by Kylie Brant
Because in her heart she already knew the answer.
“Go back. Before he comes.” It seemed to take everything Van Wheton had to force the words out. Given the whispery hoarseness of her voice, Sophia assumed she’d been choked by the offender, and had an immediate pang of empathy.
“It’s all right. We are getting out of here.” She sounded more certain than she felt. There was something about walking about freely, outside of a cell that solidified her purpose. Once given even a small taste of freedom there was no way she’d give it up again.
With one hand on the door to guide her, she explored the confines of the building. When she reached the corner she nearly tripped over a pile of materials in a jumble there. Judging from the cobwebs she encountered, they’d been there quite a while. Sophia picked up each item, or dragged it closer to the nearest pinprick of light coming in through the cracks. She could see now that the limestone partial wall in the back of her cell continued around the perimeter of the building.
But when she was able to examine each object she’d found in the tiny beam of light, her heart sank. Useless ancient junk, all of it. Pieces of scrap metal that looked like spare parts for some sort of machinery. A roll of rusted wire. A barrel with wooden slats, half rotted with age. When she heard something skittering inside it, Sophia took a cautious step away.
Even though she couldn’t imagine how any of those objects would help her open the door, she continued her search, feeling encouraged. The cell where she’d been kept had been barren. But the building wasn’t empty. Not completely. Surely there had been other items left behind.
She continued to search, staying close to the wall, stopping each time she encountered an unfamiliar object. There were lengths of pipe, and she hefted one grimly. If she wasn’t able to find a way out, she now had a weapon. Maybe she’d be able to surprise her abductor as he opened the door.
The thought of swinging the pipe through the air, making contact with his head brought twin spears of squeamishness and satisfaction. Sophia had never struck anyone in her life. She had a feeling it would be all too easy with this sadistic UNSUB.
She dragged the pipe along with her, but had to set it down each time she found something else to identify. Her left hand wasn’t capable of holding anything, and ached constantly. Under the circumstances, it was the least of her worries.
Her progress was slower than she’d like, and she was acutely aware that the miniscule beams of light were fading. The realization had her hastening her step. That, and the sudden thought that any building, even one as old as this, would likely have a second exit.
She found it on the center of the wall adjacent to her cell. Dropping the pipe, Sophia ran her hands over the rough doorway, slowing when she discovered the seam running the width, splitting the door in half. Comprehension dawned. She had the answer to one question now. They were being held in a barn.
And the thought of just how many of the structures dotted the landscape around the state had her realize just how unlikely their rescue was.
Running her hands over the rough boards, she could find no handle or knob. There was, however, a couple uniform holes in the wood near the edge that might signify where one had once been.
A new plan took shape in her mind even as she continued along the wall trying to find any other items that had been left behind. One of the pipes on the other side of the barn had been a half-inch in diameter. She might be able to use it as a crowbar to pry the frame off around the doorway she’d just discovered.
But then leaning against the wall twenty feet from the cells, she found the treasure that she knew was going to be her ticket to freedom.
A pitchfork.
Giddy with delight, she clutched it close in newfound possessiveness, before doing a tactile examination. The metal handle was loose and it had only two tines. But each felt solid. And better, they were slimmer than even the smallest pipe she’d found.
Retracing her steps to the split door she’d found, Sophia abandoned her original plan. Setting the pitchfork down she ran her fingers along first one side of the door, and then the others, until she found what she was searching for.
The hinges.
# # # #
“You sure you want to do this?” The doubt expressed in Beckett’s voice echoed that of the Boone County Attorney’s when Cam had made his pitch earlier. “This morning you didn’t give a shit about what Jerry Price claimed to know.”
