I Know Your Name: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 5)

by Dan Padavona

  “Ready to move forward?”

  Raven glanced across the cab and nodded, though Darren saw through her forced courage. The storms had shaken her, and his Silverado felt puny beneath the boiling sky.

  Darren turned the key and pulled the truck off the shoulder. Rivulets streamed across the pavement, dragging silt and mud over the macadam. The tires bucked over the obstruction, only to meet another hill of sludge a few hundred feet down the road. Night had descended on Wells Ferry. Trees along the access road thickened the darkness, made it seem like midnight in January as the wipers ran at high speed.

  As he navigated the truck around a myriad of obstructions—fallen tree limbs, gurgling water, more mud—Raven leaned her head out the window with her hand shielding her head from the downpour. She scanned the banks for his missing cousin. Raven wouldn’t give up until Darren called off the search.

  Which he’d need to do before long. Fate didn’t favor Shawn surviving the last twenty-plus hours in the forest. Darren needed to believe his cousin had found some place to hide from the elements. And from the psychopath chasing him through the wilderness. The alternative was unthinkable.

  When the Silverado came upon a tree blocking the road, Darren had no choice but to reverse course. He blew out a frustrated breath as he executed a three-point turn, careful not to back the truck into a ditch. As he shifted into reverse, Raven leaned over her seat and stared through the back windshield.

  “Another few feet,” she said, chewing on a nail. “Okay, that’s far enough.”

  Despite the tight squeeze, Darren turned the truck around and headed back the way they’d come. He’d need to switch to a different road before they drove east again. The problem was, the alternate routes would take him away from the river.

  After they reached town, Raven relaxed. Streetlights hung over the road, cutting through the dark and spilling pools of light over the pavement. Darren switched his high beams on and gave the accelerator extra gas, this road safer than the last.

  His phone hummed in his pocket as he gripped the steering wheel. A quick glance at the screen revealed Scout Mourning’s name. Darren had almost forgotten about their teenage investigator. This was the first time they’d heard from her since LeVar put her on the case.

  He handed the phone over to Raven.

  “It’s Scout. Put her through the speakers.”

  Raven fiddled with the truck’s Bluetooth connection and answered.

  “Hey, Scout. Darren is driving, but he’s listening.”

  “I found a potential hiding spot for Shawn.”

  Rain drumming against the windshield made it difficult to hear. Darren reached for the volume knob and cranked it higher.

  “Where?” he asked, turning down a side street to double back toward the river.

  “Does the name Camilla Blanton mean anything to you?”

  “Is she a friend of Shawn’s?”

  “She’s Polly Hart’s cousin. After I sifted through Polly’s profile, I checked her connections and discovered Camilla. Her family has a finished room over the garage, and there are pictures of Shawn partying there with Camilla and Polly. I would have discovered the photos sooner, except Shawn’s name isn’t tagged in the post. None of their names are.”

  “Probably because they don’t want their parents to catch them,” Raven said. “Still, why put incriminating pictures online?”

  Darren switched off the high beams when he encountered fog.

  “How recent are the pictures?”

  “From last summer and fall. It got me thinking. Where might Shawn go if he was in trouble? Camilla posted two days ago that she was going away for the weekend with her parents. Appears to be a college visit.”

  “Not the smartest information to give up on social media,” Raven said.

  “If Shawn knew, he’d have a safe place to hide and get out of the weather.”

  “Shoot me the address.”

  Scout read Camilla’s address. Raven copied it onto a notepad and thanked Scout for the information.

  “I’m still working through Shawn’s contacts. If I find anyone else, I’ll call you.”

  Raven turned to Darren.

  “What do you think?”

  “Seems like a long shot, but it’s worth checking into.”

  “Should we head to Camilla’s?”

  Darren wiped the rainwater off his brow. He was still soaked from clearing debris off the windshield.

  “Not yet. If Shawn hid inside Camilla’s garage, he’s safe. Better to follow the river in case he’s lost and trying to escape the storm.”

