by Spencer Kope
The sign at the road points to a small nine-hundred-square-foot store where they sell goat milk and goat cheese and goat ice cream, none of which sounds appealing. They also have a wide range of other goat products I didn’t know existed, like lip balm and body lotion and soap, just to name a few. Much of it they produce at the farm, but some items are purchased elsewhere for resale … which means there are other goat farms masquerading as ranches.
Jimmy’s already decided we need to get a goat-cheese pizza and make an early dinner of it. When I curl my nose, he starts extolling the many health benefits and the excellent flavor of goat cheese; personally, I think he’s just making this stuff up as he goes. It doesn’t matter. He can spout off all he wants; I’m not eating goat cheese.
The Dearborns are salt-of-the-earth people, and after we assure them they’re not in any trouble, they immediately invite us up to the house for some lemonade, leaving the store in the hands of their only employee. As we make our way to the house, I give Jimmy a silent nod, letting him know that Sad Face has been here.
His shine was in the store, and it was recent. Apparently he was interested in the goat-based shampoo, because he picked up a bottle and handled it extensively, though this was probably a ruse so that he could watch Nikki while pretending to read the label. The intensity of the shine suggests he was here within the last week or so. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any surveillance cameras in the store.
I’m guessing there aren’t a lot of shoplifters targeting goat products.
Inside the house Tyson introduces us to Hannah, their two-year-old brindle boxer. While I’m not much for dogs, Hannah is under the misguided belief that I’m her biggest fan and shames me into scratching her behind the ears. She’s a pushy little thing because whenever I stop, she sticks her nose under my hand and lifts it up, prompting more scratching and petting.
“So what’s this all about?” Tyson says with a nervous laugh.
Jimmy takes a deep breath and then explains the situation in the most direct and thorough manner he can without compromising the investigation. Walt and I sit silently by. We watch the faces of Nikki and Tyson go from shock, to concern, to abject terror. By the time Jimmy finishes, Nikki’s nearly in tears … and that was the sugarcoated version.
It’s going to get worse.
After a well-timed and subtle suggestion, Walt stays with the Dearborns as Jimmy and I walk the property and check the exterior of the house. In a low voice I tell Jimmy about the store, but as we work our way around the property, I see Sad Face everywhere. He’s been in the barn and around the house; I even find his handprint on several windows and a couple doors. The prints are flat and lack any dermal ridge detail, indicating he wore gloves, probably latex. That’s unfortunate.
The only good news is he never made it inside the house. It looks like he tried but failed, for some reason. My guess is Hannah scared him off.
On the outside of the master bedroom window, tucked down in the corner, we find a small wireless camera. It’s well hidden by the bushes outside the window, as are the two wires going down the side of the house to a D-cell battery pack on the ground.
“He’s got them strung together for longevity,” Jimmy says, referring to the batteries. “He can probably run the camera for two or three weeks like that. Then all he has to do is park nearby and intercept the signal: instant Dearborn TV.”
“Do we tell them,” I ask, leaning my head toward the house, “or just remove the camera and not say anything? They’re already freaked out.”
“They should be.”
“So you’re going to tell them?”
“I think we have to.” He studies my face. “You disagree?”
I shrug. “I think they already get it. There’s such a thing as too much information and, frankly, a camera peeping into your bedroom is about as intrusive and unsettling as it gets. The thought of Sad Face parking nearby or crouching in the woods and watching them in the privacy of their own bedroom, well, I think that’ll push Nikki into a bad place. They still have to live in this house and sleep in the bedroom and work in the shop.”
“They’ll have twenty-four-hour security,” Jimmy argues. “From what we’ve seen, Nikki’s high on the target list, so in addition to one of Walt’s plainclothes detectives, we’ll request an FBI surveillance team. We’ll have our own cameras watching the house, the shop, even the woods and the road. There’ll be three or four people here day and night.”