“This morning I didn’t have any way of verifying what he said. Now hopefully I will. And you don’t have to worry.” He shifted to get more comfortable. The narrow wooden chair he occupied in front of the scarred wooden table in the sheriff’s conference room wasn’t exactly cushy. “Your county attorney is no more anxious than you are to offer this scumbag a deal. Most likely Price is blowing smoke to avoid going back inside on the weapon’s charge.” If every ex-con he’d ever met had the type of information they suddenly claimed to possess when faced with a prison sentence, there’d be no unsolved crimes in the country. “But on the off chance he isn’t…we’re just talking, that’s all.” Cam shot him a half-hearted grin. “Probably be the shortest conversation you’ve heard since your last girlfriend dumped you.”
Beckett looked amused. “The one where she said, ‘You’re just too big?’”
“The one where she said, ‘I can do better.’”
Unperturbed, the sheriff picked up his radio. “You don’t know my last ex. If you did, you’d realize those words were punctuated with a lengthy disparaging commentary about the deficiencies in my parentage.” He spoke into the radio. “All right, Owens, bring him in.”
Cam waited for Jerry Price to be shown into the room, fairly certain that Beckett was right. Nine times out of ten, these conversations were a waste of time. There was little a convict wouldn’t do to avoid paying the consequences of his actions with a stint in prison.
But given the details Sophie had managed to embed in the phony profile that was currently airing as breaking news on KCCT, he’d know whether the ex-con was merely playing him without having to waste more than a few minutes on the conversation.
The door opened and a uniformed deputy held it to allow Price entry. He was doing the jailhouse shuffle, courtesy of the leg chains that matched the set on his wrists. His dark hair was a bit greasier than the night he’d been arrested. His beard was filling in, and shot with gray. But jail hadn’t dimmed his attitude.
“Well, look who’s been shopping.” The man grinned at him, edging into the chair the deputy indicated. “That suit’s in better shape than the last one I saw you wearing.”
“Good times,” Cam said mildly. “I like the look you’ve got going on, too. Not everyone can pull off county orange. But that jumpsuit seems to be made for you.”
Price folded his hands and set them on the table, the action sending the links jangling. “Since you’re here, I figure the sheriff told you ’bout my offer. The deal is, you make the weapons charge go away, and I give you information that will lead you to the guy kidnapping and burying all those women.”
Cam laughed in genuine amusement. “You could draw me a map to his house, and that weapons charge still stands. The best you’re going to be able to do with the Boone County Attorney is get him to recommend a reduced sentence to the judge, and that’s only for information leading to an arrest. Something I highly doubt you have.”
“Guess you’re not going to find out.” Price studied the prison tat on the back of one knuckle in studied boredom. “That’s my asking price, and I’m not in the mood to be generous.”
“Sorry to waste your time.” Cam’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back and rose. “Thanks, Sheriff.”
“No problem.” He and Beckett headed for the door.
Price turned to look after them, half rising from his chair. “Hey, now.” The deputy put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him firmly back in his seat. Cam turned in the doorway and lifted a brow. “Thought you were done talking.”
“You fellas
need to learn a little bit about the art of negotiation.” The ex-con struck a conciliatory tone. “The deal is, I give a little, you give a little…”
“That’s where you’re mistaken. There’s no negotiation going on here.” Cam returned to the table, but didn’t sit. He set his hands on the table, leaning forward. “I doubt very much whether you have anything worth the price of the gas it took to drive over. But I’ve made the only offer I’m going to. You talk or I walk. It’s as simple as that.”
The truculence that came over the man’s expression was familiar. “Any lawyer worth his salt could get me a better deal than that.”
“Then maybe you’ll want to re-consider acting as your own attorney,” Beckett put in wryly.
Price didn’t respond. His gaze was fixed on Cam. “You staying, or what?”
“You giving me a reason to?”
A jerk of a shoulder served as assent. Slowly, Cam sank into his chair, aware of the minutes ticking by. “Okay, here’s the deal. I did time with this guy, my first cellie on my last stretch. He used to say some stuff. Like we’d talk, you know, to pass the time. Perfect crime, and all that. Purely theoretical.”
“Is that when you practiced your vocabulary, too?”
