by Rick Mofina
Again, Kate met the cold eyes that glared from the face of a fully bearded man with wild hair, in his forties.
Carl Nelson.
Is this the last face my sister saw?
This was her enemy.
If you killed my sister, then I’ll find you. I swear to God, I’ll find you.
Before boarding, Kate downloaded every fresh news story she could find so she could go through them during the flight.
On the plane, Kate studied the news reports. The TV items carried pictures of Nelson, accompanied by the pool images of the razed barn and investigators in white coveralls sifting the earth for human remains in a remote corner of the isolated property.
Network graphic headlines called the case:
Horror in Upstate NY
NY Body Farm
Hunt for a Monster
All day long Kate had struggled to push one supreme fear out of her mind, but now it hit her full force, the old agony tearing at her with renewed ferocity. She turned from the laptop to her window. Somewhere down there were either the ashes of her sister’s prison or the remnants of her grave.
Oh, God, I don’t know if I can do this.
Kate turned back to her monitor to see it filled with Carl Nelson’s face glowering at her above the new headline:
Face of Evil: Who Is Carl Nelson?
CHAPTER 25
Gary, Indiana
The toilet ran on, the mattress sagged and brownish stains webbed down the cracked walls of the motel room at the city’s fringe near the interstate.
The guest in Unit 14 didn’t care.
The Slumber Breeze Inn’s customers were chiefly addicts, hookers and deviants. But Unit 14 considered himself well above that stratum. What mattered was that the motel accepted cash while providing anonymity and indifference.
Working at two laptops on the room’s desk, was Sorin Zurrn. But nobody—nobody living—knew him by that name, a name that resurrected undying pain for him. At this moment, he was Donald W.R. Fulmert, age thirty-two, a professional driver from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
In the darkness, his clean-shaven face and bald head glowed spectrally in the bluish light of his computer screens. He glimpsed himself in the room’s fractured mirror, satisfied that he bore no resemblance to Carl Nelson.
That man had never really existed.
Zurrn had grown comfortable living in Nelson’s skin, quietly tending to his collection over the years. But he’d never intended to reside there forever. He’d grown restless and proud of what he’d achieved.
But Rampart was such a small stage.
He deserved adoration for his accomplishments.
Although it was dangerous, he yearned for the world to be aware of his power; he ached for his life to be bigger, something grandiose and magnificent. He had to move on to the next stage of his evolution.
Over the past few years, he’d planned it all with such attention to detail, he thought, admiring the photographs of his new property. This would be his Asgard, his Valhalla; his Palace of Supreme Perfection. He could almost touch it, but it was still over a thousand miles and several states away, a vast expanse of isolated land.
The cost was unimportant.
Obtaining money was easy for him.
He knew the electronic security gaps with retailers and banks. Three months ago, he’d siphoned more than nine hundred thousand dollars in unmarked, nonsequential bills from cash advance kiosks at casinos in Las Vegas and Atlantic City. He had access to an eternity of credit cards and identities, enabling him to be anyone he needed to be, with access to just about anything.
And he could do it all without leaving a trace.
As he continued looking at pictures of his sweeping new property, envisioning how glorious his new kingdom would be, one of his laptops trilled with a message from Ashley.
He’s so hot. Totally crushing on him! IDK! Help!
The pretty fourteen-year-old from Minnesota was breathless about a boy named Nick. Zurrn had been cultivating her online for the past six months, convincing her that he was Jenn, a sixteen-year-old girl from Milwaukee. He’d drilled deep into Ashley’s life. He knew everything about her and her family—their home address, all their bank and credit card information, their medications, Ashley’s grades, her habits and daily routine. He’d done a little work to get a feed off her phone and laptop so he could remotely watch her undetected.
He responded to her plea: Tell him, Ash! GTG! BFF!
BFF!
Best Friends Forever. Poor little Ashley might find out what forever really means, for Zurrn had her believing that Jenn’s parents were taking her to the Mall of America soon.
Now, Ashley was dying to meet her BFF.
Wait, what’s this?
In the corner of the room, a muted TV was tuned to an all-news channel. Images of the crime scene at a farm in Rampart, New York, appeared, prompting Zurrn to reach for the remote.
Carl Nelson’s face filled the TV over a graphic that read, “Wanted by the FBI.” As Zurrn listened, he went online, checking major news sites, devouring the breaking story.
What the hell’s this?
In the past few days, he’d monitored the initial coverage of the Rampart story. As expected, early reports portrayed it as a local murder-suicide. Coverage was contained to the region. That’s how it was designed and executed to play, with “Carl Nelson” and the woman dead, allowing Zurrn to disappear.
A perfect crime.
What happened?
Now, a woman named Kate Page was telling reporters of her search for her sister. A series of photos appeared from the cold case of a ten-year-old girl missing for fifteen years from Alberta, Canada.