  “Scout is usually dead on with her theories.”

  “She is. Tell you what. Radio the information to Wells Ferry PD. See if they can send a cruiser past Camilla Blanton’s place.”

  “Will do.”

  While Raven placed the call, Darren divided his attention between the road and his GPS display. Every road to the river dead-ended at a mudslide or another tree across the road. His options diminished. He finally experienced success when he took the truck down Evergreen Road. The river churned ahead, the access road they’d abandoned to the west running perpendicular to Evergreen.

  He stopped the truck in the middle of the access road. They were the only fools driving in the deluge, so he was unconcerned about another vehicle coming along. Standing beside the ditch, oblivious to the rain pattering his face, he aimed the binoculars up and down the river. Raven shone a flashlight through the dark. Twice his heart skipped a beat when he spotted something along the banks that looked like torn clothing. Each time the debris turned out to be garbage strewn along the river.

  He wiped the rain out of his eyes and called Shawn’s name. His voice echoed through the forest and vanished into the night. How could the teenager disappear without a trace?

  Raven rubbed his shoulder.

  “We’ll find him, Darren.”

  He wanted to believe her. But fear twisted his insides. First Megan’s murder. Now Shawn on the run and missing.

  And the rain refused to stop.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Saturday, 10:00 p.m.

  Thomas sat inside his cruiser a quarter mile from the marina, surrounded by the drenched forest. Full dark blanketed the land, interrupted by occasional flashes of lightning over the eastern hills. At last, the storms had moved out of Wells Ferry, and a chilling wind replaced the rain and whipped the trees into a frenzy as he studied the map. He noted Shawn’s tracks and the locations of his parents’ houses. He sensed he was close to locating Shawn, though he wasn’t confident he’d find the boy alive.

  Banter carried over the police radio. He filtered it out, only paying attention to where the search crews were. He grumbled to himself. Almost two hours ago, Raven had contacted Wells Ferry PD about Polly Hart’s cousin, Camilla Blanton. So far, the police department hadn’t bothered to drive past the garage. The odds of Shawn hiding over the family’s garage seemed long to Thomas. But it was worth checking into.

  Before Thomas set off for the Blanton residence, he radioed his intentions to Aguilar and Lambert, who aided the state police search team a mile east of his position. Search crews swept the terrain between the highway and the lake. The K9 units had found Shawn’s scent near the marina before the rains started, but the dogs struggled to pick it up again.

  He crossed the town, the cruiser’s tires kicking up spray over the flooded streets. The Blanton family lived in a bungalow with a white exterior that glowed in the ambient light. A burgundy roof topped the home, and windows comprised most of the front wall. The lights were off inside. Peepers sang behind the house as Thomas stepped out of the cruiser and flicked his flashlight over the lawn. The closest neighbor lived in a lot two hundred feet away, and poplar trees shielded his view. His shoes swished through wet grass, pant cuffs dampened as he rounded the home and followed the driveway toward the garage.

  As he passed windows, he shone the light into the house, searching for movement. A wheelbarrow had toppled over
beside the garage, tipped by the storms. A garden shovel with a wicked tip lay in the grass beside the wheelbarrow. Killing the light, he peered at the window above the garage. Darkness pressed against the glass. For a long time, Thomas listened. If Shawn was inside the garage, he didn’t want to frighten the teenager.

  Sodden earth scents hung heavy in the air. The only sound was the wind shrieking around the house. An image of serial killer Jeremy Hyde flashed before Thomas. The leering murderer held a bloody knife in one hand. Erika Windrow’s severed head dangled from the other, the psychopath’s fingers clutching the woman’s hair. Thomas blinked, and the vision disappeared.

  He rubbed his eyes. Since last year’s murders, he’d flashed back to the Hyde encounter too many times to count. But never during an investigation. His breath heaved in his chest. Steadying himself, he leaned against the wall and waited until his heartbeat regulated.

