by Debra Webb
Tony nodded. “Conway’s murder was far more emotional. His killer knew him. Hated him.”
Buckley nodded. “That’s my thinking.”
“Chief Buckley!”
Tony and the chief turned as the officer rushed into the bedroom. “Chief Phelps needs to see you, sir.” He looked to Tony. “You, too, Agent LeDoux.”
Agent. What do you know? Tony was apparently back on the right side of this cluster fuck with the local cops. Whatever he had to do. Bringing Tiffany and Vickie home safely was all that mattered.
Joanna, too. Maybe she was still waiting for this to be over so she could go back home.
Downstairs, Phelps gestured to the computer screen. “Have a look at this.”
Tony and Buckley moved around behind where the chief was seated at the table. The screen was frozen on the front door of Martin’s home.
“There’s no video in the bedroom,” Phelps explained. “Only at the entrances to the home. This is the last person to come into this house last night just after midnight and the first and only person to leave at ten forty-five this morning.”
A young woman, nineteen or twenty at most; short, tight blue dress; mega high heels; big tote bag–style purse arrived in the middle of the night. Martin met her at the door, gave her a big hug, and then invited her inside.
“She looks really young,” Buckley noted. “Like one of the students at the college.”
“Another freshman,” Tony agreed. Like Tiffany.
“She’s blonde,” Phelps said. “What you want to bet if we search that bedroom upstairs closely enough we’ll find a match for the hair we found at Conway’s apartment.”
Tony said, “There’s someone else who needs to see this video.”
Both Phelps and Buckley swung their attention to him. Phelps was the one to demand, “Who?”
“One of Martin’s and Conway’s first victims.”
Before they could demand any more answers, Tony walked outside, the idea that Conway had raped Parton twisting in his gut. Had Martin interrupted before he could do the same to Tif or had he already finished with her? The entire concept made him sick to his stomach. He suddenly wished the son of a bitch was still alive so he could kill him.
Joanna watched him approach the car. When he reached her door her eyes widened in question. She opened the passenger side door and got out. “What’s going on?”
“There’s video.”
She blinked. “What do you mean?”
“The Bureau’s forensic team was able to pull some video off the hard drives in Conway’s apartment. They now have proof he and Martin-Houser-Whoever took my niece and the other girl.” He held her gaze. “As well as a third girl. Just like you said.”
The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered wildly. “Was there anything about the other person or persons involved?”
“Not yet. But we may also have the unsub who murdered Conway and Martin on the home security video. I want you to have a look to see if you recognize her. She may be connected to someone else involved. Maybe one of the other victims you interviewed.”
Joanna nodded. “All right.”
He felt her tension mounting as they entered the house. The walk along the hall to the dining room felt like miles. When they reached the huddle around the laptop Joanna moved closer to him.
“This is Joanna Guthrie.”
Buckley frowned. “I thought your name was Carrie Cole.”
She shrugged. “I made that up.”
“What’s this about?” Phelps demanded. “I thought she was your girlfriend.”
Tony looked at her, urging her to tell them the truth.
“I was lured into a trap by Miles Conway and Hailey Martin—she was Madelyn Houser back then. Eighteen years ago. Ellen Schrader, too. Carson. Ellen Carson. Carson was her maiden name. We were taken the Friday before spring break. We were found fourteen days later.”
“Wait, wait,” Buckley said. “I pulled some old files and found this case—your case. It’s the only one I found that was anything like this one.”
Joanna took a breath. “There were others. One each year after we were taken for another four years. Different colleges, different times of the year. Of the ten victims, only four are still alive. They all described a blonde woman and a dark-haired man as flirting with them or associating with them in some way before they disappeared. The descriptions fit Conway and Martin.”
“She’s done extensive research,” Tony said. “It wasn’t until today—when you told me about the recovered video footage that we had evidence to back up what she’s been telling me all week.”
Phelps stood and offered Joanna his seat. “Have a look at this video and tell me if you recognize this woman.”
As Joanna moved around the desk, Tony brought her up to speed. “She’s the only person besides Martin who came into the house last night and she was the only one to leave this morning.”
Phelps cued up the video.
Joanna stared at the video for five seconds before speaking. “Oh my God.”
“You recognize her?” Tension coiled tighter in Tony’s gut.
“I’ve only seen a photo of her once when she was about thirteen, but this...” She glanced up at Tony, then stared at the screen once more. “I’m as positive as I can be that this is Sylvia Carson, Ellen’s daughter.”
For the benefit of the chiefs, Tony explained, “Ellen Carson was raped when she was abducted—the same way Vickie Parton was. She realized weeks after the nightmare was over that she was pregnant. She had the child and her parents raised her so the child grew up thinking she was Ellen’s younger sister.” He shifted his attention back to Joanna. “She’d be what? Seventeen?”
Joanna nodded. “She must have learned that Ellen was her real mother and what happened to us all those years ago. It’s the only way she could possibly have known to come after Conway and Houser.” Joanna put her hand to her mouth, then let it fall away. “That’s what Ellen’s husband meant.” She lifted her gaze to Tony. “She left him a note before she killed herself. All it said was ‘She knows everything.’”
