by Sandra Brown
“Okay now?”
“Better, thanks.”
She went to the other sofa and, being chilled in spite of her coat, wrapped herself in the knitted throw.
Although Tierney kept his eyes closed, he said, “Not your couch anymore? I’d heard this place was on the market. It sold?”
“The closing was yesterday.”
“Who bought it? Someone in town?”
“No, a retired couple from Jacksonville, Florida, who want to spend their summers here.”
He opened his eyes and looked around the main room. The cabin had every modern convenience, but it had been built and decorated to look rustic, in keeping with the mountain setting. The furnishings were oversize and homey, designed for comfort rather than show.
“They bought themselves a great second home.”
“Yes, they did.” She glanced around the room, gauging the sturdiness of its construction. “We’ll be all right here, won’t we? For the duration of the storm, I mean.”
“What’s your water source?”
“A reservoir on a plateau about midway between here and town.”
“Hopefully the pipes aren’t frozen yet.”
She got up and rounded the bar that separated the main room from the kitchen. “We have water,” she announced as it sputtered from the faucet.
“Got anything to collect it in?”
“Kitchen utensils were included in the sale of the cabin.”
“Start filling every pan and pot available. We need to collect all the drinking water we can before the pipes freeze. Lucky you had that food with you. We won’t starve.”
She found a roasting pan she had used one Thanksgiving and put it in the sink beneath the faucet. As she came back into the main room, she motioned toward the hearth. “There’s firewood stacked on the porch.”
“Yeah, but I noticed when we came in that most of it is wet, and the logs haven’t been split.”
“Very observant of you.”
“I have a knack for taking in details quickly.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“When?”
“When?” she repeated.
“When did you notice my knack for taking in details? Tonight, or during that day last summer?”
“Both, I suppose. At least on a subconscious level.” She wondered what details about her his keen blue eyes had taken in quickly, both tonight and last June.
“Why did you call him?”
His blunt question seemed out of context. But it wasn’t really. She glanced toward her cell phone, which she’d laid on the coffee table, within easy reach should it ring.
Before giving her time to answer, he said, “I heard you got divorced.”
“We did.”
“So why did you call him tonight?”
“Dutch is Cleary’s chief of police now.”
“I heard that, too.”
“He’ll be handling emergencies caused by the storm. He has the authority to get help to us if he can.”
He mulled that over for several seconds, then glanced toward the door. “Nobody’s coming up here tonight. You realize that?”
She nodded. “I think that for tonight we’re on our own.” In reaction to her sudden nervousness, she shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets. “Oh, the first-aid kit,” she exclaimed. “I’d almost forgotten it.”
She pulled it from her pocket. It was a small white plastic box with a red cross on the lid, something a conscientious mom would pop into her tote bag before an excursion to the playground. She opened it and checked the contents.
“There’s not much here, I’m afraid. But that head wound should at least be cleaned with one of these disinfectant pads.” She looked at him dubiously. “Do you want to remove your cap yourself, or do you trust me to do it? Either way, Mr. Tierney, I’m afraid it’s going to be painful.”
“Lilly?”
“Hmm?”
“Why have I suddenly become Mr. Tierney?”
She shrugged uneasily. “It seems, I don’t know, more appropriate somehow. Under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances being that we’re stranded together for an indefinite period of time and dependent on each other for our survival?”
“Which is rather awkward.”
“Why awkward?”
She frowned at him for being obtuse. “Because, except for that day on the river, you and I are strangers.”
When he stood up, he swayed noticeably. But he was steady enough on his feet as he walked toward her slowly. “If you think we’re strangers, then you’re not remembering the day we met the same way I remember it.”
She took a step back and shook her head, either to clear it of memories of a sun-sparkled day or to stave him off. She wasn’t sure which. “Look, Tierney—”
“Praise be.” He flashed the engaging smile she remembered with unsettling detail. “I’m back to being Tierney.”
