by Grilz, Jon
The morning air was cool, almost cold, and he could see the faint wisps of his breath against the infant morning. Dew glistened on the grass, spraying his ankles and calves with a fine mist as he trotted down the hill toward the road. Rick Astley sang that he was never going to give him up. Lockhart turned the volume up and began to run.
Lockhart’s secret to running was like driving long distances: cruise control. The key was to let his brain switch from alpha to beta waves, like on long car rides. He kept his breath deep and flat, from the diaphragm, and he never gasped or yawned, for fear that he might cause a rift in the all-important pattern. The more he could relax, the better off he was.
There was crispness in the air that was sharp on Lockhart’s lungs. The cool wave flowed into him and almost made him cough on more than a few occasions. He hugged the shoulder of the road and focused on the crunch of the small pebbles beneath his feet. All around him, for hundreds of square miles in every direction, there was nothing but green silence. The fact that Mikey’s body was found at all was something of a miracle. Every nook and cranny of the wilderness that Lockhart was trekking through could have concealed any kind of carcass, human included; they could have easily obscured, hidden, or buried thousands of them. Finding one body had to be some kind of providence.
Or was it?
Lockhart slowed to a trot, his thoughts distracting him from his dedication to proper breathing. His breath fogged the space before his eyes. “Intent,” he whispered to himself, inaudible over the sound of his earplugs. Did the killer want the body found? There had been no effort to hide it. Then again, there were no foot prints, either. Lockhart looked around. The mile marker indicated that he was still at least a mile down the road from the crime scene. Realizing this, he took off at a near sprint.
It took just under six hard minutes to get there. The more level-headed thing to do would have been to call the chief or deputy to ask for a ride to the scene, but as was often the case for Special Agent Lockhart, instinct had taken over. Lockhart slowed once again as he saw the muddied mess caused by all the cars that had parked there the day before. There was no way to determine if there were any additional prints, but he looked for drag marks or anything else that might indicate a struggle or a staged scene; he found nothing. In the cases he linked to Jack, the victims were all murdered with a certain brazen abandon: in cars, on a jog, or in their offices, for instance. The shooter went in, pulled the trigger, and left and he had never bothered to move his victims once the deed was done. He was patient, waiting for the perfect moment to do things his way.
The crime happened nearly ten miles from the Weber’s home. There were no bike tracks and no bicycle found, and Mikey was too young to have his driver’s license. Since there was no way Mikey would have walked out that far on his own, it was clear that someone had taken him out there.
To the best of Lockhart’s knowledge, Jack never forced the victim to go anywhere. Why now? Why Mikey Weber?
Lockhart began to think that he had been wrong all along. The more he investigated this crime, the less it seemed like the MO of his elusive Jack the Shooter. There was something different going on, and it was his job to find out what it was.
Chapter 17
Journal Entry:
I stand here, watching the FBI agent, just fifty yards away. The Fed’s attention is focused on the crime scene, of course, the place where I killed Michael Weber. He’s just standing there panting and sweating in his jogging clothes. The morning has just begun, but he is already on the scene. He felt the need to investigate even while out on a run? Impressive. Even my being here at this moment is happenstance.
But such beneficial happenstance!
The agent is middle aged, an experienced and dedicated investigator, if not an obsessive one.
Perfect.
Chapter 18
Lockhart took his time getting back to the bed-and-breakfast. Once he lost his focus on a run, it was always difficult—if not impossible—to keep going. Inside the B&B, Lockhart heard rustling from the kitchen. He smelled fresh coffee and was tempted to go get a cup, but he was covered in sweat and thought it best to retreat upstairs to the shower.
When he returned downstairs, no one would have recognized him as the man who had been out jogging. He was freshly shaved, and his hair was neatly combed. Since his suit was soiled from the forest, he was now wearing a powder-blue Hugo Boss shirt, dark blue tie and gray pants, essentially the remainder of the contents of his travel bag. Too bad the dry cleaner was out of business. Lockhart would need to do some shopping in Bemidji if he ever got the time.
Joy and Jill were busy in the kitchen, happily humming as they flittered about. Joy stopped and nudged her sister when she noticed the agent standing there.
“Good morning, ladies,” Lockhart said.
Jill blushed a little. “Good morning. Well, you certainly are a sight for sore eyes.”
This time, it was Lockhart who felt a blush coming on. He worked hard at looking presentable, but he had never been great at taking compliments. He managed an awkward “Thank you” and poured himself a cup of coffee from the large banquet urn in the dining room. Around it were assorted muffins and rolls. Clearly, the ladies were very good at running their inn, and he was glad to be one of their guests.
“Would you like some breakfast, Agent Lockhart?” Jill asked. “We made a frittata.”
“Darren please, Jill…and no thank you, not this morning. I am meeting Chief Donaldson in a bit at Dan’s Café.”
“Oh,” Jill said, with a sad disappointed-child tone. “Will you be in for dinner tonight?”
Lockhart took a sip of his coffee. “I am certainly going to do my best.”
Jill perked up a bit. “Oh good! Well, you have a great day, Darren.” She giggled and retreated into the kitchen.