“All the more reason not to mention the camera,” I say. “We can loosen one of the wires on the battery pack so it looks like the batteries went dead. That way if Sad Face comes back he won’t be able to get the signal. Maybe he’ll think it too risky to replace the batteries. But even if he does, that gives us one more chance to catch him.” I shrug. “Maybe we can chain up a noisy dog outside the bedroom window. That would keep him away.”
We go back and forth a few more minutes before settling on a compromise: we’ll tell the Dearborns that Sad Face has been to their property, that he’s been around the house and barn, but we won’t mention the camera.
Even at that, the news doesn’t go over well and Nikki goes into full-blown meltdown. Who can blame her? Between comforting her and talking to us, Tyson makes a couple phone calls from the kitchen. By the time we leave, two of Nikki’s brothers have arrived, each carrying a hastily-thrown-together backpack over his right shoulder—just the necessities: underwear, socks, a toothbrush, toothpaste, clothes, and five hundred rounds of .223 ammunition. The ammo is for the matching pair of AR-15s they carry slung over the other shoulder.
They’re here for the duration.
It’s good to have brothers.
* * *
Becky Contreras isn’t home when we reach her place in Corning at 6:27 P.M. Her apartment is on the third floor, which narrows Sad Face’s abduction options considerably. Since there’s no sign of him on the stairway, we focus on the parking lot and the laundry room and come up empty. No footsteps around the edge of the complex, no handprints on the back gate, no cameras in the bushes.
Looks like Becky hasn’t made it to the A-list yet.
Either that or we have the wrong B. Contreras.
Since we’re now outside Walt’s jurisdiction, having left Shasta County and crossed into Tehama County on the drive south, Walt places a call to Tehama County Sheriff Paul Meeker, who he’s on a first-name basis with, and fills him in.
Soon a Tehema County deputy arrives in the parking lot and backs into a free space that gives him an unobstructed view of Becky’s apartment.
“Paul says he’ll talk to Becky personally when she gets home, so he can explain the situation without terrifying the girl,” Walt says. “She’ll have whatever protection she needs and an escort everywhere she goes.”
It’s the best we can hope for in this, the worst of situations.
Still, Jimmy doesn’t like the idea of parking a cop in plain view, arguing that we’re tipping our hand, letting Sad Face know that we’re on to him. But in the end, it comes down to the first rule of law enforcement: protect the public. In this case, that means Becky Contreras, regardless of the consequences to the case.
My eyelids are heavy as we head north on I-5. It’s been a long day. Maybe I’ll sleep well tonight. Maybe I won’t dream … maybe.…
CHAPTER TWENTY
June 30, 7:42 A.M.
The hotel’s complimentary breakfast is better than most and Jimmy’s already halfway through a second helping of French toast when I make it downstairs. I grab a poppy-seed muffin and an orange juice and settle into the chair next to him.
Jimmy’s intent on a crossword puzzle, so we eat in silence while the room around us murmurs with sleepy morning sounds: subdued voices, shuffling feet, coffee percolating, newspapers rustling, spoons rattling.
Most of the breakfast club consists of businessmen and businesswomen already dressed in their best attire, with briefcases and laptops at the ready. Even now you can see they’re pumping themselves up fo
r the day ahead. If they’re staying in a hotel, it means they have an important meeting or sales pitch ahead of them.
Then there are the tourists. You can spot them a mile away because they’re wearing shorts, flip-flops, suntan lotion, and hallelujah smiles—that’s the smile that plants itself on your lips when you realize you don’t have to go back to work for two more weeks.
The businesspeople smile, too, but it’s that polite smile we all wear when we’re not really happy but have to pretend we’re glad to see you or excited about the day ahead. It’s a hi-how-are-you? smile, not a hallelujah smile.
“A tower,” I say, tapping Jimmy’s crossword puzzle.
“What?”
“Seventeen down, a group of giraffes.”
“A group of giraffes is called a tower?”
“It is.”
“That sounds like something you just made up.”
“Google it.”
He does—which is a bit insulting.
“How’d you know that?”
“I’m a genius.”
He snorts and takes another bite of French toast.
Five minutes later the crossword puzzle is finished. I stuff what’s left of the muffin in my mouth and chase it with orange juice as Jimmy wipes his hands on a baby-blue napkin and grabs his Fossil briefcase.