“In my heart I feel my sister’s case is linked to the Alberta case and these events in Rampart. I want to find the man who did this. I want to know what happened. I’d give anything to see her again.”
Zurrn locked on to Kate Page, his face burning with contempt.
Long after the news ended, Zurrn sat motionless in the near dark, his neck muscles pulsating as he processed the news over the quiet hum of interstate traffic. Then loud music began throbbing from several rooms away, with the roll of drums hammering along the motel as if to signal war.
He went to one of the online news stories and examined the accompanying photo of Kate Page.
Who the hell’re you? Do you think you’re going to stop me? Me?
Zurrn put his hands together, steepled his fingers, touched them to his lips, his nostrils flaring. Then he shut off his computers, took them with him, got into his van and headed into the night. He drove along a stretch of strip malls, car washes and warehouses, coming to a Burger King with a twenty-four-hour drive-through.
After collecting his order, the aroma of onions and French fries filled the interior. As he threaded his way through a light industrial no-man’s land, he took stock of his situation.
Where’d he screw up? He’d been careful. Yes, he’d made mistakes long ago when he was young, but time had buried them. He’d perfected his technique.
Calm down! So my perfect crime in Rampart was not so perfect. It doesn’t matter what police think they know. I’ll adjust. They can’t touch me because I’ll always have the upper hand. I’ll always be in control.
He stopped at the gate of JBD 24-7 Mini-Storage. He inserted his card with the chip, then touched his code on the security keypad. The gate opened. He drove slowly through the facility’s neat rows of garage-sized units. It was late, the grounds were deserted. When he found Number 84, he carefully backed the rear of his vehicle to the door, blocking the security cameras from clearly seeing inside.
He pressed the unit’s password on the keypad, then inserted the key into the lock. Metal grumbled as he lifted the unit’s steel door and switched on
the light. It was clean and dry inside.
He closed the door.
In the unit’s center, there was a large rectangle shape covered by a sound-absorbing tarpaulin. He pulled it back, revealing two oblong matching wooden crates, each large enough to hold a coffin. Each crate had a small, hinged inspection door, about the size of a hardcover book. His keys jingled as he unlocked the steel lock and opened the first one.
He dropped fast food into it, then locked the door.
Then he unlocked the second one, opened it and hesitated.
“Please! I’ll be good, please! Please!” A soft voice rose from the darkness.
Ignoring it, he dropped the food and locked the door.
Then he sat in the corner and as he listened to the small movements of life coming from the boxes, he stared at them, thinking.
Thinking hard about what he was going to do.
CHAPTER 26
Utica, New York
Lori Koller, an assistant at Essential Office Supply, set her fresh cup of orange tea on her desk and looked at her calendar.
Day by day. She sighed.
Ever since her husband, Luke, had died ten months ago, she’d struggled to carry on with their two little girls, the way he would’ve wanted. He was devoted to his family.
She glanced out the window of her building on Genesee Street.
Luke had been a construction worker. He was killed after falling ten stories at the site of a new apartment complex. But Lori hadn’t received much in the way of compensation, because the investigation found that Luke routinely unhitched his safety harness. It complicated everything. Luke’s life insurance policy was small. They had been planning to increase their coverage before he died.
After the funeral costs and the loss of Luke’s income, debts started piling up. Friends helped by holding a small memorial banquet but in grappling with her grief, caring for the girls, who cried for their daddy, Lori had had a rough time. She got counseling for her and her daughters, sold their SUV, their van, Luke’s tools, his boat and trailer, got a smaller car and paid down some bills.
Things were not easy and the hurting never went away, but day by day they were getting better, Lori thought, sipping her tea. She had gotten busy updating the monthly reports when her phone rang.
“Hey, it’s me. Did you see today’s OD?”
Her younger brother, Dylan, was a city bus driver, and, judging from the background noise, he was calling from the yard. Why would he ask if she’d read today’s Observer-Dispatch?
“No. Why?”
“Go online now and look for the story about Rampart.”
“I’m kinda busy.”
“You have to do it, right now.”
“Dylan.”
“Right now, it’ll only take a moment. I’ll stay on the line to be sure you find it.”
“All right.” Her keyboard clicked. “You are such a pain.” She went online to the newspaper’s website, found the story and started reading.
“Did you find it?” Her brother was anxious.
“Shh!”
Lori read fast, and her attention shifted from the text to the images, particularly the photo of Carl Nelson.
“See the picture of the guy they’re looking for?”
“Oh, my God!”
“It’s him! That’s the guy who bought your van.”
“But he said he was from Cleveland and I don’t think that’s his name. I’d have to check the sales papers.”
“Lori. I was there with you. That’s him! You have to call the police line and tell them.”
“I don’t know, Dylan, this is all scary. It’s all too much.”
“You have to, Lori. Do it right now!”