  A door stood on the side of the garage. He jiggled the knob and found it unlocked. Turning the flashlight on again, he aimed the beam inside. A wooden staircase led to the room over the garage. Vegetables started from seeds grew beside the windowpanes. As he tugged on the doorknob, a branch snapped in the yard. He froze and stepped into the shadows. Thomas stood with his back against the garage, waiting for the sound to come again. When it didn’t, he crept around the rear of the garage, a rickety fence overrun by grapevines to his right. An animal skittered beneath the tangled vines.

  The fence curled to his left and divided the rear of the yard from a neighboring property. A rusted swing set stood at the back. The chains swung with screeching noises. He aimed the light into the trees and found himself alone in the yard. The snapping branch could have been caused by the wind. It probably was, he thought.

  Then his eyes stopped on a shoe print beneath an elm tree. Just a single indentation where water pooled in the grass. He raised the light and swept it back to the garage, searching for a matching print. Shawn? Or someone else?

  He stepped into the shadows and spoke into the radio on his shoulder.

  “Trespasser behind the Blanton residence.”

  He requested backup but knew none was coming. Aguilar and Lambert were fifteen minutes from his location, and the Wells Ferry PD wouldn’t lift a finger to help him.

  As he stood in the darkness, he studied the room above the garage. If Shawn was here, Thomas might have spooked him. But it didn’t feel right. The garage was a logical place for Shawn to hide, but the neighbors lived too close. Someone would have noticed the teenager, especially with his face plastered to the news.

  A thump brought Thomas’s head around. Someone was outside the Blanton house.

  He scanned the yard for danger. Stepping from beneath the tree, he jogged toward the garage and knelt beside the door, a creeping sensation sending goosebumps down his arms. What had he missed? He spotted the fallen wheelbarrow, the closed door leading into the garage, wet impressions in the grass from where he’d walked across the lawn.

  The shovel with the sharp point.

  It was missing.

  The whistle of a deadly object hurtling toward his head warned him of the attack. Pure instinct saved him as he ducked the blow. The shovel missed his skull by inches and smashed against the side of the garage, removing a chunk of wood. With his attacker close, Thomas couldn’t draw his weapon. As the shadowed figure readied the shovel for another swing, Thomas drove his elbow into the man’s ribcage. The intruder stumbled back a step and grunted. He was fast and strong, a few inches taller than Thomas.

  There was no time to react before the man cracked the shovel against Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas cried out as stars filled his vision. He lurched sideways when the man swung again. The shovel missed Thomas’s head and struck the garage with a deafening crash.

  The blast still echoing in Thomas’s head, he spun away and pulled the gun from his holster. Brought the gun up and sought his attacker. The man wore black clothing from head to toe, a black ski mask concealing his face, exactly as Shawn had described his mother’s killer.

  Panicked, the man hurled the shovel at Thomas and ran. The weapon whipped through the air like a boomerang. Thomas covered his head and ducked a split-second before the handle bashed against his skull and drove him to his knees. His head spun.

  As he shook off the cobwebs, he searched the yard for his attacker. Footsteps thumped through a neighboring yard as two dogs barked.

  Thomas clutched his gun and stumbled after the killer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Saturday, 11:35 p.m.

  “I need you to hold still, Sheriff.”

  Thomas winced as Deputy Aguilar swabbed the wound above his ear. She covered the laceration with a bandage and blew out a frustrated breath. A paramedic stood next to Aguilar while the ambulance idled curbside. The swirling lights attracted the looky-loos, many in robes and pajamas as they watched from lawns and porches. The paramedic had long flowing hair and a nose piercing that sparkled beneath the streetlights. She didn’t look more than a year out of college. As Aguilar finished treating the laceration, the paramedic folded her arms and sent Thomas a disapproving glare.

  “He should be in the hospital. That wound needs stitches.”

  “I told him,” Aguilar said with a scowl. “Sheriff Shepherd has a stubborn streak.”

  The paramedic threw up her hands. After the ambulance drove off, Aguilar rounded on Thomas, who leaned against his cruiser with an ice pack pressed against his head.