A smoky sky weeps as we exit the lobby, casting down a host of tears the size of cherry pits and sending us scurrying across the parking lot, our heads hunched low between our shoulders—as if that’s going to stop the creeping wet. The forecast called for a partly cloudy day with a 10 percent chance of rain.
They were 100 percent right.
Our rental car is a blue Ford Escape and it looks miles away through the downpour. As usual, the rental agreement’s in Jimmy’s name, since he’s the one with the expense account. He’s also the only authorized driver, since it costs eleven dollars a day to add a second driver.
Jimmy assures me this isn’t intentional, it’s just that he wants me to be free to watch the road, the vehicles, the people, and the places; like I’m going to suddenly spot Sad Face thumbing a ride as we cruise down some backcounty road.
I suspect Jimmy doesn’t trust my driving …
… which is ridiculous.
I’ve never been in an accident and I’ve only ever gotten one ticket, and that was for doing twenty miles per hour under the speed limit, which shouldn’t even count. It was like a reverse speed trap: a slow trap. The speed limit changed from twenty-five to forty-five, and a half mile down the road Bubba Gump was waiting for me in a turnout.
I feel edgy just at the thought.
It happens every time I see a traffic cop. Guilt sneaks up from behind and shanks me in the kidney. It doesn’t matter that I’m in law enforcement; primal instincts take over. On that particular day I crept by Bubba at twenty-five, my eyes glued to the speedometer. I made sure I used my blinker well before the next turn, kept my wheels between the lines, and tried not to drift back and forth too much in my lane of travel.
Intense driving.
Religiously adherent to the rules of the road.
Suddenly lights were behind me, followed by a short brrpt brrpt of the siren. I was still swearing at my speedometer when he got to my window; and when he told me what I was getting pulled over for, I must have said, You’re kidding, a dozen times.
I just paid the fine and told no one.
Something like that can ruin your reputation.
Jimmy’s an alpha male, so I let him drive. Alpha males don’t like the passenger seat because it doesn’t fit well. If they’re forced to sit in the passenger seat they just squirm and complain. I’m pretty sure I’m not an alpha male. I mean, I’ll take charge of a situation if no one else steps up, but I prefer to be the guy in the background.
I’m probably a bravo male.
Bravo males are important because they help out the alpha males and say, Bravo! Bravo! whenever they do something right, even if it’s infrequently. This positive reinforcement is vital because alpha males have large egos that constantly need refilling.
This morning the rain drives any thought of alpha males and bravo males from my mind, leaving only wet males in its wake. Despite a shielding hand, the morning storm consumes my special glasses and turns the world into a warped and fragmented kaleidoscope. Halfway across the unending parking lot I take them off and slide them into my shirt pocket. I’m ten paces from the Escape when something catches my eye.
No.
I stop abruptly; the rain beats me down. Jimmy’s still hunkered down, eyes to the pavement, when he runs into me from behind. Like a pinball, he bounces off and tries to go around, his only thought to get out of the rain. I reach out and grab his sleeve, pulling him up short.
“What?”
The shine glows boldly through the rain, bursting forth with intensity. It’s new, maybe three hours old. Jimmy sees it in my eyes, in the creases of my forehead, but I say it anyway. “It’s Sad Face. He’s been here.”
In an instant his gun is out and at a ready position. Sweeping left, he clears the front of the vehicle and the bushes beyond while I sweep right. There are two distinct and separate tracks; one is coming and going from the landscaping at the front of the nosed-in Ford, the other is in the parking lot near the rear of the vehicle.
Neither track is connected, which is odd. I stare at the parking lot track for an eternity, oblivious now to the rain. All of a sudden it clicks. It makes sense.
I wave Jimmy over and raise my voice above the rain. “He must have our license plate number.” I point to the pavement at our feet. “He drove through the parking lot looking for our SUV, then, when he thought he had the right Ford Escape, he got out right here and walked over in the dark to check the plate number.” Pointing to the right, I continue. “He got back into his car and parked somewhere else, then came back on foot.”