After Dylan hung up, she looked at the article. At the bottom was the toll-free number of the police tip line. Lori took a few breaths then reread the story. What happened in Rampart was such a horrible thing. Then it occurred to her that she wouldn’t want police to think she was somehow involved. Okay, okay, she’d do what any good citizen should do. Before she realized it, she’d dialed the number.
As the line rang in her ear she stared at the article and the photos, the search for human remains, then into the eyes of the man who had bought her family van.
CHAPTER 27
New York City
Kate scrolled through news stories on her phone while sitting in the upholstered chair in the reception room of her daughter’s dentist.
Still no confirmation out of Rampart on the ID of the remains.
Kate bit her lip to push away the fear.
It had been a day since she’d returned and in that time, between pursuing leads, she’d reconnected with her home life. While she’d only been away a couple of nights, it felt longer. Getting Grace to today’s appointment gave her a sense of being a mom again.
Holding Grace’s jacket in her lap, she traced the little hearts that were on the cuffs, thinking how lucky she was to have her. Grace was her rock, her anchor. She’d kept Kate sane through the years, just by being a kid.
Grace was practically the same age that Vanessa was when the accident happened. She even looked a little like her. Kate smiled and lifted her face to the opposite wall, which was plastered with snapshots of children showing mostly gap-toothed grins.
The display was called “Smiling Angels,” and it propelled Kate back to: her mother setting down a tray of fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies, the kitchen smelling so yummy. “You can each have one, girls. I don’t want you getting cavities.” She and Vanessa each took one but split a second cookie when Mom wasn’t looking…Vanessa laughing so hard.
Kate suddenly thought of dental records and human remains.
“Hi, Mom!” Grace appeared, clutching her new free toothbrush, floss and toothpaste. “No cavities!”
“That’s great, sweetie!”
“Mom, were you crying?” Grace tugged on her jacket as Kate helped.
“No, just a little tired from the plane.” She blinked. “Let’s get you back to school.”
* * *
After taking Grace to school and signing her in, Kate got on the subway to Penn Station, then walked to Newslead. At her desk she again scanned the latest stories out of Rampart, checking to see if her competition had broken anything on Carl Nelson.
Nothing had surfaced.
The first message she checked was from Chuck.
Find something today to advance the story, keep us out front.
I’m working on it, Chuck.
Kate was still checking her messages when a new one arrived from Reeka.
Could you please come to my office?
Reeka had her face in her phone, texting, when Kate tapped softly on her open door. She’d noticed how small Reeka seemed behind her desk, as if it, or her position, was oversize for her.
“Please sit down.” Reeka kept her face in her phone. Kate saw that the flat-screen TV in the corner was frozen on footage of the Rampart case. “So…” Reeka exhaled and put the phone down. “How’d things go for you?”
“Okay.” Kate was guarded. “Considering everything.”
“And how’re you holding up, considering everything?”
“I’m okay.”
“Your stories are solid.”
“Thanks.” Kate remained wary, the way a mongoose is wary of a cobra.
“But you do have the inside track.”
“Excuse me?”
“I wanted to show you something.” Reeka played the footage of Kate being interviewed at Rampart, then froze it. “You’re aware of Newslead policy about reporters giving interviews to other press?”
“Yes.”
“Reporters don’t comment on the news without prior permission from a supervising editor. It�
��s decided on a case-by-case basis. You needed prior permission.”
“Reeka, what is this? You do know what this story’s about? You’re aware of what was agreed to in my covering the case with Chuck, Morris and Ben Sussman? You were part of it. I’ve been digging my ass off. You’re aware of what I’m going through here, and how my ‘inside track,’ as you call it, my personal anguish, is being exploited by Newslead?”
“Of course. And I couldn’t begin to imagine the heartache you’re enduring, but I have to keep in mind what happened in London. That situation eroded our credibility and our integrity. I have to insure we do things by the book, Kate.”
“This is not the same thing as what happened in London, Reeka, and you know that.”
A knock sounded at the door and both women turned to see Sussman standing at it.
“There you are, Kate. I just wanted to say pickup rates on this story are sky-high. We understand how hard this must be personally for you, Kate. We’re all praying for you, so whatever you need, you let us know.”
“Thank you, Ben.”
“Be assured, Newslead’s behind you. By the way, I’ve heard through the grapevine Good Morning America and the Today show, are showing interest in having you on soon. So let’s see how things go.”
After Sussman left, Kate turned to Reeka.
“I’d like to get back to work.”
* * *
Kate detoured to the restroom to check her face and contend with the corporate hypocrisy. We’re all praying for you. A few days ago they all wanted me fired. If I didn’t love the job here—if Chuck didn’t have my back I’d—calm down. Just calm down and stop thinking about yourself.
Back in the newsroom, Kate was struck with an idea.
She went to the business section and the desk of Hugh Davidson, who reported on computer technology. Hugh was otherwise known as Newslead’s Emperor Nerd. He was partial to bow ties and pastel shirts.