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

by Dan Padavona

  “No shit. That doesn’t give you the right to tear down my police tape. You a half-ass private investigator now like your partner?” The chief tilted his head at Raven.

  “Just helping my cousin find his son.”

  “So you’re aiding a murderer.”

  Darren crossed his arms.

  “Kemp Massey didn’t murder his wife.”

  “That’s not what the evidence says.”

  “You haven’t shared the evidence with me, so how can I argue?”

  Wintringham threw up his hands.

  “You want to see the evidence? You’re lucky you aren’t behind bars. The only reason I haven’t thrown the book at you is I respected your work when you were a cop. Now, tell me what you found in Megan Massey’s office.”

  The chief glared from Darren to Raven. Raven lowered her face into her hands and rubbed her eyes.

  “Nothing,” Raven said. “And that’s the problem. Someone stole the Stokes file.”

  “Or she tossed it out.”

  “A criminal defense attorney of Megan’s stature keeps everything.”

  “You’re aware a witness placed Stokes at Megan Massey’s house, correct?” Darren asked.

  “We’re all aware,” Wintringham said, stroking his mustache. “My last dollar says Stokes stole his file.”

  “Why?”

  “If I had to guess, his attorney had damaging information on Stokes, something that could send him back to jail if it got out.”

  “Or Stokes knew something about the man who killed his attorney,” Raven said. “And the killer murdered Stokes to keep him quiet.”

  “Even if that’s true, that doesn’t give you the right to enter Massey’s home. You could have contaminated the scene.”

  “We didn’t. Darren and I wore gloves. There was nothing of note in the cabinet.”

  Wintringham chuckled.

  “Well, then. I guess you did nothing wrong, and I should allow you to walk out of here. What were you planning to do with the folder, if you found it?”

  “All we wanted was to connect Stokes to Megan’s killer and locate Shawn.”

  “Shawn Massey aided his father. They both had motive to murder Megan Massey.”

  Darren stared at Wintringham through the tops of his eyes.

  “You don’t believe that, do you? Your evidence is circumstantial. Unless you link Kemp Massey to the scene—”

  Wintringham held up a hand. He crossed his office, shut the door, and pulled the blinds.

  “I’m only telling you this because I’ve had good dealings with you in the past, and you were a respected cop before you walked away. We lifted the husband’s prints from Megan Massey’s kitchen.”

  Dammit. Kemp claimed he’d given up on Megan and never visited her house. Yet he’d attempted to kick the door down in a fit of rage, and now the police placed him inside the kitchen.

  “There has to be a logical explanation.”

  “There is. Kemp Massey stabbed his wife, and Shawn was in the room when it happened.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sunday, 9:50 a.m.

  So cold.

  Shawn’s eyelids fluttered open to sunlight pouring through the canopy. He sensed it was a mild morning, but the warmth refused to penetrate his flesh. He pushed himself up to his elbows and fell back, fingers digging at his eyes as pain rocketed up his shattered leg. How long had he lain in the clearing, exposed? What remained of the sweatshirt curled in the leaves. Ants scurried across the clothing. The sweatpants lay beside his feet, shredded at the cuffs. In his underwear, he scratched his skin and squinted at the mounds rising off his flesh. Bug bites. Hundreds of them. Pus oozed from a sore between his nipples.

  His eyes drifted to the fire. He vaguely recalled waking up to toss tree limbs onto the flames, yet it had burned out hours ago, judging by the thin tendril of gray smoke lifting off the coals. The memory of awakening pulled his attention to the surrounding forest. Something had watched him during the night, plodding through the trees at the periphery of his vision. The killer? Or an animal waiting for Shawn to succumb to the elements?

  Nowhere was safe. The ski masked killer had found him at the Nash cottage. How had he known Shawn would seek refuge in his friend’s vacant house? Before Shawn fell off the cliffs and dropped into the river, the killer had been right behind him, closing the distance. He wanted to believe the madman had given up the chase, assuming Shawn was dead. Intuition told him otherwise. The killer was still out there, still hunting Shawn. Unless the police fished Shawn’s body out of the river and declared him dead, the killer would never give up the chase.

