by Graham Smith
The chief is the first to speak. ‘This is Gayle Prosser. Her husband Donny went to work at seven this morning and never came home.’
I get her attention by touching her elbow. ‘Are you related to Frederick Masterton?’
‘He’s my nephew.’
I step into the corner of the room and gesture for the chief to join me. ‘How much do you know?’
‘They had a fight this morning and he hasn’t answered her calls all day.’ He gives an exasperated shake of the head. ‘She says it’s not the first time though. When they fight he tends to go for a beer. He doesn’t usually stay out all night, but this morning’s fight was a big one.’
‘Have you put a trace on his cell?’
Defeat fills his voice. ‘I’ve requested one, but I was told not to expect an answer before tomorrow afternoon.’
‘What’s his number? Alfonse will get it long before then.’ He hesitates. It’s one thing hiring us to help out, but to actively encourage us to break the law goes against every principle he is paid to uphold.
I watch his face as he conducts the internal debate. It doesn’t move beyond a tiny flickering of the eyelids. I know he’ll be balancing the probability of Prosser lying asleep on a buddy’s couch against the fact he could also be in the hands of a serial killer.
Concern for the safety of a civilian wins the battle with his instinctive law-abiding morals.
As he begins to open his notebook, my cell rings.
I listen to what Alfonse has to say, then read him the second number right from the chief’s notebook.
Taking the chief’s arm in my hand I make for the door.
Chapter 47
I turn onto Main Street and stop at the first set of lights, which are showing red. There’s no traffic but I have the chief of police sitting beside me. I’m only driving because his car was blocked in and mine wasn’t.
‘Dammit, Boulder. Put your goddamn foot down. Ain’t nobody in this town gonna give you a ticket tonight.’
I obey his instruction and streak through town until I’m heading towards the airport.
With Casperton behind me, I open up the Mustang until it’s approaching three-digit territory.
My eyes keep flicking to the odometer. Before hanging up, Alfonse told me Wendy Agnew’s cell was seven point two miles from the edge of town.
When I reach six and a half, I slow down to thirty in case his calculations are off. The chief opens his window and shines his flashlight onto the scrub at the side of the road.
We’re not sure what we’re looking for, but we’re looking anyway. I just hope it’s not a body we find. Apart from the fact another innocent will have died, us discovering one of his kills will put our families at risk from the killer.
My headlights bounce off a metallic silver car. The same kind of Ford Wendy Agnew owns.
I glance at the odometer. It shows seven point two miles travelled.
As I draw up beside the car, the chief uses his radio to summon two deputies. We climb out and circle the car, looking around as we do so. Finding nothing obvious, I stare out into the blackness as the chief shines his flashlight inside.
‘There’s nobody in the car.’
He gives me a pair of nitrile gloves and pulls on a pair himself.
We’ve found the car, but not the owner. The car being left here is odd. There is no real place for parking, no junctions or side roads. There isn’t even a track leading into the scrub.
I hear the chief trying a door handle as my eyes scan the darkness again. I can’t see anything due to the cloud cover but it doesn’t stop me sensing there’s something out there.
There’s a slight creak from the hinges as the car door opens. The chief reaches in and presses the button to release the trunk.
There’s a thunk as the mechanism releases the catch.
We move to the back of the car as if choreographed. My eyes never leave the wilderness surrounding us. My vigilance is involuntary, fuelled by an instinct borne of some primeval sixth sense.
The way the chief doesn’t comment on what I’m doing makes me realise he feels the same way. That he’s trusting me to keep lookout is a comforting endorsement, only offset by the fact he shares my nerves. When an experienced law enforcer like Chief Watson gets the jitters, it’s not without good cause.
‘It’s empty.’
He takes over guard duty while I sink to my knees with his flashlight and look underneath the car.
There’s nothing there except a small patch where oil has dripped from the engine. Standing up, I shake my head and return his flashlight.
I leave him shining his flashlight into the nearby brush and lean into the car. There’s an open handbag in the passenger footwell. It’s filled with the usual paraphernalia along with a cell phone and a woman’s purse.
I fish the scrap of desk pad from my pocket and use my cell to dial the number Agnew gave me. The cell in the bag rings, providing all the confirmation we need.
So where is she?
I don’t profess to be an expert on women, but I’ve met enough to know there are very few who’d leave their car in the middle of nowhere and go off without their bag or cell.
Therefore, this is the site of her abduction. Which brings us back to trying to work out who took her.
The realisation does something to me. I’m not sure whether it provides adrenaline or a higher state of consciousness, but I no longer fear whatever may be hiding in the shadows. The killer won’t be watching the abduction site. His style is to watch the place where he dumps his victims.
Looking around I see enough brush and scrub bushes fleetingly illuminated by the chief’s flashlight to know we’ll never find Wendy Agnew’s body tonight even if it’s twenty feet from here.
‘When the deputies get here, I’ll leave them to guard the car. We can start a search in the morning. You heard from your buddy yet?’
I shake my head. The chief’s subtext is I should call Alfonse to ask. There’s no point, he’ll be in touch as soon as he’s located Donny Prosser’s cell.
