Definitely, no one in the trunk would have had a chance of surviving unless Petey drove only when it was cooler—at night. But where could he have stopped? A motel would have been dangerously public. But what about a camping area? Tourist season was only beginning. Petey might have been able to find a wooded area that didn’t have visitors. Listening for the approach of vehicles, he could have risked letting his prisoners out of the trunk. If there was a stream where they could clean themselves, so much the better.
He’d have needed to get food again. At the next exit, I saw a McDonald’s, went to the drive—through lane, and ordered an Egg McMuffin, coffee, and orange juice. While I waited behind other cars, I frowned at my beard—stubbled image in the rearview mirror. But the beard stubble wasn’t what bothered me. I’d been trying to imitate Petey’s thoughts, and I’d forgotten one of the most important things about him: the scar on his chin. It would have attracted attention. I pulled a pen from my shirt pocket and drew a line where Petey’s scar would have been. I wanted to know what it felt like to have people staring at my chin.
When I paid for my food, the woman behind the counter pointed toward the ink mark. “Mister, you’ve got—”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I can’t seem to get the darned thing off.”
I’d intended to ask her if there were nearby camping areas, but feeling conspicuous, I paid for my food and drove away. Squinting from the glare of the morning sun, I decided to let my beard keep growing and hide the streak on my chin.
A likely place for a campground would be along a river, so when I crossed the Bighorn, I took the first exit. There, I debated whether to follow the river north or south. A sign indicated that south would take me to the Crow Indian Reservation. That didn’t sound like a place where I’d be invisible, so I headed north.
Traffic was sparse. The land was fenced. In a while, I came to a dirt road that took me to the left, toward the river. It soon curved to the right to parallel the river, although bushes and trees along the bank prevented me from seeing the water. A weed—overgrown lane went into the trees. I drove down it, parked behind the trees, walked to the road, and satisfied myself that the car was hidden.
I had no illusions that this was the spot where Petey had stopped, but logic suggested that it was similar. Petey would have ignored the car’s owner while he tried to reassure Kate and Jason, saying that he wouldn’t hurt them unless they forced him to, that if they did what they were told, there wouldn’t be trouble. He would have kept one of them in the trunk while he let the other bathe, making sure that a rope was tied to one and then the other’s waist to prevent them from trying to run. He would have allowed them to change clothes. He would have studied them while they ate their fast—food breakfast.
“I’ll take care of you.”
They wouldn’t have known what to make of that.
As frightened as Kate was, she’d have had all night to analyze the danger they were in. She’d have already decided that their only chance was for her to use her stress—management skills to try to keep him calm. “Thanks for the food.”
“You like it?”
Despite their fear, Kate and Jason would have been so hungry that they’d have gulped their hamburgers.
“I said, Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Kate would have answered quickly.
“It isn’t much, but it’s better than nothing.”
Was there a threat in the way he said it, that if they gave him trouble, he could make sure that was exactly what they got: nothing? Kate would have taken another deep swallow from her soft drink, knowing that it wouldn’t be enough to replenish her fluids. She’d have brushed her tangled hair from her face, aware that she had to try to look as presentable as possible. Make Petey think of you as a human being, not an object. Thank him for courtesies he showed. Behave as if the situation were normal. Make him want to go through efforts for you so he can get the gratification of being appreciated.
But what about Jason? As young as he was, lacking Kate’s training, he’d have been nearly out of his mind with terror. Gagged, Kate wouldn’t have been able to talk to him in the trunk. She couldn’t have coached him. She had to depend on giving him significant looks and hoping that he’d understand her motives, that he’d follow her lead.
“What are you going to do with us?” she’d have asked when the time seemed right.
“I told you, I’m going to take care of you.”
“But why did—”
“We’re a family.”
“Family?” Don’t react. Make even the outrageous seem normal.
“Brad had an accident.”
“What?”
“He fell off a cliff. I’m taking his place.”
Kate’s stomach would have plummeted as if she had fallen from a cliff.
“I’m your husband. Jason, you’re my son.”
Fighting to keep tears from swelling into her eyes, Kate would have echoed Petey’s earlier words, reinforcing their import. “Take care of us.”
Petey probably wouldn’t have been familiar with the term “the Stockholm principle,” but he was a skillful—enough manipulator that he would have understood it. After a period of time, captives grow weary of their roller—coaster emotions. Grateful to be shown small kindnesses, they tend to accept their situation and to bond with their captors.
That would have been Petey’s hope. But of course he wasn’t accustomed to providing for a wife and son. The breakfast would have quickly disappeared, and then there’d have been the problem of what to do about lunch and supper. Petey wouldn’t have thought that far ahead, but even if he had, how was he going to keep hamburgers and fries from spoiling, and what about a way to reheat them? He needed to buy a cooler, a camping stove, pots and pans and … What had started as an urge to take my place suddenly didn’t have the gratification it had promised. Everything was getting too complicated. Why not admit that he’d made a mistake and chuck the whole business? Why not do what he wanted with Kate and Jason, kill them and the driver in the trunk, hide their bodies, drive into the nearest big town, abandon the car, buy a bus ticket, and adios?