“First thing we need to do,” Phelps said, “is to find this Sylvia Carson. I’m not releasing anything about this murder for the next twenty-four hours, maybe more. We want Carson to think she’s gotten away with it so she doesn’t go to ground.” He surveyed those gathered around the laptop. “The cell phone belonging to Martin...Houser—whatever the hell her name—isn’t the only thing around here missing. There’s an empty leather gun case in her nightstand. We couldn’t find anything registered to her, but whatever kind of gun she had is missing, too.”
Joanna stared at the frozen image on the screen as she recited Ellen’s husband’s name and address as well as the names and address of Ellen’s parents. “Sylvia has antisocial personality disorder. When I spoke to Ellen’s husband, he mentioned that Sylvia had run away from home.” She shrugged. “A few days ago, maybe.” She shook her head. “Oh my God, I can’t believe she did this.”
Buckley said, “We’ll need a full statement from you, Ms. Guthrie.”
Tony reached for her. “We’ll come into your office tomorrow. Right now Ms. Guthrie needs some time to deal with this.”
Tony pulled her to her feet and ushered her toward the door.
“We’ll be expecting you first thing in the morning,” Buckley called behind them.
“Your friends from the Bureau will likely be there, too,” Phelps warned.
Tony gave a wave of acknowledgment before walking out the door. When they were in the car, Joanna stared at him as he buckled first her seat belt and then his own. He started the car and drove away. They were two blocks away before she spoke.
“What’re we doing now?”
“We’re going to find the only other lead connected to our dead players that we know of.”
“What lead?”
He braked for a traffic light. “You said Madelyn Houser worked for a Professor Blume?”
She nodded. “I think that’s how she chose Ellen and me. She worked at the college so she had access to the students, maybe their records.”
His thoughts exactly. “Madelyn Houser was fired from the university for stealing from students. Maybe Blume had her checking out potential victims and their extracurricular activities. She may have gotten greedy and decided to take a little something on the side and got caught. But she was very good at what Blume needed her to do so he hired her back—after hours, of course.”
Considering how Houser had lived, she’d earned a great deal of money over the years, particularly in contrast to Miles Conway. Then again, maybe the man only cared about cars. Besides the Ferrari, he could have a whole stash of high-end sports cars in a rented garage somewhere. On the other hand, Houser had mentioned that she’d married well.
“Blume could be the person in charge.” Joanna glanced at Tony, then turned her attention back to the passing landscape. “As a psychologist and advisor he would’ve known everything about the students. Their weaknesses, their strengths. He worked most hands-on with the freshman class. He was the go-to guy for freshmen in need of advisement.” She rubbed at her eyes. “I don’t know why I never thought of that. He was always so nice and caring. I wouldn’t have considered him capable of being that kind of monster. He...he was part of the school staff. He made us feel safe.”
“Sometimes monsters are the nicest people.” Tony reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “That’s why so many go unnoticed for years.”
His source had confirmed that Blume was involved with some sort of work at the old Central State Hospital until very recently. Just maybe, all the pieces were finally beginning to come together.
“No one will ever believe he did this.” Joanna shook her head. “I’m not sure I can believe it.”
“At the moment, he’s our only known connection between you and Houser. Which is why we’re going to find him.”
Hopefully before he ended up as dead as Houser and Conway.
36
Day Seven
Eighteen years ago...
The movies won’t stop.
They play over and over and my eyes and brain can’t take it anymore.
We all lie on our sides on the floor curled into balls. Our knees pulled to our faces, our eyes squeezed shut.
Why doesn’t it stop?
I’m so hungry. No water today.
Is it another day?
I don’t know how long the movies have been playing. I can’t remember when they started. An hour ago? A day? Weeks—it feels like weeks. No. Couldn’t be weeks. I haven’t been in this place a week—have I?
Then the screaming starts.
I sit up. Who’s screaming? The three of us—Ellen, me and No-Name—are huddled close on the floor looking around at the insane images. The screams match the images. Women screaming. Children screaming. Men wailing—so much shrieking.
I just want it to stop. I put my hands over my ears and close my eyes.
Don’t look, don’t listen.
But I can see the images through my weary eyelids. I can hear the screams no matter how hard I press my hands against my ears.
My head is spinning.
Please make it stop.
37
8:00 p.m.
“You should eat.”
Jo plucked a fry from the bag and stuffed it into her mouth. She didn’t want to eat. She had no appetite. The fry was like chewing wax. “Satisfied?”
By the time they found Blume’s house it was too dark to see anything and no one was home. Disgusted, LeDoux opted to call it a night. She hadn’t argued. They’d hit a drive-through as soon as they reached Milledgeville city limits. He’d wanted to stop and have a decent meal but she’d wanted to go straight back to the inn. A drive-through was the compromise. She needed quiet. Spending this much time with other people was not the norm for her. After all that had happened, she needed her solitude as badly as she needed the air to breathe.