A check of my watch shows the time as five after three. If Alfonse takes the same time tracing Prosser’s cell as he did with Wendy Agnew’s my cell should ring within ten minutes.
We wait in silence until a patrol car arrives. When it does, the chief walks over and starts issuing orders before the patrolmen have fully exited the car.
I stare at my cell, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.
The chief joins me in my car, his raised eyebrow asking the question again.
I ignore him and start the engine.
We’re a mile or so from Casperton when my cell rings. I listen to what Alfonse has to say without commenting. There’s not a lot I can say, but an inner cussedness is making me enjoy the chief’s exasperated impatience.
Making a mental note of Alfonse’s directions, I end the call and hang a left at the first opportunity.
‘Well?’
The chief’s sole word carries insistence along with the full burden of his worry.
‘His cell was at his place of work until six thirty. After that Alfonse traced it to a couple of bars.’
‘I don’t want its family history, Boulder. I want to know where it is now.’
‘The last signal he got from it was a half mile out of town. He says it was near the bridge over Hangman’s Creek.’
‘That’s on the Forty towards Denver ain’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
I’ve forgotten just how new he is to Casperton. He’s still finding his feet in this town, learning the place and the people.
Like me, Alfonse and a lot of the other incomers, he’ll never achieve total acceptance by the town’s original inhabitants no matter how long he stays. If I have any children born and educated in Casperton, they’ll be classed as locals, but it’s not a status granted to anyone who moves into the town.
I ignore him as he pulls out his cell and starts issuing orders. My concentration is on my driving as I throw the Mustan
g into corners and hurtle along the deserted streets until I link with the Forty.
As we leave town, I slow in case Prosser’s cell is lying in pieces at the roadside. Nearing the bridge over Hangman’s Creek, I can guess why the trace on Prosser’s cell ended here.
The creek may only be a few feet wide at this time of year, but I can hear its roar as I park my car on the bridge.
The chief plays his flashlight down and picks out the frothing waters of Hangman’s Creek. I grip the railing a little tighter and try not to think of the water below me tumbling and fighting to gain passage through the rocky gulch.
I turn to face the chief. His silhouette shows against the first rays of morning sun. ‘How much do you want to bet Prosser’s phone is down there somewhere?’
He scowls at me. ‘You don’t know that for sure. Could be he just decided to skip town after fighting with his wife. Tossed his phone over the bridge on his way to a new life.’
‘So he worked all day, went for a couple of beers then just up and left town. Didn’t go home for a change of clothes or to say goodbye to his kids.’ I scowl back at him. ‘Do you believe that’s what happened?’
‘I’d like to, but no.’
We spend a few minutes scouting about the area without finding anything except scrub and rocks.
‘Take me back to the station, Boulder. I’ve search parties to organise.’
I keep my thoughts to myself as I drive him back. I’ve nothing useful to say and I know he’s got some thinking to do. If he kneads his temples any harder his knuckles are going to meet in the middle.
As we approach the station, I ask what he wants me to do next.
‘Obviously my priority is finding these missing people. I need you to help me speak to their families, while I send my detectives out to speak to anyone who may have seen Prosser last night.’
Chapter 48
I let myself into my apartment and decide not to bother Alfonse until I’ve had a shower. The need to wash the night’s discoveries off me is more compelling than checking a simple fact with him.
After scrubbing myself for five minutes, I drop the water temperature as low as it will go. The cold water does far more to energise me than yet another cup of coffee will. My body and brain feel sharper and more able to tackle whatever else the day throws at me.
Once dressed, I call Alfonse. For once, luck is on my side. Now I have this piece of information it shouldn’t be too hard to verify or discount an idea which has been bugging me.
The last two hours had been spent trying to extract details of favourite haunts, drinking buddies and so on from Prosser’s wife and his brother. While there was always the possibility he’d loaned his cell to someone or had it stolen, I don’t think that is the case and neither did his wife.
She had been so vehement about him never lending his cell to anyone, including her, it made me wonder if there was a specific reason he never let her use it. Being a cynic, my first thought was the reason may have blonde hair, long legs and a less confrontational nature than his wife.
A quiet word with Prosser’s brother when she nipped to the restroom had nixed this idea. With constant glances at the door, he’d told me how Prosser had been caught straying in the past and how close he’d come to losing his family over it. He described his brother’s experience as a hard-learned lesson.
I drink the last of the orange juice in my fridge and lift my keys from the counter. When I leave my apartment building I find a car blocking my Mustang into its usual space.
It’s a black Lincoln, which makes the FBI my first guess. My second thought is that unless Mr Steroids works for the FBI, my first guess is wrong.
Three of his fellow drug abusers clamber out of the car. They flex their muscles and throw mean stares around as if they want to intimidate someone or something.
I look behind me and see nobody else to intimidate, their target must be me as the garden doesn’t look scared.
It’s a shame they’ve travelled so far to waste their scowls. I’m guessing they aren’t here for a gurning competition.
Mr Steroids points at me. ‘That’s him. That’s the jerk who put me in plaster.’