• • •
“Tierney?” Special Agent in Charge Kent Begley repeated the name.
“That’s right, sir. T-i-e-r-n-e-y. First name Ben,” replied Special Agent Charlie Wise.
Everyone in the FBI office in Charlotte called Charlie Wise by his nickname, Hoot. Someone—no one could remember specifically who—had linked his last name to a hoot owl. The moniker was doubly apropos because he wore tortoiseshell eyeglasses with large, round lenses, making him resemble an owl.
Begley was peering through those lenses now, directly into Hoot’s unblinking eyes, giving him one of the incisive stares that his subordinates called nutcrackers. Behind Begley’s back, of course.
Begley was a staunch born-again believer, always having at hand the large Bible with his name engraved in gold lettering on the black leather binding. It had the worn look of being read frequently. He quoted from it often.
One of the notches on Begley’s rigid moral yardstick was the usage of foul or suggestive language. He had no tolerance for it and didn’t allow it from the men and women serving under him. He used it himself only when he felt it was absolutely necessary to getting his point across—which was about every ten seconds.
Hoot was a confident, capable, and unflappable agent. He quailed less than most beneath Begley’s nutcrackers. No one knew his accuracy on the firing range, but indisputably he was a quick draw on a computer. He excelled at research, and there his talent was unsurpassed. If Hoot couldn’t uproot needed data, the data didn’t exist.
He met his boss’s hard stare with aplomb. “I’ve been looking at Ben Tierney for several days now, sir, and some interesting facts have emerged.”
“I’m listening.”
Begley motioned him into the chair facing his desk, but since he was still giving Hoot the look that said the agent better not be wasting his time, Hoot began talking even before he sat down.
“Over the past couple of years, Ben Tierney has been drifting in and out of the area, specifically Cleary, every few months. He stays a few weeks, sometimes a month, then moves on.”
“Lots of weekenders up there. Vacationers,” Begley said.
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“So what makes him special? Do his visits to Cleary coincide with the disappearances?”
“Yes, sir, they do. He stays in a lodge about two miles from the center of town. Private cabins with kitchenettes, decks overlooking a waterfall, and private lake.”
Begley nodded. He knew the type of place Hoot described. There were hundreds of them in that area of the state, where tourism was a main source of revenue for the small mountain communities. Outdoor activities like fishing, hiking, camping, and kayaking were huge draws.
“According to the lodge’s manager, Mr. Tierney always reserves the largest cabin. Number eight. Two bedrooms, living area with a fireplace. And this I think is significant. He does his own cleaning. No matter how long he stays, he picks up clean linens at the registration desk twice a week and declines the daily housekeeping service.”
“Hardly a smoking gun, Hoot.
”
“But odd.”
Begley left his desk and moved to the easel holding the corkboard that Hoot had brought into the office in advance of their meeting. On it were tacked photographs of the five women missing from the Cleary area, along with compiled data on each: DOB, driver’s license and Social Security numbers, date of disappearance, physical description, family members and close friends, interests and hobbies, religious affiliations, level of education, bank accounts or other sources of funds—none of which had been tapped—location of where she was last seen, and anything else that might help locate the woman or point to the unknown subject who had abducted her, who in this case had been nicknamed Blue.
“Does this Tierney fit the profile of a serial sex offender?”
Although it hadn’t been established that sexual offenses had been committed against the missing women, it was assumed that was the reason for their abductions. “Yes, sir. He’s white. More or less a loner. Married once, briefly. Currently divorced.”
“Ex-wife?”
“Remarried.”
“What do you know about the marriage and divorce?”
“Perkins is working on that angle for me. He’s digging.”
“Go on.”
“He’s forty-one. He has a U.S. passport and a Virginia driver’s license. Six feet three inches tall. Weight, one eighty-five. At least that’s what he weighed when he renewed his license two years ago. Hair, brown. Eyes, blue. No facial hair, tattoos, or visible scars.