Once again, Lockhart stepped into the Minnesota morning. The sun that had started to rise on his run was now gone, hidden behind an impenetrable gray veil of clouds, as if it might rain any minute. “Great,” Lockhart muttered, looking skyward and realizing he’d left his car at the police station. He could only manage a shuffling jog because of the coffee in his hand. His tie flipped and danced around his shoulders like a leaf in the wind with each gust of the cold breeze.
Besides the draft, the town was still. It was Saturday morning, so everyone was probably either sleeping in or already at Dan’s. Another crowd milled around as Lockhart walked in the front door. There was a ripple of silence from the patrons, accompanied by a lot of staring, which Lockhart ignored. He noticed the deputy through the kitchen window and found Donaldson sitting at a small, two-person table.
The chief kicked the empty chair out a bit as Lockhart approached, inviting him to sit down. He looked at his watch. “Eight on the dot. Punctual.”
“Always,” Lockhart said as he sat down. “Get any sleep?”
The chief scoffed as he took a drink from a tall, sweating glass of milk. “At my age? Hell, I piss five times a night. Plus, I’ve got the added concern about what kind of a mess this town meeting could turn out to be.”
A young waitress came over, with curly blonde bangs hanging in front of her eyes. She seemed overwhelmed by the crowd and asked, “What do you want to eat?”
Lockhart asked what she would recommend, to which she offered a nonchalant shrug, but the chief suggested he have the special.
“What’s in it?”
“Trust me,” he said, “you’ll like it. It’s going to be a big day; you’re going to need all the energy you can get.”
“How do you want your eggs?” the waitress asked.
“Over-medium.”
“Sausage or bacon?”
“Bacon.”
“Home fries or hash browns?”
“Jesus…hash browns.”
“White, wheat, or wild rice?”
“Wheat,” Lockhart said, assuming she was talking about toast, though he had never heard of wild rice toast.
“Coffee, juice?”
/> “Coffee and water please. Cream and sugar.”
And then she was gone; the order ticket was on the kitchen wheel before Lockhart had time to think about anything he’d selected.
“What did I just order?” Lockhart asked.
The chief reassured him that he would like it, and the two men moved on to going over what they would discuss at the town meeting. They both agreed to keep the details to a minimum. The key was to keep the people calm as best they could, and they both knew Weber’s fight the night before was just a preview of how bad it could get. Paranoia was bad enough, but mob mentality and ardent supporters of the Second Amendment made things dangerous.
They decided Donaldson would take the lead at the meeting. He was a familiar face whom the people could anchor their trust in. Lockhart would answer any of the more panicked or volatile questions. Details of the crime were off limits. Officially, it was an isolated incident, but if people were concerned about the overall safety of themselves or their families, an eight p.m. curfew was recommended. They would be warned that no one under eighteen should be out after that and that people should do their best to travel in pairs and groups.
It was all basic safety rhetoric. People assumed Jack was a lone nut who preyed on Mikey for some specific reason, and Lockhart hoped to keep it that way. If anyone knew how potentially random the act was, things would get ugly and Lockhart didn’t want additional federal agents milling around in town when he didn’t need them. However, if it came down to a potential riot, he wouldn’t hesitate to make the call and fill the town with suits. Agents Her, Young, and Estabrooks had driven back to Bemidji the night before, right after what had turned out to be an uneventful bar close, but they were only a short drive away if he needed them in a pinch.
The curly-haired server returned to the table with a massive oval plate and set it in front of Lockhart.
“Holy…! What is this?” Lockhart asked. He was somewhat confused by the culinary collision on the huge platter in front of him.
The server had already turned to walk away, but she returned to the table, rolling her eyes. She pointed at each item on the plate as she talked. “It’s chicken-fried steak, gravy, two eggs over-medium, hash browns, wheat toast, coffee, and water—just like you asked for.” And without another word, she walked away again.
Lockhart looked at the chief skeptically. “Chicken-fried steak? Fried steak?”
“Don’t knock it till you try it. I’m jealous. Doc won’t let me touch that stuff anymore on account of my cholesterol looking like a ZIP code. Can’t tell you how sick I am of bran.”
“And last night’s turkey and gravy was filled with bran?” Lockhart asked.
The chief arched an eyebrow and raised a single finger to his mouth. “Shh…don’t tell.”
Lockhart cut into the steak to find that it was actually fork tender. It had never occurred to him to fry a steak, let alone cover it in chicken gravy, but he had to admit it was delicious; tender, salty, peppery, and fatty—qualities he’d always enjoyed in a meal, though it was the kind of food he tended to avoid on his current exercise regimen. It wasn’t that he was overly health conscious, but junk food tended to exhaust him and he needed to fire on all cylinders at a moment’s notice.
Lockhart didn’t speak as he ate, as he found it hard to put down his fork. The deputy had cooked his eggs perfectly, with just slightly runny yolks. He mixed the hash browns with the eggs and yolks, but he could only get halfway through his plate before having to push it away. Even with morning runs, if he kept eating the Dan’s Café breakfast special, he was going to need a nap. It was going to be a long day regardless, just like the chief had said. After the town meeting, he had to drive back to Duluth to interview Mikey’s professor at the University of Minnesota-Duluth.
