’t meet her eye.
“Your father’s family?” she tried.
“His parents passed away when I was a kid. He didn’t have any siblings.”
“Close friends, associates?”
“Mom? I don’t know. She volunteered some. But did she have a best friend, someone like that? I would argue it was my dad. Same for him. Most of the time, at least, all they seemed to need was each other.”
Interesting, Shelly thought.
“I understand you’re working for a company in Beaverton,” Shelly prodded.
“I took a few days off. I’ve been in Astoria, camping with some buddies. I was hoping to come home at the end of the trip. Surprise my parents.”
Henry’s face spasmed. The shock wearing off. Grief taking hold.
“Last time you saw your parents in person?” Shelly asked, taking in his dark hair, dark eyes.
“I dunno. A month ago, Fourth of July? Too long, my mother would say, which is why I thought I’d pop in at the end of camping.” Henry scrubbed his cheeks.
“Last time you spoke?”
“Couple of weeks ago. Beginning of August.”
“Anything special your parents mentioned?”
A brief hesitation. Henry shook his head.
“No issues with Telly?” Shelly pressed.
Again the pause, then the head shake.
Shelly didn’t say anything more. Just waited.
“I can’t . . . I can’t go inside?”
“No, son. We’re still processing the house.”
“Have you found Telly? Any leads?”
“I’ll notify you the minute we know something.”
Henry remained standing in the front yard, hands in his pockets, gaze on the taped door.
“You’re gonna have questions, right? Things you’ll need to know. Ways I can help?” His voice was faintly pleading.
“If you could remain local for a few days at least, that would be of great assistance to us.”
“Okay. I’ll find a hotel, campground, something. Let me give you my cell.” Henry rattled off numbers. Shelly entered them into her department-issued phone, then provided her own contact info.
Henry drew a last shuddering breath. “And my parents’ . . . bodies?”
“The ME will need to conduct a full autopsy, given the circumstances. Unfortunately, things are a little bit . . . busy . . . right now.”
“The second shooting. I heard about that. Why is he doing this?” A sudden explosion of rage. “I mean, my parents were trying to help him. And he just guns them down? Then goes off and shoots even more people? Who does that? What kind of person—”
Shelly didn’t have any answers. Henry Duvall broke off, seeming to realize the futility of his questions.
“My parents were good people,” he repeated. “They didn’t deserve this.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Check the freezer,” Henry said as he finally walked by them, heading for his RAV4. “My mom liked to hide cash in ziplock bags. Under the peas, behind the turkey, that sort of thing. Her own version of a rainy-day fund. Telly would’ve known to look there to steal the money.”
“How much money?”
“Couple hundred I’d guess. And the gun safe, of course. My dad had six firearms: three pistols, three rifles. They should be in the safe in the basement. Unless . . .” Henry suddenly seemed to get it. What had happened to those guns. Which weapon Telly had most likely used to murder Henry’s parents.
“I’ll be in touch when we have word,” Shelly said softly.
Henry didn’t say anything more. He climbed into his vehicle, hands shaking visibly on the wheel. The surviving member of the Duvall family drove away.
Shelly and Cal remained standing in the yard, watching him go.
“Dark hair, dark eyes,” she murmured to no one in particular.
“Hiking boots,” Cal seconded, picking up on Jack George’s description of the second male in the EZ Gas.
“And not the most honest answers. Henry Duvall’s holding something back.”
“Birth son and foster son conspiring to kill the parents?” Cal asked, tone already doubtful.
Shelly frowned, scratched at the scars on her neck. “Not exactly a large inheritance to split,” she agreed. “And yet . . .”
More questions than answers. The story of this investigation.
She shook her head once more. Then she led Cal back into the crime scene.
—
THE HEAT HADN’T DONE WONDERS for the smell. Not to mention the flies had arrived. Where did they even come from? Shelly thought. But given the faintest smell of blood . . . The flies darted through the air in front of them, massing thickly. With the Duvalls’ bodies gone and the sheets bagged and tagged, the flies were limited to drying blood pools next to the bed, which clearly weren’t big enough to accommodate their demand.
Shelly closed the door to the master bedroom. She felt like she’d spent too much of the day staring at blood. She’d dream about it later tonight, assuming she ever got to bed.
Cal was already in the kitchen. She’d handed him a pair of gloves when they’d first entered the scene. Now he looked over, gloved hand on the open freezer door, and shook his head.
So if there had been any deposits in the rainy-day fund, Telly had helped himself to that cash as well.
She’d stood in this kitchen hours earlier, with Quincy. She stared at it a second time, willing it to tell her more.
The crime scene techs had done a preliminary sweep. She could see black fingerprint powder, some fresh holes in the linoleum where samples had been cut out and taken away. Blood drops maybe. Who knew?
She tried now to see the house through fresh eyes. Not as a sheriff, taking in an unspeakable crime scene. But as a seventeen-year-old boy, in need of a home.
Kitchen was clean. That was the first thing she noticed. Would a teenager care? The modest family room was also neat and tidy. Further evidence that Sandra Duvall took pride in her home. The overstuffed sofa looked comfy, with an afghan arranged carefully on the back.
Was it too neat? The kind of place where a lanky boy would already worry about getting in trouble for setting his bag down here or putting his feet up there? Speaking of which . . .
Shelly cycled back around to the front-door entryway closet. With gloves on, she slid open the door, taking
inventory of the coat collection, arranged as his, hers, then, after a small gap, two coats on their own. A rain jacket, plus a worn barn coat. Telly’s, she would guess.
Which brought her to the pile of shoes at the bottom of the closet. Mostly sneakers, rubber boots, the kind of footwear designed to slip on so you could exit the house quickly. Again, under Telly’s coat, two pairs of tennis shoes, one functional, one high-top, trendy. Maybe as boys went, his good shoes? So what was he wearing now? Hiking boots or some kind of summer sandal, say, Tevas, given the heat? She voted for irresponsible footwear that would slow him down but doubted they’d be that lucky.
She returned to Cal, who was still studying the fridge.
“No backpack,” she said, which made sense as the neighbor had reported seeing Telly wearing it.
“Lot of food in the fridge,” Cal said. “Good food. Homemade casserole, fresh fruits and vegetables. Certainly better stocked than my fridge.”
“A lot of cheese?” she guessed, knowing his full-time job.
“Not even that lucky.”
“I have yogurt in my fridge,” she offered.
“Living the dream.”
Okay, back to feel, Shelly thought. How would it feel to live here? First impression was a worn but well-tended open space. With plenty of personal touches. Photos on the family room mantel from Henry’s prom, high school graduation. A pretty flower print, most likely the kind of thing purchased at a garage sale, then hung up because the colors had appealed to Mrs. Duvall, or reminded her of her own garden.
Effort; that’s what Shelly saw when she looked around. A family that didn’t have tons of resources. No brand-new cars for them or name-brand labels. But still, a charming home. Given some of the other foster situations Telly had encountered—or, for that matter, the threat of a group home hanging over his head—this should’ve seemed a big step up. His first thought walking through the door should’ve been that he’d just gotten very, very lucky.
“Computer?” Cal asked from the family room.