“The manager of the lodge says he’s polite and undemanding, and he tips the housekeeper even though she doesn’t clean for him. He has one major credit card. Uses it for nearly everything and pays the total balance each month. No outstanding debts. No hassles with the IRS. He drives a late-model Jeep Cherokee. Registration and insurance are current.”
“Sounds like a solid citizen, a prince among men.”
Despite his remark, Begley knew that one’s appearance and demeanor could camouflage a criminal, psychotic, or sociopathic mind. During his long career, he’d run across some very twisted folks.
There was the woman who was widowed six times before anyone thought to investigate the bizarre coincidence. Her excuse for killing her husbands, each in a distinctive and inventive way, was that she just adored arranging funerals. She was as plump as a partridge and as pretty as a peach. No one would have thought her capable of killing a housefly.
Then there was the guy who played Santa Claus at the neighborhood mall every Christmas. Jolly and kind, beloved by all who knew him, he would sit children on his knee and listen to what they wanted for Christmas, pass out candy canes, remind them not to be naughty, and then select one to violate sexually before dismembering the body and placing the various parts in Christmas stockings, which he hung from his mantel. Ho, ho, ho.
Nothing surprised Begley anymore, especially not a woman snatcher who was polite, tipped generously, and paid his bills on time.
“What about friends?” Begley asked. “Anyone ever join him in that cabin he rents?”
“No one. ‘He keeps to hisself,’ to quote Mr. Gus Elmer, the owner of the lodge.”
Begley stared at a picture of Laureen Elliott, the third woman to disappear. She had a bad perm and a sweet smile. Her car had been found at a barbecue restaurant between the clinic where she worked as a nurse and her home. She didn’t pick up her phone-in order of ribs.
“Where does Ben Tierney call home?”
“He gets his mail at a condo he owns in Virginia, just outside D.C.,” Hoot replied. “But he’s rarely there. Travels extensively.”
Begley came around. “Do we know why?”
Hoot shuffled the stack of printed materials he’d brought in with him and came up with a popular magazine for outdoor sports and activities. “Page thirty-seven.”
Begley reached for the magazine and thumbed to the page, finding there a story about rafting the Colorado River.
“He’s a freelance writer,” Hoot explained. “Goes on thrill-seeking adventures and vacations, writes about them, sells the articles to magazines that cater to particular interests. Mountain climbing, hiking, hang gliding, scuba diving, dogsledding. You name it, he’s done it.”
Accompanying the article was a color photograph of two men standing on the rocky shoal of a river, white water in the background. One of the men was bearded, stocky, and a lot shorter than six feet three. He was identified beneath the photo as the guide for the trip.
The other smiling rafter fit Tierney’s description. Wide, white smile in a lean, tanned face. Windblown hair. Calves as hard as baseballs. Sculpted arms. Washboard abs. Michelangelo’s David in a pair of cargo shorts.
Begley scowled down at Hoot. “Are you fucking kidding me? He’s the kind of man women throw their panties at.”
“Ted Bundy was a reputed ladies’ man, sir.”
Begley snorted, conceding the point. “What about women?”
“Relationships?”
“Or whatever.”
“His neighbors in Virginia barely know him because he’s seldom there, but unanimously they said they’d never seen a woman at his place.”
“A good-looking bachelor like him?” Begley asked.
Hoot shrugged. “He could be gay, I guess, but there’s no indication he is.”
“He could have a ladylove stashed away somewhere else,” Begley ventured.
“If he does, we’ve found no evidence of one. No long-term relationship. Or short term for that matter. But, as I said, he travels a lot. Maybe he, you know, catches, uh, romance when and where he can.”
Begley ruminated on that. Serial rapists or women killers rarely cultivated or maintained healthy, lasting relationships. Indeed, they typically had an intense dislike for women. Depending on the psyche of the offender, the hostility could be latent and well concealed, or openly expressed. Either way, it was usually manifested in violent acts against the opposite sex.