The two men were finishing their respective coffee and milk when the deputy came out from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, to ask what the plan was for the day. Lockhart made sure to compliment the deputy on his cooking. Attitude or not, the man had talent. Lockhart looked back into the kitchen and saw two heads darting back and forth in Freddie’s place, and filled the deputy in on the plan.
The deputy nodded along. “That’s a good idea. Keep it simple. Make people feel better.”
“Glad we’re finally on the same side, Deputy.”
“We were never on different sides, Agent. I just have some anger issues…and bad timing, I guess. I’m with you on this 100 percent.”
It was good to know, but Lockhart still had his reservations. He knew people well, and it could be disconcerting to see a person act rational when they had the capability of flying off the handle and becoming volatile. Never knowing what person would show up was something Lockhart didn’t want to deal with.
“When you’re done here, meet us at the law enforcement office, and we’ll touch base again before the meeting starts.”
Chapter 19
At ten a.m., the streets of Crayton were empty. Closed signs hung in all the windows, and there wasn’t any movement other than leaves and the occasional squirrel. Every person in the town was crowded into the gymnasium of the Crayton K-12 School.
It became quickly apparent that space would be at a premium as people crammed against collapsed bleachers. Banners and posters crumpled and tore against the constant fidgeting of bodies. The deputy had the good idea to extend the bleachers so people would have a chance to see over one another instead of the constant shove and the occasional hop from people in the back rows, demanding to see regardless of their tardiness.
As Special Agent Lockhart sat at the table, what unraveled in front of his eyes could only be summed up with one word: debacle. The chief had been right to warn the agent that the whole thing would be a mess. People shouted at Donaldson, they shouted at Lockhart, and they shouted at each other. They were a self-consuming fire that Lockhart hoped would exhaust itself sooner rather than later. To their credit, the chief and deputy tried their best to keep things brief.
Each person tried to talk over the voice of the person next to them. Their family’s safety was important. It was a simple statement that was met with malice, as it was taken that people thought their family’s safety was more important than anyone else’s. It went on and on like that. Picking out one voice was like deciphering what was being said at a Pentecostal church. The noise didn’t even sound English, but a jumble of slang, cursing and veiled threats, spoken in angry tones and hurried remarks.
The chief did his best to maintain the meeting and quiet the crowd to somewhere between a dull roar and an annoyed murmur. Eventually, they were all able to establish that they couldn’t force adults to adhere to a curfew without making people feel like they were being treated as suspects. However, it was agreed upon that anyone under the age of eighteen was not to be seen out in public, in the streets or the woods, after sundown. It was emphasized that the carrying of weapons, even with permits, was not recommended, and any lapse in judgment resulting in injury or death would be met with severe punishment. Fear was no excuse, though it would most likely be the defense of anyone breaking the rules.
Over two hours of primarily shouting later, Lockhart, Donaldson, and Lind stood outside the school, keeping an eye out for anyone who might still be agitated and riled up after the meeting.
“That went well,” Lockhart said sarcastically as he enviously watched Freddie light a cigarette.
“Actually, I thought it did. You haven’t been to a lot of small towns, have you?” Donaldson asked.
“Does Nashville count as a small town?” asked Lockhart.
Donaldson laughed and started to walk down the parking lot back to his cruiser. “People here will get mad over just about anything. Two things we have plenty of around here are ammo and opinions. The American Way, right?” He chuckled. “People seem mad, but at least it wasn’t violent. They got some answers. It’s all we could do.”
“I suppose you’re right, Chief,” Lockhart conceded.
The three men drove back to
the police station. Lockhart looked at his watch and exited the cruiser, heading straight to his rental car.
“Where are you off to now?” Chief Donaldson asked.
“Duluth. I need to follow up with the college classes Mikey took.”
“What’s the connection there?” Deputy Lind asked.
“Technology. You wouldn’t believe what kids share over the Internet. I have a tech waiting to look into his online accounts. I’m going to talk with the professor whose classes Mikey was auditing. I need you and the deputy to talk to his friends…and go together. See if he had been acting strangely or talking to anyone online.”
“You want us to find out if a teenager was acting strange?” the chief asked with a cock-eyed smile.
Lockhart shrugged. “Do your best. I’ll be back later tonight.”
Chapter 20
The trip back to Duluth was far shorter than his first trip, the one from Duluth to Crayton. Lockhart took the opportunity to call into his director for a status report. There wasn’t much to report, though the coroner and agents from the Bemidji agency had sent in the information from the autopsy and bar fight video; his superior didn’t seem concerned. Lockhart had been pulled off of investigations after just days when there were no results. There was always something more important, something more high profile that needed immediate concern. Prior to being assigned to Crayton, Lockhart had been working leads on a new series of murders involving children being abducted by a suspect known only as The Taker. Since the reports had turned nothing up, Lockhart suspected he would be reassigned to continue his previous investigation.