“I’m no dummy. Neither was this guy.” Price’s gaze was intent on Cam. “He was only in for five years for his second breaking and entering. Thing is, he told me he committed hundreds of B and Es that they never looked at him for. Did a lot more than that, too, if the bitch of the house was home when he called, if you get my meaning.”
“I’m still waiting for you to get to the part where I start to care.”
Price flashed a palm. “Wait for it. So we were doing time in Nebraska, but turned out he’d spent a lot of summers in Iowa growing up. We hit it off. He made a decent haul carrying off electronics and jewelry and what not, but cellie says how he’s got bigger plans than that. How he was putting something together when he got out where instead of breaking into houses, he’d be snatching up these rich bitches and making them draining their bank accounts.”
“You like TV, Jerry?” Cam made a point of looking at his watch. “Bet you do. Because you got every bit of that story off the news. There’s not an original detail in it, and you are out of time.” He made to rise.
“I didn’t get this from TV, swear to God.” Price thumped his folded hands on the table. “That stuff I said, about him grabbing up wealthy women, that was his deal. So when I heard the news shows, yeah I thought about him.” When Cam continued to look unimpressed, Price said, “I got a name. You check out my cellie, bet you won’t find him in Nebraska. Know why? He said he might go to Iowa when he got sprung. Had a grandpa he used to visit by Ankeny. Said the old man used to live on a farm and raise ostriches.”
Everything inside Cam stilled. There was no way Price could know the lab results. No way that information had been leaked to the press.
“Yeah, I had a grandpa that raised do-do birds. We used to race them. Tie them up to dog sleds to pull us through the snow.”
Beckett’s sarcasm broke the silence. Price looked from him to Cam. “Okay that was probably one of the things he was lying about. But you check him out. I’m saying, whoever is snatching those women is pulling exactly the same gig my cellie was planning.”
“Name.” Cam kept his tone bored although mental gears were spinning. The mention of the ostriches was too unique to ignore.
Price’s expression went sly. “I get consideration with the judge, right? The prosecutor agreed?”
“You’re getting way ahead of yourself,” the sheriff said with a scowl. “What was the cellmate’s name?”
“Mase Vance. Mason Vance, but everyone called him Mase.”
“I need a description.”
Price frowned at Cam’s demand. “I don’t know. Dirty blond hair, I guess. Sort of bushy. Blue eyes. Tall as me, but solid. He took some knocks when we were inside. Always thought he was a tough guy, but there’s always someone tougher. He bulked up a little while we were in. Said he was going to get serious about it once he was released.”
Cam had heard enough. “Why would he come to Iowa?”
“He said his grandpa was going to leave his place to him. Not the farm, some house in a little craphole town around here. I don’t remember where. Never heard of it before.” He stopped then, leaned back in his chair. “That’s solid info right there. You can use it, right? Swing some weight with the judge.”
“Is there any chance at all that he heard deputies talking about the lab analysis?”
They were back in Beckett’s office. Cam was in a chair barely more comfortable than the one in the conference room, his computer balanced on his lap as he combed through databases to verify Price’s story.
“It’s doubtful, but hard to tell. I knew, and so did Owens because he was with me when we checked out the Quade Ostrich Ranch. Pleasant couple,” he added sardonically. “Had to get a warrant before they allowed me to step foot on their property. And I can’t be certain the dispatcher didn’t mention our location to one of the other deputies. So…” His shrug was its own answer. There was no way to be sure.
“Okay,” Cam said, scanning the computer screen at the information he’d pulled up. The first part of his tale is true. He bunked with a Mason Vance for Vance’s entire five year stretch.”
“The best lies begin with a kernel of truth.” The sheriff turned to his own computer. “You got a date and place of birth for him?”
It was contained in the man’s arrest record, so Cam read it off. Then he brought up a photo of Vance along with the terms of his release. No parole, as he’d served his entire sentence. Which meant he’d been free to leave Nebraska upon his release and go wherever he wanted, with no one keeping tabs on him.