“Okay, you’ve aroused my interest,” Begley said, “but I hope you have better than this.”
Hoot shuffled through more paper. Finding the sheet he was looking for, he said, “This is a quote from Millicent Gunn’s diary. ‘Saw B.T. again today. Second time in past three days. He’s so freaking cool. Always very nice to me.’ The very is underlined, sir.
“ ‘I think he likes me. Takes time to talk to me even though I’m fat.’ That entry was dated three days before her disappearance. Her parents claim none of her friends are named B.T. They don’t know anyone who goes by that name or has those initials.”
“Fat?”
“Actually, Miss Gunn is anorexic and bulimic.”
Begley nodded, having read on her stat sheet about her hospitalization last year. “Where did she see this B.T. twice in three days?”
“That’s what put me onto Ben Tierney. I went digging to see who B.T. might be. The first logical place to look was the high school. I came up empty. All the B.T.s were girls.
“Second logical place would be where Millicent works. She clerks part-time in her uncle’s store. In addition to hardware and gardening equipment, he sells . . .” Hoot paused and pushed up his eyeglasses. “Sporting goods, clothing, and equipment.”
Begley turned back to the corkboard, studying the photographs of the five apparent victims as he thoughtfully tugged on his lower lip. He focused on the first. “Was he in Cleary at the time Torrie Lambert disappeared off that hiking trail?”
“I don’t know,” Hoot admitted. “So far I have no record of his being there on the actual day she disappeared. But he definitely was in town soon thereafter. The lodge’s registry bears that out.”
“Maybe after Torrie Lambert he thought the pickins in the area were good, so he came back, and has kept coming back ever since.”
“My thinking exactly, sir.”
“He travels. Have you researched similar missing persons cases near any of his destinations?”
“Perkins is working on that, too.”
“ViCAP, NCIC?” Begley ask
ed, referring to the information networks widely used by law enforcement agencies.
“Nothing.” After a short pause, Hoot continued. “But we don’t yet know all the places he’s been. We’re having to review his credit card statements to see where his travels have taken him over the last several years, then cross-checking our unsolved cases in those specific areas. It’s tedious and time-consuming.”
“Was he in the vicinity of Cleary when Millicent Gunn disappeared?”
“He checked into the lodge a week before her parents reported her missing.”
“What do the boys in the RA out there think about him?”
“I haven’t shared this information with them, sir.”
Begley came around. “Then let me rephrase. What do they think about you working this case?”
There was a resident agency nearer to Cleary than Charlotte. Hoot had been transferred from it to the field office in Charlotte thirteen months ago, but his investigation into Torrie Lambert’s disappearance and assumed kidnapping had begun in the RA that covered that jurisdiction. “It’s been my case from the start, sir. The agents in that office recognize it as such and frankly are glad to let me have it. I’d like to see it through, sir.”
Twenty seconds of silence ticked by as Begley continued to stare at the photographs on the corkboard. Suddenly he made an abrupt about-face. “Hoot, I think it’s worth our time to make a trip up there to talk to Mr. Tierney.”
Hoot was stunned. “You and me? Sir.”
“I haven’t done fieldwork in a long time.” Begley glanced around the walls of his office as though they’d suddenly become constricting. “It’ll be good for me.”
Having made the decision, he began immediately to plan their course of action. “I don’t want it to get around Cleary that we’re looking at Ben Tierney. How did you explain your interest to that . . . What’s his name, the owner of the lodge?”
“Gus Elmer. I told him that Tierney is a contender for a humanitarian award at his alma mater and that all aspects of his life are being reviewed.”
“And he bought that?”
“He’s got three teeth, sir.”
Begley nodded absently, his mind already racing ahead. “For as long as possible, let’s keep the local PD in the dark, too. I don’t want to put them on alert and give them a chance to fuck it up if this guy’s Blue. What’s the asshole’s name?”