by Dan Padavona
His head spun. As he drifted unconscious, his mother’s voice came to him.
“Wake up, Shawn. It’s not your time.”
He shook his head and cried.
“Open your eyes, my beautiful boy. There’s work to be done.”
His senses sharpened. Eyes springing open, Shawn pushed his body into a sitting position and grabbed the pointed stick. His blisters tore. Blood dripped from his palms as he placed the sharpened edge against the fire board. He spun the stick until his arms throbbed and blood slicked the branch. Spun until he couldn’t hold the stick.
As night thickened over the clearing, the fire board sparked. Shawn laughed to the clouds, howling like a madman.
But as he loaded the tinder nest, something moved in the forest behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Sunday, 2:10 a.m.
Fueled by caffeine and an invisible clock ticking against them, LeVar and Chelsey arrived at the edge of the forest outside Wells Ferry, where the search teams convened. LeVar counted a dozen officers, many shooting him side-eye glares as if he didn’t belong. A twenty-foot tent shielded the officers from the elements. Police and state troopers leaned over a map, while Sheriff Shepherd radioed instructions to the searchers in the field.
Thomas spotted LeVar and Chelsey in the crowd and waved a hand over his head. He cut through the throng to meet them.
“Glad you could make it, but we have more people combing the woods than we need.”
“We’ll do whatever we can to help,” Chelsey said. “Any updates on Shawn Massey?”
“I’m leading a team to the Nash house on Lake Shore Drive. Chances are, it’s another dead end. But let’s hope he found a way inside and avoided the worst of the storms.”
LeVar stood off to the side and gave Thomas and Chelsey space. A table held coffee, soda, and a half-eaten pizza. He reached for a coffee, but a Wells Ferry PD officer with a buzz cut warned him away with a hard stare. Friendly bunch, these Wells Ferry cops. LeVar didn’t trust a single one of them. But there was something about Hanley Stokes that made him worry Thomas and his deputies were chasing the wrong guy.
He folded his arms and sat on the edge of the table, observing the flurry of activity. Four troopers, two holding German Shepherds on short leashes, hunched over a map and pointed at landmarks. The troopers conferred with Deputies Aguilar and Lambert, the two Nightshade County deputies dressed in rain slickers. The Wells Ferry cops huddled and spoke in hushed tones. Their eyes kept snapping between Thomas and LeVar.
While Chelsey joined the deputies, LeVar motioned Thomas over.
“We’re heading out, so I only have a minute,” Thomas said, sipping green tea from a thermos. “Help yourself to a coffee.”
“I’d better not.”
LeVar peeked over Thomas’s shoulder at the police officers and pulled the sheriff out from under the tent. Thomas set his hands on his hips and studied LeVar’s face.
“I know that look. You have a theory about the case.”
“More of a suspicion. What do you know about Hanley Stokes?”
The sheriff drank his tea and shrugged.
“He did a few years for drug dealing, and Megan Massey defended him in court.”
“Chelsey and I drove to his house and knocked. Not sure if you’ve seen the place, but it’s held together by duct tape and Elmer’s glue. The porch is ready to fall off the house, the roof has missing shingles, and the siding won’t last another year.”
“Okay, so the home owner’s association won’t send Stokes a Christmas card this year. Where are you going with this?”
“Shep, look around you. There’s money in Wells Ferry. Lots of it. Now, let’s say you’re Hanley Stokes, and you identify a hidden market for drugs in Wells Ferry. You’re the only game in town, and the people you sell to have money to spare.”
“Right.”
“Come on, dude. Stokes is the big cheese. He’s running the drug trade in a rich market and living large. But he lives in a house that’s one step above ramshackle?”
Thomas scratched his head.
“That seems a little odd.”
“And another thing. If Stokes ain’t spending money on his house, why did he rob a liquor store?” LeVar let out an exasperated sigh. “This guy has loser written all over him. He hangs out in dive bars and starts fights with the local drunks. Then he pulls a ski mask over his head and tells the liquor store clerk to hand over his cash. Shouldn’t this guy own a tropical island by now? I’m not his financial manager. But either Stokes made horrible decisions with his money, or he isn’t much of a drug lord.”