The thought made me shudder. No, that’s how Lester Dant would have acted, I tried to assure myself. Lester Dant would have killed Jason right away, then driven Kate to a secret spot and dumped her body down a ravine when he got tired of abusing her. He certainly wouldn’t have taken the time and the risk to lay a false trail all the way to Montana. That only made sense if Petey had abducted them, if he was determined to take over my life and make Kate and Jason his family.
But his patience would have been sorely tested. The only way he could have felt at ease enough to go to sleep was by putting Kate and Jason back into the trunk so they wouldn’t try to escape while he was dozing. The shade of the trees would have prevented the trunk from becoming lethally hot. Still, Petey would have had no idea how long he might sleep. He’d have loved eight hours. Even with numerous ventilation holes, Kate, Jason, and the man whose car he’d stolen probably wouldn’t have been able to survive that long in the trunk without the lid being opened periodically to vent carbon dioxide. Two people, though, would have a chance. There’d have been one—third more air for them if … That’s when I knew that Petey had deliberately killed the second driver, whereas the first death had been an accident.
Sleep. I could barely keep awake. But as I opened a back door, staring at my suitcase, knapsack, laptop computer, and printer, I realized that I was going to have to put them in the front seat so I could stretch out in the back. It would have annoyed Petey to move his four suitcases. Another complication. Another nuisance. In addition, I was going to have to disable the car’s interior light so I could leave a back door open and stretch my legs while I slept—to prevent the car’s battery from dying. One more damned thing to do.
No, this wouldn’t have been at all like what Petey had wanted.
8
The sound of a passing vehicle startled me awake. I sat up sharply. Before I checked
my watch, the angle of the sun told me that the time was late afternoon. Out of sight from the trees, the vehicle kept bumping along the dirt road. My mouth felt pasty as I got out of the backseat and peered through the trees, seeing that the vehicle was a pickup truck, a rancher in a hurry to get somewhere. My back was sore.
Thus Petey’s nervous schedule would have resumed: checking on his captives, lifting them out so they could relieve themselves and wash their faces in the river. At some point, he would have had to take care of himself. His clothes would have felt grimy. Probably he changed them for some of the clothes that he’d stolen from me. Perhaps he’d felt angry as the rumblings in his stomach told him that he had to start thinking about getting more food for everybody. He couldn’t go on like this. Either he had to find a place in which to settle or he would have to kill Kate and Jason for creating his problems.
No! The only way I could shove that mind—threatening thought away was by imagining how Kate and Jason might have reacted to Petey’s growing impatience. Kate’s training would have told her that she had to accommodate Petey as best she could, to make things less complicated for him, to ease the strain he felt.
“I can try to wash these dirty clothes in the river. Tie me to a tree and watch me on the bank. That way, you’ll be sure I can’t run away. What about these suitcases you moved to the front? Why don’t I return them to where they were? There’s a lot of housekeeping I can take care of.”
Jason might have caught on by then. He might have understood what Kate was doing and tried his best to appear the obedient son. Reinforce Petey’s fantasies. Make him believe that his risk and effort were worthwhile. That was the only way they were going to stay alive. In a way, it was the captives trying to make the captor fall into the Stockholm syndrome.
Petey would have been too close to where he’d abandoned the Caprice. The new vehicle he was driving would soon have been reported missing. Maybe it had license plates from several states away, suggesting that the driver had a distance to go before arriving home and wouldn’t be reported missing until at least the end of the day. All the same, Petey wouldn’t have been able to depend on that. He needed to get on the move. But he didn’t dare show the car until darkness made him invisible. That meant waiting to get food for Kate and Jason. But it also meant that Kate and Jason had more time to talk with him, a chance to try to bond with him, to personalize themselves, so that killing them wouldn’t be easy.
Petey brought out the rope and the duct tape.
“I need to ask you to do something,” Kate said.
Petey tied her hands behind her back.
“Please, listen,” Kate said. “I understand why you need to put the duct tape over our mouths. You’re afraid we’ll yell and make somebody call the police.”
Petey tied her feet.
“Please,” Kate said. “It’s almost impossible to breathe when the trunk gets hot. When you press the duct tape across our mouths, I’m begging you to …”
Petey tore off a section of tape.
“Please. It won’t threaten you if you cut a small hole where our lips are. We still won’t be able to yell. But we’ll be able to breathe better.”
Petey stared at her.
“You promised you’d take care of us,” Kate said. “What good are we to you if we’re dead?”
Petey’s harsh eyes were filled with suspicion. He pressed the tape over her mouth and set her in the trunk. He did the same to Jason. Kate looked beseechingly up at Petey, who reached to close the trunk, paused, then pulled out a knife and slit the duct tape over their lips.
I hoped. But when darkness finally came and I returned to the interstate, I couldn’t repress my unease that I was totally wrong about my reenactment of what had happened. In Wyoming, I came to another fork in the interstate. My palms broke out in a sweat as I tried to decide what to do next. I could retrace my route on 25, eventually returning to Denver, or I could veer east on the continuation of 90, heading into the Black Hills of South Dakota. I couldn’t imagine Petey returning to Denver. But the Black Hills would surely have appealed to him. Plenty of places in which to hide.