I open the Ford’s passenger door and my gut convulses. He’s all over the inside: in the seats, under the seats, on the visors, in the glove box. An ugly swath of brilliant amaranth and rust lays across the interior, a hideous beast asleep on the leather.
Inside the glove box, every document has been handled and searched. Most are irrelevant: owner’s manual, satellite radio instructions, that type of thing. One piece of paper, however, is covered in amaranth.
“Jimmy,” I say, holding the paper aloft, “it’s the rental agreement; he was really interested in it. Looks like he was holding it with both hands, and he turned it over and over, like he was looking for—”
Of course
“—the renter’s name.” My words are a whisper.
I stare at Jimmy, immobile.
“Dammit!” Steam appears to rise off his body, as if something smolders below the surface, burning off the rain. “Dammit!” he repeats. “The bastard was watching us. He probably staked out the sheriff’s office right after the media blitz. It wouldn’t take much to single us out, especially with our picture plastered all over the paper. We’re going to have to change vehicles—and hotels.”
“Yeah, but what does he want? He already knows we’re FBI.”
“He wants names. He wants to know who his adversaries are, who’s hunting him. He wants…” Jimmy’s eyes glass over, and for a moment he assumes the thousand-yard stare.
“Oh, God.” His voice is a whisper, a shiver.
“Let me see that,” he says, snatching the wet paper from my hand. He flips it over and right side up. His eyes dart to the top and he exhales sharp and hard, like someone just gut-punched him with a lead fist. It almost doubles him over.
“My home address,” he gasps.
“Your home add— Oh, no. Jane. Pete. No, he wouldn’t. He can’t.”
Jimmy’s on the phone; I’m pacing in the rain.
“He couldn’t have made it to Bellingham,” I say, more to myself than Jimmy. “There wasn’t enough time. Not—enough—time,” I emphasize. But there’s no answer at Jimmy’s house. He tries Jane’s cell.
&
nbsp; Nothing.
Jimmy keeps calling; over and over he calls, first the house, then the cell, pleading small prayers in between. Begging God. Begging Jane. Begging anyone.
We’re jumping to conclusions, I tell myself. Sad Face isn’t interested in Jimmy’s family, he’s interested in Jimmy. He’s interested in me. But then I remember Alison Lister. I remember Jennifer Green and Dany Grazier and Sarah Wells. I realize that we know little about Sad Face and what motivates him.
Fishing the phone from my pocket, I flip to the contact list and scroll down, eyes searching. There he is. It’s too early for the office, so I dial his home phone. It rings and rings, and then the answering machine kicks on. Just as I start to hang up, a voice cuts in. “Hello?”
“Dex. Thank God. I need your help.”
* * *
Within four minutes the first Lynden officer arrives on Jimmy’s doorstep. Within nine minutes two Whatcom County deputies, a state trooper, and two more Lynden officers, including the chief, are on site. With Jimmy’s permission I guide them to the hidden key near the birdbath in the backyard. They enter through the front door, and I hear them sweeping each room and calling out, “Clear,” over and over again as they work their way through the downstairs, then the upstairs.
It’s empty.
No sign of a struggle.
A cell phone sits on the kitchen counter ringing and ringing, then stopping, then ringing some more. “There’s a coffee mug with two inches of black in the bottom,” the chief tells me. “It’s lukewarm. She hasn’t been gone long.” A check of the garage finds Jane’s 2008 Acura TL gone, and the chief calls dispatch and issues a BOLO—be on the lookout—for the car.
“Just a precaution,” I tell Jimmy. “He can’t have gotten up there that fast.”
Time slows, and it’s another hour before we know.
It’s an hour of cursing as we pace.
It’s an hour of rain bouncing off asphalt and traffic moving in surreal slow motion in the distance and bulging clouds weeping and weeping.
It’s an hour.
You can never know the endless length of an hour until you walk it off by seconds and minutes. You can suffer a lifetime in an hour. Purgatory isn’t a place, it’s time.