She had to think.
She closed her eyes and wished LeDoux would drive faster. Jesus, how could this be? How could a child have done these things?
Just look at what you did when you were hardly a year older than her.
Jesus Christ, no wonder Ellen couldn’t take it anymore. She’d lived with what they’d done, assuaging her conscience with alcohol all these years. Why had she suddenly told her daughter the truth? Had Sylvia learned Ellen was really her mother and demanded to know why she hadn’t claimed her as more than her sister?
Why else would she tell her after all these years?
What a screwed-up mess. Jo could only imagine what Ellen’s parents were going through right now.
What about your own family? Look what you’ve put them through.
Guilt stabbed her to the bone. This was why she stayed deep in her own little world. She didn’t have to think about these things, didn’t have to feel. Except she had started to feel. She turned to study the man behind the wheel. He had helped her to dare to feel again, to want more. Damn it. Where the hell did she go from here?
“At least the investigation is moving in some sort of forward direction now.” LeDoux glanced at her. “Having the locals on the same sheet of music is always a good thing.”
“Guess so.”
A BOLO had been issued for Ellen’s daughter, Sylvia Carson. Mr. and Mrs. Carson had last seen her three nights ago when she’d left in her Honda Civic headed to a friend’s house to spend the night. She never showed at the friend’s house but they didn’t know until the next afternoon when she failed to come home from school. Frantic for some sort of explanation of why she’d suddenly run away, Mr. and Mrs. Carson discovered Sylvia had stopped taking her meds at least a month ago and started sampling a number of illegal drugs. On top of that, Ellen had committed suicide.
Jo could almost see how, in Ellen’s mind, she had ruined one child and was on the road to harming two others. No wonder she ended it all.
“She’s seventeen,” Jo said, her chest aching so hard she could barely breathe. “She planned those murders like a pro. Still, I don’t see how she knew who to look for unless Ellen told her.” She dropped her head against the headrest. “The few times we talked about it, Ellen said she never wanted Sylvia to know any of it. But there’s no other way she could have known. No one knew the things that really happened except the two of us.”
LeDoux asked, “What about her husband?”
“No. He had no idea.” She thought about the dismay she’d heard in his voice when he realized his wife had only one friend—not that Jo had been a true friend. She should have been. She dragged in a shaky breath. “Art is one of those hardworking, dedicated husbands who believes all is right and good in the world. He kisses his wife on the cheek every morning and goes off to work his twelve-hour day, assuming that she will take care of their neat little world while he’s gone.”
“Yeah.” LeDoux studied the traffic in front of him. “I know the type, maybe a little too well. He has no clue his personal life is falling apart until one day he comes home and all his clothes are waiting on the porch.”
Jo turned to stare at him. “Your wife did that?”
He nodded. “She liked the home we had built together—she just didn’t want me in it anymore. I was too disconnected from her and our marriage. I only cared about work.”
“That’s what she thought?”
He laughed. “That’s what I was. She was sick of my drinking. And she wanted kids. I couldn’t go there...not after all the sickos I’ve seen.”
“You didn’t try to fix it?” Wasn’t that what normal people did? Maybe former Special Agent LeDoux was broken, too.
He shook his head. “I waited to
o late. She’d already turned to someone else. My fault. Not hers.”
That was a first. How often did you hear a guy claim responsibility? Maybe he really was the nice guy she’d pegged him for the first time they met. Jo closed her eyes. Distraction was not going to help her get to the person responsible for what happened to her and Ellen and all the others.
Another unimaginable thought occurred to her. “How could Sylvia do...what she did to Conway if Ellen told her everything?”
“She may not have told her that she suspected Conway was her father,” he suggested.
Jo hoped he was right about that part. The idea that she’d lured the man with sex made that option seriously sick. But then, desperate people did desperate things. Jo knew that all too well. And Sylvia was ill. Without her medication, her mind wasn’t working right. Besides, Jo had done her share of sick shit. Maybe the whole world was broken.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
“Eat,” LeDoux urged as he pulled into the parking area behind the inn.
“The fries are cold.” She crumpled the bag as they climbed out of the vehicle. Of course the fact that the food was cold was her fault. “I’ll get something from the snack bar.”
“Jo-Jo.”
Jo felt as if someone had stepped on her grave. She turned toward the male voice—the voice of her brother. No matter that it had been seventeen years since she’d seen him or heard his voice, she would know him anywhere. He rounded the hood of a pickup truck parked on the street and walked toward her.
“Ray?” Was her mind playing tricks on her? He couldn’t be here. Why would he come, after she’d deserted them? “What’re you doing here?” The only real possibility slammed into her gut. “Is Mom okay?”
Ray nodded. “Mom’s fine. I saw what’s happening on the news. She told me you were here and I...” He shrugged. “I wanted to see you. The chief of police told me where you were staying.”
Jo wasn’t surprised by that last part. LeDoux had said Phelps was watching them. Didn’t matter. But this—this was surreal. Ray was standing right in front of her. Her knees started to shake. Her eyes burned. Her big brother was here.