Now all the Wells Ferry PD officers stared in their direction.
“This feels like a setup,” LeVar said, lowering his voice.
“But why? Stokes doesn’t have competition.”
“Someone wants him out of the way, and I’m not buying Hanley Stokes as the Scarface of Wells Ferry. At best, this loser pushes a little dope here and there, mostly to friends. No way he supplies Wells Ferry.”
Thomas squinted in thought. He drank the rest of his tea and slapped LeVar on the shoulder.
“You’ve given me a lot to consider. But I need to go, just in case Shawn really broke into the Nash cottage.”
“Don’t doubt our lead investigator, Shep Dawg. Scout’s always right about these things. Shawn Massey stayed at the cottage. I guarantee it.”
Thomas joined the law enforcement officers, most of which had hanging, tired faces. A topographic map lay over a table, the troopers and Thomas’s top deputies studying the terrain.
Setting a pin over the park, Thomas pointed to the marina.
“It’s a straight line walk from the park to the marina. If Shawn maintained the same trajectory, he’d wind up at the Nash house. Right here.” He tapped his finger over Lake Shore Drive. “The teenager saw his mother murdered, and he’s been on the run since last night, dodging torrential downpours and a flooded river. If he’s inside the cottage, the last thing we want to do is frighten him.”
“What if he’s the murderer, or he partnered with his father?”
The gruff voice brought Thomas’s head up. Officer Barber lumbered through the crowd to reach the table.
“Officer Barber. I thought we sent you home yesterday evening to sleep your cold off.”
Barber swiped a hand under his nose.
“Chief called me in. Said all hands on deck. Which means I get to spend the morning with you pricks.”
He glanced around for a reaction to his joke. Nobody laughed.
Thomas shared a concerned glance with Aguilar. Officer Barber had caused nothing but trouble for the sheriff’s department since the investigation began, and he was dead set on blaming Kemp and Shawn for the stabbing.
“Why don’t you coordinate the search from here and save your strength?”
“I don’t take orders from you, Sheriff. And I intend to be there when you capture Shawn Massey.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sunday, 2:45 a.m.
Obeying the sheriff’s command, Officer Barber doused the lights and siren on his cruiser before they reached Lake Shore Drive. The law enforcement teams had split up while Thomas investigated the Nash cottage. The troopers searched the forest near the marina, while Deputies Lambert and Aguilar trailed Barber’s cruiser. Thomas wished anyone but Barber was accompanying him this morning.
They stopped along a winding forest road. A mailbox marked the driveway. A night bird sang from the canopy as Thomas stepped out of his cruiser and edged the door shut. He waited for his deputies to join him. Barber took his sweet time exiting the vehicle, the officer working overtime to grate on Thomas’s nerves. The officer coughed into the crook of his arm and stumbled through the mud. He locked eyes with Thomas, a challenge in the man’s stare.
Ignoring Barber, Thomas removed Shawn Massey’s photograph from his pocket and displayed it to the team members.
“This is who we’re looking for. Aguilar and Lambert, take the front door
. Officer Barber, follow me around the side. We’ll check for an alternate entrance. Remember, keep your lights off and your voices low.”
Barber shook his head with derision while he trailed Thomas through the yard. When they neared the deck, the officer rushed ahead and glanced over his shoulder.
“Who put you in charge of the investigation? Last I checked, this was a Wells Ferry PD operation.”
“Your chief told me to lead the search. You didn’t get the memo, Barber?”
The officer snickered.
“What is it with you, Sheriff? You’re convinced Shawn Massey is some kind of saint, and you’re the only person not on board with the father as a suspect.”
“I just examine the evidence, Officer. All you have is blood in Kemp Massey’s sink, and you’re ready to send him to the electric chair.”
“Because he cut himself when he murdered his wife.”
“Where’s the blood trail leading out of Megan Massey’s house? Did the cut start bleeding after he drove home and reached his bathroom?”