  He needed to restart the fire. That was the only way he’d survive. Despite drying beside the fire pit for several hours, the sweatshirt and sweatpants remained damp. Intuition told him not to pull the clothes over his body. Better to let the sun dry the clothing while he worked on the fire. But he was too frozen to listen to reason. He wanted clothes on his body, even though the risk of hypothermia increased.

  Shawn coughed and wiped his nose. His forehead was hot to the touch, body wracked with bone-deep aches. It felt as if someone had scraped his throat with a razor, his mouth and lips too dry to swallow. He had a fever. If he didn’t act fast, his body would shut down.

  It occurred to him his last drink had been with dinner when he microwaved oatmeal. Two tall glasses of water would hold him over a little longer. But not forever. A peek at the sky—puffy white clouds against a backdrop of blue—told him rain wasn’t coming soon. And that was good, because the Wells River couldn’t handle more rain.

  He pawed through the dead leaves and weeds covering the clearing. The last of the kindling had burned with the fire before sunrise. Shawn clutched a handful of leaves drying under the morning sun. Then he loaded the leaves onto the smoking coals and waited for the tinder to smolder. Blowing on the leaves, he invoked a flame. Before he lost the fire, he dropped twigs on the leaves. It took five minutes before he had the fire popping and crackling. Too bad the heat couldn’t melt the invisible layer of ice plating his skin. He tossed larger limbs onto the fire, the smoke billowing and bending with the wind.

  His gnarled leg hung askew below the knee. Every movement sent white-hot agony through his body. Two stout tree limbs lay beside his stack of firewood. The limbs would serve as a brace and stabilize his lower leg, except he needed a rope to fasten the branches. It seemed fate had given him two choices—drag himself to his feet and find a way out of the forest, no matter the pain, or keep the fire going and hope someone would spot the smoke and rescue him. The second option made the most sense. He wouldn’t get far walking, not with his fever building. But smoke would act as a beacon and lead the killer straight to him. No, he needed to be careful. Survive the morning, break the fever, then figure out how to escape the forest.

  Giving up on fashioning a splint, Shawn dropped the sticks into the fire. The warm glow reached his skin, and his shivers ceased as he stoked the flames. It was a small fire. Just enough warmth to keep him alive, not enough smoke to attract attention unless the killer wandered through the clearing.

  Wearing the damp sweatshirt and sweatpants, he struggled to his feet and hobbled on one leg. The fuel wouldn’t last long. As he collected firewood, dragging waterlogged branches into the sunlight to dry, his mind wandered to his father. Was he somewhere in the forest, searching for Shawn? Or was he home, a sitting duck? Shawn needed to warn his father. The killer knew where they lived.

  The wind moaned through the trees. He thought he heard a voice. A rescue worker searching for Shawn? He doused his hopes when the voice didn’t come again. Below the steady susurration of the wind, the Wells River thundered through the valley. He pictured its black, churning waters. How he’d survived the fall into the river, he didn’t know. And he’d need to cross the river again to reach home.

  Wincing as he hopped across the clearing, he dropped a load of firewood beside the pit. Another voice carried on the wind, and this time he was certain it was a man
. It made no sense for the killer to announce his presence. The ski masked murderer moved in silence and struck when Shawn let his guard down. Unless it was a trap—the killer posing as a rescue worker.

  Shawn moved from tree to tree and stepped down the ridge. The forest blocked his view of the river, though the volume of its unholy roar spiked with each step. If someone was searching the forest, Shawn didn’t see him. His good leg throbbed from exertion. He knelt beside an evergreen and peeled the branches back. The river barreled over rocks and splashed over its banks. No search crew, no savior come to rescue him. Maybe he’d hallucinated.

  He waited several minutes until he was certain nobody was below the ridge. Then the distinct crackle of a police radio brought his head around.

  “Affirmative,” the voice said from the darkness. “Consider Shawn Massey armed and dangerous.” A pause. “That’s right. Barber arrested the father for murder. The son was involved.”