9
Footsteps paused outside the entrance to the men’s room. This was at a rest area in South Dakota, shortly after three in the morning. In the harsh overhead light, I stood at a urinal. At that quiet hour, sounds were magnified. That was probably the only reason I noticed the footsteps approaching. Waiting for them to resume, I looked over my shoulder, past the toilet stalls, toward the door on my right. The place had the chill of concrete after the heat of the day had faded.
I waited for the door to swing open. The silence beyond it grew. Still peering over my shoulder, I zipped up my pants. I went over to the sink and washed my hands, fixing my gaze on the mirror before me, which gave a direct view of the door. There weren’t any paper towels, only one of those power dryers that force warm air over wet hands. They sound like a jet engine. Needing to hear everything, I didn’t press its button.
As my fingers tingled from the water on them, I stared toward the door. The silence beyond it persisted. It’s only a tired driver who pulled into the rest area, I thought. He didn’t need to relieve himself, just to stretch his legs. He’s standing out there, enjoying the stars.
And if I’m wrong?
I told myself I was overreacting. After all, I didn’t have any firm reason to believe that someone was out there waiting to surprise me when I opened the door. But I’d been in the foulness of Petey’s mind for so long, imitating his movements, re—creating his logic, stalking rest areas, that I couldn’t subdue the suspicion. My imagination was so primed that I could feel the danger out there as if it were seeping through the wall.
When I’d parked outside, mine had been the only vehicle, an attraction to a predator. He was listening for voices, for more than one set of footsteps, wanting to make sure I was alone. Hearing only me, he’d soon push the door open. I thought of the pistol in the suitcase in my car and cursed myself for being a fool. What good was learning how to use it if I put it where I couldn’t get it if I needed the damned thing?
My legs were feathery. I trembled. No! I thought. What if I’d tracked down Petey? What if he was outside that door?
I pushed the button on the hand dryer. Its harsh roar obscured my footsteps as I shifted toward the back of the door. Braced against the wall, I felt a spurt of fear in my stomach as the door swung open.
A man in his mid—twenties, wearing cowboy boots, jeans, and a cowboy hat came quickly in, holding a tire iron. The door swung shut behind him as he stopped at the sight of the empty rest room. Puzzled, he stared at the roaring hand dryer. He peered toward the toilet stalls.
Abruptly he saw my reflection in the mirror over the sink. He tried to turn. I was already rushing, slamming his back with such force that he hurtled forward, his mus—tached face hitting the mirror, smashing it into shards. Blood streaked the mirror as I grabbed him by the back of his collar and his thick belt, ramming him toward the hand dryer, driving his head against it so powerfully that the nozzle on the fan broke off. The dryer kept roaring as I backed him up and drove his head against it even harder. Blood sprayed from the force of the unshielded fan. The tire iron fell from his hand, clanging on the concrete floor. I slammed his head once more and dropped him. He lay like a pile of old clothes. Eyes shut, he moaned. Except for the rise and fall of his chest, he barely moved.
My stomach was on fire. The anger that had brought me close to killing him frightened me. But the emotion that primarily seized me, making me want to shout, was that I’d won.
10
“Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the receptionist said.
“Special Agent Gader, please.” I gripped my cell phone so tightly that my fingers ached.
It was nine in the morning. Sunlight glinted off a secluded lake surrounded by lumpy bluffs studded with pine trees. The ridges were dark gray stone, making it clear how the Black Hills had gotten their name. I’d reached this area before dawn,
but when I’d noticed that the map indicated only barren open land beyond them, I’d decided that Petey would have stopped earlier than he’d planned, going to ground for the day.
The beauty of the lake looked odd to me. After what had happened at the rest area, I felt as if I’d stepped into an alternate reality.
“Agent Gader is out of town on an assignment.”
I picked up a rock. Frustration made me hurl it at the lake.
“May I ask who’s calling?” the woman asked.
“Brad Denning. I—”
“Agent Gader mentioned that you’d be contacting him. He said that he’d spoken to Mr. Payne about the matter you were interested in, and if you’d talk to —”
I broke the connection.
11
“I guess you haven’t been back to Woodford in a while,” Payne said.
Pressing the cell phone to my ear, I walked close to the lake. Its cool air drifted over me. My beard stubble scraped against my hand. I worked to calm myself. “Not since my mother and I moved away when I was a kid.”
“How big was it then?”
“Not very. About ten thousand people.”
“A one—factory town,” Payne said.
“That’s right. My dad was a foreman.” I suddenly missed him so much. “How did you know?”
“Because Gader says the factory shut down and went to Mexico ten years ago. Now Woodford’s a bedroom community for Columbus, and its population has doubled to twenty thousand. There are several dentists, but none of them ever heard of the Denning family.”
The air at the lake became colder. “But surely they know the dentists who worked there before them.”
“Nope. Gader says you don’t remember the name of the dentist you went to or his address.”
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