Barber grumbled something under his breath. His heavy frame caused the planks to groan as he climbed the stairs. Darkness hung over the cottage, the clouds suffocating the stars and moon. As Thomas stood beside the sliding glass door, Barber knelt and ran his fingers along the track.
“Well, would you look at that?” he whispered. “The door is off its tracks. Appears your teenage fugitive just added a second breaking and entering charge to his record. The kid is having a busy twenty-four hours.”
“Sheriff.”
Thomas turned toward Aguilar’s voice. She stood beside the deck and watched them between the balusters.
“Find anything?”
“The front door is open, but I don’t think anyone is inside. Follow me.”
Thomas and Barber rounded the house. Aguilar and Lambert stood outside the entryway. The front door was open a crack, a sliver of gray light visible between the door and jamb. Lambert placed a finger against his lips.
Taking the lead, Thomas entered the cottage with Aguilar and Lambert sweeping in behind him. Barber drew his gun.
Muddy shoe prints marred the floor. Thomas gestured at the tracks so the others didn’t disturb them. A quick glance verified the tracks led out of the house before vanishing in the grass.
“The kid left already,” Barber said, bending for a better view of the tracks.
Thomas pointed at a second set of tracks moving out of the living space and converging with the prints beside the door.
“Two people were here.”
“Maybe the kid had his friends over. Empty house, probably a stocked booze cabinet somewhere. Either that, or the kid doubled back.”
“Different shoe sizes. Look at the second set. Larger, right?”
“I suppose. Could be the father’s tracks.”
“Does that make sense to you? Why would the father hide out with his son in someone else’s house?”
Barber muttered under his breath and turned away.
The deputies split up, Lambert taking the rooms off the hallway, Aguilar descending into the basement. The house was dead quiet. Thomas’s instincts told him one set of tracks belonged to Shawn.
Barber flicked his flashlight on and swept the beam over the living space. A couch divided the sitting area from the deck doors. The lounge chair sprawled on its side, tipped over. Had the same man who murdered Megan Massey tracked Shawn to the cottage? As Thomas pawed through the room, Aguilar and Lambert returned.
“The house is empty,” Aguilar said. “But someone was here. The dryer is still warm, and I found more tracks in the basement.”
“Same person dragged the comforter off the bed at the end of the hall,” Lambert added. “Found a pillow on the floor and mud ground into the carpet.”
Thomas nodded and turned on the light over the kitchen counter. A bowl lay in the dish rack. Water pooled on the tray beneath the bowl.
“He cooked dinner,” Thomas said, glancing around the kitchen. “Probably the first meal he ate since yesterday.”
“This sounds like Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” Barber said, folding his arms over his chest. “Kid had it made in the shade. Free room and board, enough trees surrounding the property that the neighbors wouldn’t notice anyone inside. Why run off unless he was guilty?”
“Because someone followed him to the cottage. I’m guessing the same person who murdered his mother.” Thomas rubbed his chin. “Aguilar and Lambert, dust for prints. I want to know who chased Shawn out of the house.”
Barber rolled his eyes.
Thomas walked through the cottage. All the telltale signs were here that Shawn sought refuge in his friend’s home. He’d washed his clothes in the basement, taken a shower and hung a still damp towel on the door, cooked in the kitchen. After he finished the walk through, Thomas stood in the yard and searched for tracks, but the grass was too thick. They were only a few hours behind Shawn, but had no way to know which way the teenager ran.
Aguilar joined him in the yard.
“That idiot Barber intends to nail Shawn Massey for breaking and entering.”
Thomas sighed and said, “I can talk him down from breaking and entering. But Barber will still go after him for trespassing.”
Aguilar peered into the night.
“Hopefully the family won’t press charges.”
The lake sloshed beyond the trees, and the wilderness stretched for miles.
“Let’s get the two K9 units over here.”
“Shawn’s scent should be fresh. This might be our best chance to catch up to him.”