  His father? Arrested? A twinge of panic ripped through Shawn when he imagined his father locked in a jail cell. This was typical Wells Ferry PD, twisting the facts to close a case fast. Shawn hid behind a tree as the officer marched through the forest, parallel to the clearing. The teenager glanced up the ridge. If the officer smelled smoke, Shawn wouldn’t escape.

  As if a benevolent force watched over him, the wind shifted and blew the smoke in the opposite direction. Keep walking, Shawn urged until the officer disappeared into the woods. The authorities weren’t searching for Shawn to rescue him. They wanted to arrest him as they had his father.

  And that made him wonder. The police refused to consider other suspects besides him and his father. Why were they dead set on turning him into a murderer?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Sunday, 10:30 a.m.

  Darren parked his truck a hundred yards from the tent. During the ride from Wells Ferry to the forest, Raven had remained quiet. She suspected the police were right about Kemp, and he didn’t blame her. His cousin had lied about never visiting Megan, displayed volatility, and given a lame excuse for his injured finger and the sink full of blood. Now the police had fingerprint evidence tying Kemp to the murder scene.

  Still, he didn’t buy Kemp as a murderer. The man in the ski mask chasing Shawn wasn’t the teenager’s father in disguise. There had to be another explanation, something they’d missed. Dammit, he wished he’d found the Stokes file.

  The authorities wouldn’t welcome Darren inside the tent, and news of Wells Ferry PD catching them inside Megan Massey’s house probably dominated the conversation. As he climbed down from the cab and emerged from behind a state trooper’s SUV, he spotted a scattering of troopers and police beneath the tent, conferring over coffee. An officer with a jutting chin and his cap pulled down to his eyes noticed Darren and turned away.

  “Wouldn’t it be better if we searched on our own and avoided the police?” Raven muttered from the side of her mouth.

  “I need to know where they’re looking and if they have evidence implicating Shawn.”

  “They won’t share information with you.”

  “Cops are a bunch of hens. Get us together, and we can’t shut up.”

  Raven wasn’t convinced. Nor was Darren. The search crews focused their efforts on the lake and river, dragging the water for Shawn’s corpse, while a skeleton crew checked the forest. At this rate, they’d never find Shawn alive.

  The police officers moved away and whispered when Darren and Raven stepped beneath the tent. Darren relaxed his shoulders when he spotted a familiar face. Trooper Fitzgerald held court with his cohorts. Fitzgerald raised a hesitant hand when he noticed Darren. His partners strolled away.

  “How did it go at the lake?”

  Fitzgerald swiped a hand across his forehead. After a chilly morning, the heat and humidity had returned.

  “The only thing the sonar found was an old tire.”

  “So Shawn is still alive.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Darren ran his gaze across the tent and lifted his chin at the officers.

  “I take it we’re not welcome.”

  “Word spreads fast,” Fitzgerald said, lowering his voice. “Once the news broke about Wells Ferry PD catching you inside the house, they started wondering about your motivations. What were you thinking?”

  Darren shook his head.

  “I’m not convinced my cousin hurt anyone.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but we can’t form unbiased opinions when our families are involved. If you were still on the force, your chief wouldn’t allow you anywhere near this case. But if you must know, the evidence against Kemp Massey keeps growing.”

  “I understand the police lifted his prints from the victim’s kitchen.”

  Fitzgerald narrowed his brow.

  “Who told you that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “I understand you were inside Kemp Massey’s house when the police found blood in his bathroom sink.”

  Darren nodded.

  “Kemp claims he cut his finger fixing a hinge.”

  “Enormous coincidence, your cousin slicing his finger open at the same time someone stabbed Megan across town.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you Megan Massey’s client ended up dead in the woods after someone murdered her?”

  Fitzgerald glanced away and folded his arms.

  “Are you suggesting the same killer murdered Hanley Stokes? The MO’s are different. A stabbing and a blunt force attack.”

  “Why would Kemp attack Hanley Stokes?” Raven asked. “I’m not seeing the connection.”