I take a better look at the three lugheads as they lumber towards me. The one on the left is the same height as me but twice as wide, giving him the appearance of an orangutan. The one in the centre is the tallest, has a bald head and a goatee, while the final one is wearing a vest top which shows off full sleeve tattoos. The ones on his right arm appear stretched where the steroids have added bulk to an already tattooed arm.
It’s obvious why they’re here, so I start calculating the best way to deal with them. Three against one isn’t a fair fight, but I’ve faced worse odds.
They have muscle on their side but I have unpredictability and intelligence. It’s only Goatee who shows any spark in his eyes. The others have the dull bovine look of a cow being led into a slaughterhouse wondering why it can smell blood.
I’ll need to be quick about this. Superior strength and numbers will always beat a cunning fighter in a long-drawn-out battle.
Orangutan swings his arms wide, completing the look as he pumps himself up for confrontation. ‘You hurt our buddy. We’re here to make you pay.’
I reach into my pocket and pull out a dime which I flip at him. ‘That’s all you’re getting from me.’
It’s a petty insult but he charges at me with a great bellow. The move so predictable I have a smile on my face as I duck his flailing arms and deliver a thumping blow to his solar plexus. He falls, gasping for breath.
One down, two to go.
The other two are cagier now they’ve seen I can handle myself. They advance as a pair, shoulders a scant inch apart.
Goatee feints a right as Tattoos throws a left. My right arm flies up instinctively and makes enough of a connection to turn the punch into a glancing blow rather than a direct hit.
With my attention on Tattoos, Goatee grabs hold of my left wrist and delivers a savage tug.
It feels as if my shoulder has been torn from its socket but I don’t have time to dwell on the pain.
I dance two steps to my right so Tattoos is in Goatee’s way and then stride towards him feinting a left and delivering a roundhouse right. He ducks back causing me to miss, but there’s a thud as the back of his head collides with Goatee’s chin.
My foot connects with his groin before he has a chance to recover from the clash with Goatee. As he clutches his groin, I send a second roundhouse which connects with his chin.
‘Just you and me now.’ I accompany my words with a devil-may-care grin.
I see a hint of doubt in Goatee’s eyes, but still he presses forward.
He feints a couple of times then springs at me. A jab connects with my chin but I’m moving back so it doesn’t do too much damage. The right to my ribs does though.
Taking advantage of the blow’s impact he wraps his hands around my throat and slams me against the wall of the apartment block, pinning me against the rough bricks.
As his grip begins to tighten and his thumbs dig into my larynx, I kick out at his legs. My kicks land but with my back against the wall I can’t get enough of a swing to hurt or unbalance him.
With that tactic out, I have no option but to raise the stakes to another level.
I throw my hands out until my knuckles touch brick. Jerking them together in a pincer movement, I slam the heel of each hand into Goatee’s elbows.
The way he’s got me held, with his arms extended and his elbows locked, makes him vulnerable to this kind of retaliation. There’s a dual snap as both joints shatter.
He yelps and staggers back with his arms hanging and a dumb look on his face as if he doesn’t know what to do.
I solve his problem with a nose-destroying headbutt followed by an uppercut, which drops him in a heap.
Crossing to the Lincoln, I fix Mr Steroids with a more intimidating stare than his buddies could ever manage. ‘This ends here. This ends now. If you come af
ter me again, I’ll finish you and anyone you care to bring with you. Do you get what I’m saying?’
‘Mr Young ain’t gonna be happy with you for this.’ There is bravado in his voice but fear in his eyes.
‘How happy do you think he’d be if I got a friend of mine to tap into his website and identify all the people who have ever hired one of his courtesans? How happy do you think he’d be if my friend was to send an email in Mr Young’s name blackmailing all those clients?’ I’m making this up as I go but pricking his bubble is too much fun to pass up. ‘How happy do you think Mr Young would be if my friend was to send a full list of his clients to every journalist, blogger and radio station in the country?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Here’s what is going to happen. I’m going to go back into my apartment for a shower. When I come back out, which will be in approximately ten minutes, you and anyone you brought with you are going to be gone.’
I turn to see Orangutan trying to rise from his knees; Tattoos is sitting up attempting to clear his head by shaking his brain some more and Goatee is still lying where I’d left him.
My second shower of the day sees me turn the water as hot as I can stand it. Now the adrenaline has left my body, the pain from Goatee’s punches and the yank he gave my arm is kicking in.
A check out of my kitchen window shows Mr Steroids and his friends have left.
The chief calls as I’m locking the apartment door. I’m half expecting this call, but being right doesn’t make the news any easier to accept.
Chapter 49
The Watcher enters his kitchen and takes a mouthful of pills. He has two hours to spare before he’s due at work. As a rule, he should have started by now, but he’s lied about a visit to the dentist as a way to buy himself a late start.
He’s pleased with today’s finder. She was a good friend of Melanie’s and as such he knows a few things about her family.
Never caring for the woman himself, he’d tolerated her non-stop chatter because she and Melanie had been friends since childhood, the two of them inseparable until marriage and careers had forced them apart. Still, there had been the obligatory dinner once a month where he’d have to listen to the woman’s husband bitch about taxes and how supermarket chains were destroying small local stores.