Thomas shifted his jaw. Shawn wasn’t alone in the forest. The murderer had stayed one step ahead of them, arriving at the cottage before Thomas, just as the same man had beaten him to the Blanton residence.
If LeVar was correct about Hanley Stokes, who wanted to kill Shawn Massey?
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Sunday, 5:05 a.m.
The German Shepherds led Thomas’s search team through the forest. For the first hour, the dogs had struggled to find Shawn’s scent. Now they tugged the troopers forward, dragging them between the trees as they chuffed and sniffed. Back at the cottage, Officer Barber and the Wells Ferry PD controlled the scene. Though Thomas felt relieved not to have the officer breathing down his neck, he didn’t trust Wells Ferry PD.
Trooper Vera Simonds began her shift with the search team. The trooper wore her caramel hair above her ears, and her glasses kept fogging in the humid woods. She handled her K9 with expertise as Thomas marveled at the way the dogs sniffed out the missing teenager’s scent. One dog bolted ahead of the other, Simonds almost losing her footing as roots clawed at their shoes.
“What’s he doing?” Thomas asked.
“The scent is stronger through this part of the trail. We’re getting close.”
They climbed an incline and weaved between the trees, their boots splashing through puddles. Aguilar and Lambert trailed them, walking fifty feet apart and sweeping flashlight beams through the woods.
“Got something,” Lambert called out.
Thomas circled back to his deputy as Trooper Simonds controlled her K9.
“What you got, Lambert?”
“Torn clothing. Appears as if it came from a sweatshirt.”
Thomas removed the fabric from a thorn bush. Before he slipped it into an evidence bag, Simonds rushed over with the dog.
“I want to see if it’s Shawn Massey’s,” Simonds said.
Thomas handed the cloth to Simonds, who placed the fabric before the K9’s nose. One sniff, and the dog issued a woof.
“Massey’s?”
“It’s his.”
Thomas tipped his cap at Lambert and bagged the evidence. The dogs tugged the team forward as Thomas scanned the trees, knowing they were close now.
“Shawn Massey?”
A second trooper called the boy every several seconds. But a new sound filled the air. A thundering whoosh that could only be the Wells River. The ri
dge flattened out as the team entered a clearing. The first hint of the new day glowed on the eastern horizon. Then the ridge gave way to a steep drop off, the footing so treacherous even the dogs skittered back and forth as Simonds fought to hold her K9 back. Simond’s partner pinwheeled his arms when the rocks slipped out from under his feet. He fell back before gravity claimed him, a minor avalanche of stones leading the way down.
Aguilar descended the ridge sideways. Besides the dogs, she was the only member of the search team able to keep her balance. Thomas took the hill slowly, grabbing hold of saplings to control his descent.
And still the dogs tugged the troopers forward. Thomas shared a glance with Lambert. The rushing river became deafening. Though he didn’t see the water yet, the fine spray wet his clothing. Death lay at the bottom of this ridge, and Shawn was somewhere ahead of them.
The dogs pulled up when they reached the cliffs. Confused, the K9 units turned each way and sniffed for a scent that was no longer there. They started back the way they’d came as Simond’s directed her dog to locate Shawn.
Thomas stood on the rock shelf and glared at the thundering current. Nobody could survive a fall into the river.
“What do you mean, they lost him?”
Darren paced back and forth and tugged his hair, the phone pressed against his ear. Raven glanced at him in question, and he held up a hand. Thomas and his crew were a mile up river, the K9 search and rescue dogs hot on Shawn’s trail until they reached the cliffs.
“I understand, Thomas. We’ll keep looking.”
With a curse, Darren stuffed the phone into his pocket and returned to Raven. They both teetered on the edge of collapse, the need to find Shawn keeping them on their feet. Before long, their bodies would give out, regardless of whether they located his missing cousin. Darren placed a hand on his hip and stared at the river. Around the bend, the current emptied into the lake. If Shawn toppled off the cliffs, the Wells River would drag him downstream and throw his body into the lake. Darren didn’t want to assume the worst. Yet he couldn’t pull his eyes from the roaring current.