  The trooper shrugged and kicked at the dirt.

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But the rumor is Kemp Massey resented his wife for putting her career above her family. Stokes was a client.”

  “Should we expect Kemp Massey to murder all of his wife’s clients? That’s a stretch.”

  “Well, he can’t murder anyone from behind bars.”

  “You’re drinking the Kool Aid,” Darren said. “These cops have you believing my cousin is a murderer.”

  “He’s already behind bars, so there’s no point arguing. My job is to help you find Shawn.”

  “And throw him in a cell with his father. Every cop here thinks he conspired to murder his mother, and that makes no sense. Where’s the evidence implicating Shawn?”

  Fitzgerald raised his palms and glanced over his shoulder. The officers were too far away to eavesdrop.

  “We go way back, Darren. And that’s the only reason I’m telling you this. Wells Ferry PD found hair matching Shawn’s in the kitchen. DNA tests are pending, but the color is a perfect match.”

  “But it’s already been established Shawn ate dinner with his mother every week,” Raven argued.

  “The hair was on the victim.”

  “Which suggests Shawn helped his mother after the lunatic stabbed her,” said Darren, losing patience with his friend.

  “That was my first thought too. But so far, the only people we’ve placed inside the kitchen are Kemp Massey, his son, and the victim.” Fitzgerald adjusted his belt. “Look, I’ll help you find your cousin. But my orders are to arrest Shawn.”

  The light pouring through the window prevented Thomas from falling asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured Hanley Stokes with his face bashed in, the mangled skull, blood staining the whites of his eyes. Thomas sighed and rolled onto his side, pulled the pillow over his head, breathed in the dark until he couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed the pillow aside. Jack lay at his feet. The dog lifted an eye and fell back to sleep.

  Down the hall, Lambert snored from the guest room. The sheriff had practically twisted his deputy’s arm into taking a nap. If Lambert had his way, he’d work two days straight until they rescued the missing teenager. He’d only agreed to sleep a few hours because Thomas promised he’d wake him by noon so they could continue the search.

  Thomas pushed the blankets off his legs and walked to the window. No lights shone inside
the guest house. LeVar was asleep after a long night, and Scout had stayed up past three in the morning until Naomi forced her to return home. Scout’s research had led Thomas to the right place, but he’d been too late. The killer beat him to the scene. Again.

  His mind returned to the attack outside the Blanton’s garage. The killer knew Shawn’s hangouts. Was the killer one of the teenager’s friends? Or the father? He’d heard the news about Kemp Massey after he identified Stokes as their John Doe, and the arrest ate at him. He couldn’t come up with a reason Shawn’s father or a friend would murder Stokes.

  Accepting he’d never fall asleep, Thomas dressed and walked downstairs, careful not to wake his deputy. He fried three eggs in the pan, plated the eggs with a side of toast, and poured a glass of orange juice. As he ate at the table, he observed the lake through the deck door. There were already boaters on the water, the locals taking advantage of the amiable weather after days of storms. The water level had risen over the last week, flooding boat houses across the lake.

  He yawned into his hand and glared at the clock. If he’d slept three hours since the murder, he couldn’t recall. Thomas picked his phone off the table and dialed Chelsey at work.

  “Thomas, you promised me you’d go home and sleep.”

  “I went home, but my mind won’t sit still. This case has me tied in knots.”

  “Tell me about it.” Chelsey groaned. “Every hour that passes, the odds of finding Shawn alive shrink.”

  “You heard about Hanley Stokes, I take it?”

  “Raven filled me in.”

  Thomas eyed his pale reflection in the glass and ruffled his hair.

  “He’s the key to breaking this case. Trouble is, our department is stretched thin, and Wells Ferry PD won’t cooperate. I need a research team.”

  “Just say the word. Wolf Lake Consulting is at your disposal.”

  He strolled into the kitchen and set the kettle on the burner.

  “Tell you what. I’ll give Lambert another hour of sleep, then we’ll meet you at your office. How does noon sound?”