  “You could have been killed.”

  “Stop with the lecture. How did I know the killer would be at the Blanton house?”

  “Well, you know not to enter a dangerous situation without backup. You’re lucky, Sheriff. Did you get a good look at the guy, at least?”

  Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Black ski mask, black clothes.”

  “Like Megan Massey’s killer. They must shop at the same outlet.”

  “Very funny.”

  “But you let him get away.”

  “Like I said, he struck me in the head and ran off before I recovered.”

  “At least he didn’t shoot you. Your attacker did all this damage with a shovel? I’ll remember not to invite you over next time I garden. Wouldn’t want to trigger you.”

  “Hey, you didn’t see the shovel. That damn thing was a deadly weapon.”

  Aguilar smirked and looked to the clouds.

  “What are we gonna do with you, Sheriff Shepherd?”

  Thomas removed the ice pack and felt along the side of his head. He touched a rising bump and flinched.

  “Take the night off,” Aguilar said. “You’re in no shape to hunt through the woods.”

  “Not until we find Darren’s cousin.” She rolled her eyes. He glanced away as the neighbors lost interest and staggered inside their warm houses. “We have a problem.”

  “Besides the headstrong sheriff who almost died an hour ago?”

  “I mean Megan Massey’s killer. He knew about the room above the garage. This guy expected Shawn to be here.”

  Aguilar rested her back against the cruiser as a car motored past.

  “That makes me consider Kemp Massey again.”

  “Might be a friend or family member. Hell, it might be anyone with a social media account who saw those pictures.”

  “That narrows it down to seventy percent of the county.” Aguilar tapped her foot. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Contact the Blanton family and fill them in on what happened tonight. If we’re lucky, they’ll give us a lead on who attacked me.” Thomas pulled the keys from his pocket and jiggled them in his hand. “The killer is one step ahead of us. He’ll go after Shawn again, and we still can’t find the kid.”

  Shawn awoke to the shadow of a black claw raking across the ceiling.

  His breath caught before he realized a tree branch outside the window had created the misshapen silhouette. It seemed he awoke every ten minutes to a tree branch crackling inside the woods, or the haun
ted moan of the wind as it pressed against the cottage, hunting him. All manner of bumps and groans filled the Nash house tonight.

  He lay on the carpeted floor beneath a comforter he’d dragged over him. It felt wrong sleeping in Mike’s bed. A violation. Though he was certain his friend wouldn’t care. Shawn closed his eyes and fluffed the pillow beneath his head, the carpet fibers making his skin itch. Exhaustion crippled him, stealing his will to survive. Every time he drifted off, another sound darted him awake.

  Giving up, he tossed the comforter off his body and sat up. Though he’d showered, he hadn’t washed away the stench of the forest. He missed his friends, most of which had left for college last fall. Nine months ago, he’d spent countless hours inside this cottage, swam off the dock with his friends, cracked the top-ten on Pacman. His first kiss with Polly Hart had occurred in the lake, their hair dripping wet, bodies pressed together and shivering.

  His stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since he microwaved the oatmeal, and he longed for something filling. Could he cook pasta or rice in the dark? Turning on a light would alert a neighbor. He didn’t want the Wells Ferry PD screeching into the driveway with flashing lights and sirens blaring. Jail didn’t appeal to Shawn, even if Mr. and Mrs. Nash refused to press charges when they returned.

  When the sun rose, he’d leave the cottage and figure out a way to call home. His father must be worried sick. Shawn wanted to tell him he was alive and healthy, that he’d return home as soon as it was safe. First, he needed food, energy to keep him on his feet while he hiked through the forest. He contemplated stealing a phone. Perhaps wait outside someone’s house and snatch the phone when an opportunity presented itself. He could be quiet when he wanted to be.

  Or maybe he’d risk asking for help. He’d need to choose his target carefully, as the entire county hunted him, blaming him for stabbing his mother. If he found someone his age, a person who didn’t trust Wells Ferry PD . . .