He studied the man’s mug shot intently. It definitely didn’t match the man in the sketch Jenna had drawn of the man Muller had seen in the Edina park. But the code in Sophie’s last profile had said as much. According to her they were looking for a bald man, a change easy enough to affect. Similarly the man’s missing tooth could have occurred at any time since his release. It wasn’t noted in the physical description of the man.
Tattoos were. Half-sleeves on each arm and a fire-breathing dragon on his back right shoulder. Give him a couple years on the outside to bulk up, and this could be the man Sophie had described.
Trouble was, her description would also likely fit dozens of others.
Nevertheless he picked up his cell phone, dialed Jenna’s number. When she answered, he gave her an abbreviated account of the conversation he’d had with Price.
“Do you believe him?” She knew as well as he did how little credibility these guys had.
“Verifying the details of this story,” Cam said noncommittally. “According to the details Dr. Channing coded in the revised profile, the UNSUB is a weightlifter. Call around to every gym and fitness center in Des Moines and its suburbs. See if they have a Mason or ‘Mase’ Vance on their membership roster.”
After hanging up he did a quick Internet search, but found no current listings for a Mason Vance in either Iowa or Nebraska. Undeterred, he checked the DMV records. No license had been issued to someone fitting that name and age.
“I don’t see an owner of a white cargo van listed under that name,” Beckett muttered, scrolling down his screen.
After thinking for a moment, Cam logged on to a genealogy site that offered free one-month subscriptions. He had Vance’s name, and his place and date of birth. That was enough for a fishing expedition.
After wasting several minutes registering and typing in a search, he muttered, “There he is. Found the son-of-a-bitch.”
“Vance?” The sheriff spun around in his chair to stare at him. “How?”
“His name pops as a descendent when I do a search of his grandpa. The one who was born in Polk County.” Real excitement started to hum in his veins. He couldn’t forget what Sophie had mentioned in the geographic profile she’d developed. That the o
ffender would be in the area because of something familiar that anchored him here.
If Price was correct about Vance being an heir to his grandfather’s estate, that anchor could be the home the old man had left him.
“Ivan Stanford.” He read the information off the site. “One daughter, Evelyn Marie Stanford, deceased. She was married to Walt Vance, also deceased. One surviving grandson, Mason Vance. The old man’s address last listed address was Alleman, Iowa.”
“Alleman?” It was clear from the expression on Beckett’s face that he was trying to place the town. “Little bitty place. Somewhere around Ankeny, right?”
Cam didn’t answer. He was busy typing in another search on the computer. Finding the phone number he was looking for, he stood, powering off the laptop as he made a phone call. “Justin Jeffries,” he said as soon as someone came on the line. When the younger man answered, Cam said without preamble, “That place you were telling me about today. The guy who raised ostriches in the eighties. What was his name?”
“Stanford,” came the answer. Cam scooped up the laptop and headed for the door at a half run at the response. “Ivan Stanford. Last I heard he was retired and living in some small town nearby. Alleman, maybe.”
The flat hinges stretched from door to jamb, and should have taken far less work than had the boards in Sophia’s cell. This time, however, she was working one-handed, so her movements were slower than normal. Awkward. When she had removed the hinges, the lower part of the split door still didn’t budge. So she used the tines of the pitchfork to pry the old wood away from the jamb. Weathered and rotting, it gave easily. She was able to pull most of the lower door away. A wide shaft of sunlight poured through the opening. The sight of it had her heart kicking a faster beat.
Outside. Freedom.
The sheer joy of being this close made her dizzy for an instant. There were two two-by-fours hammered across the doorway from the outside. She dropped the pitchfork and picked up the solid metal pipe and used it as a hammer to pound the lowest board outward. This timber was fresher, and far more solid than the barn door had been. Sophia was sweating and panting by the time she’d knocked it free.