by Dan Padavona
When James found his son, Lonnie was climbing up from the base of the slide, the boy’s sneakers slipping on the slick metal. James glanced around. Across the park, Trina pulled Martin aside and lectured him on playground etiquette. The other parents watched their children play.
“Who were you talking to?”
Lonnie furrowed his brow. In that moment, James felt certain Lonnie had spoken to a pretend friend, as the boy liked to do. Sometimes he overheard Lonnie talking to Brooke, as if his mother was playing with him.
“There was a nice man in the park.”
James knelt beside Lonnie and grabbed his arm when the boy tried to climb the slide again.
“What man?”
James didn’t see anyone else in the park. Lonnie shrugged.
“He didn’t say his name.”
“You’re not making this up. Right, Lonnie? It’s okay if you’re pretending.”
“He was right here, Dad. Standing beside the slide like you.”
James wanted to believe the stranger was a maintenance worker from the parks department. The cold hand squeezing his chest told him otherwise.
“What did he say?”
“Not much. He asked me my name and if I enjoy playing in the park.”
James rose to his feet.
“You didn’t tell him your name, did you?”
Lonnie shook his head.
“Nope. I don’t give strangers my name. Just like you taught me, Dad.”
“Where did this man go?”
Lonnie pointed toward the trees bordering the park.
“That way.”
James took Lonnie by the hand. He needed to warn Trina about the stranger. God help James if the man was a child predator.
“Let’s talk to Martin’s mother, okay? I want you to describe the man you saw.”
15
“Anyone home? Thomas?”
Chelsey poked her head inside the sheriff’s A-frame beside the lake. The keys dangled from one hand, Tigger’s carrier from the other. Her voice hadn’t finished echoing off the walls when a jingling chain announced Jack. The pup raced down the stairs, his nails slipping on the hardwood floors as he skittered across the lower landing.
“Easy, Jack,” Chelsey said, holding the carrier above her belly so Jack didn’t stick his nose through the grates. Tigger hissed and retreated to the dark corner of the carrier. “Tigger doesn’t want to meet you. Not yet.”
Chelsey’s mouth went dry. The dog could swallow Tigger in one bite. So far, Jack seemed curious and excited. No hair-raising growls or warning barks as Chelsey carried Tigger to the dining room and set the crate on the table. A stack of bills lay on the counter beside a notepad where Thomas had scribbled his thoughts on the St. Mary’s church mystery. Not wanting to pry, Chelsey ignored the notes and opened the sliding glass door to the deck.
“Do your business, buddy. I need to get back to the office in an hour.”
Jack forgot Tigger and sprinted through the opening. While the dog relieved himself, Chelsey scanned the guest house windows. Today was LeVar’s day off, but the lights were doused inside the house. Chelsey turned to Tigger and peered inside the crate. The tabby cowered at the back, afraid to emerge from hiding.
“It’s okay, little guy. Jack’s friendly.” She squinted at the supposed Siberian Husky. “I think.”
When Jack returned, tail wagging and slapping against the table legs, Chelsey closed the screen but left the sliding glass door open. A clean, refreshing breeze drifted off the lake and ventured around the dining room and kitchen. There wasn’t a sound in the world except the water sloshing against the shoreline. She could get used to this.
And that pulled her mind back to Thomas’s offer. If she accepted, her life would change forever. She appreciated her independence and having personal space. Plus, she worked as a private investigator. Sometimes private investigators bumped heads with law enforcement. Living under the same roof with the sheriff of Nightshade County might get awkward.
She glanced down at Jack, who stared up expectantly. His attention kept drifting between the crate and Chelsey, an obvious message that he wanted Chelsey to bring Tigger out. In her imagination, it had seemed so easy. She’d let Tigger out of the cage, observe Jack’s interaction with the cat, and place the tabby inside the protective carrier if Jack threatened Tigger. Now that she was here, her pulse raced. If Jack turned on Tigger, could she stop him?
She needed to find out. If Chelsey moved in with Thomas, Jack and Tigger had to get along. No way would she give the tabby away.
“Here goes nothing,” she said, lowering the carrier to the floor.
Jack pawed at the door, shaking the crate. He didn’t display aggression, just curiosity.
“Give Tigger space, Jack. You’ll be a good boy, won’t you?”
Jack raised his eyes to Chelsey, the dog’s tongue hanging out as he panted. The angry meow from inside the cage sounded doubtful. Tigger didn’t trust Jack’s smile.
Chelsey squatted beside the crate. Shielding the enclosure with her body, she opened the door and waited. Tigger didn’t budge. Not that she blamed him. Two minutes passed with Jack lying on his stomach with his snout draped over the lip of the crate and Tigger hiding inside a blanket.
“All right, Jack. Take two steps back.”
Jack didn’t understand the command, so Chelsey moved the crate away and ordered Jack to stay put. Reaching inside, she pulled Tigger into her arms and cradled the tabby. As she stroked the cat behind his neck, Tigger stopped struggling and purred. Chelsey watched Jack with one eye. The dog never moved, but his gaze remained fixed on Tigger.
It took a long time for Chelsey to work up her courage. After Tigger relaxed, she placed the tabby on the floor. Jack started forward and Chelsey stopped him.
“Nuh-uh. Stay where you are, Jack.”
The dog’s tail thumped the floor. Chelsey pet Tigger, who crouched behind her leg and glared at the massive dog.
“Are you ready to meet Jack?”
More tail thumps.
“I suppose it’s now or never. Okay, Jack. Time to meet your friend.”
Jack trotted over to Tigger and nudged the cat with his nose. Every nerve in Chelsey’s body was a live wire. She wasn’t sure if Jack’s excitement was for his new playmate or his next meal. She stayed on one knee and monitored the interaction. Tigger padded toward the living room, and Jack followed, nudging him again.
“Give him space.”
Tigger let out a loud meow. Jack dropped to his stomach and grinned. A second later, they were chasing each other around the downstairs, leaping off Thomas’s couch, scrambling beneath the dining room table, sliding around the kitchen. To Chelsey’s relief, Tigger did most of the chasing. She shook her head in wonder before reality struck her. With Jack and Tigger best friends now, she was out of excuses. Thomas deserved an answer.
As she mulled over her decision, the doorbell rang. Jack froze. Tigger scrambled across the top of the couch, confused why the dog had stopped the chase. Glass covered most of the A-frame. Outside, a fit man wearing a gaudy Hawaiian shirt stood atop the handicap accessible ramp. A salesman? Jehovah’s Witness?
“Who the heck is that?”
Jack cocked his head when the doorbell rang a second time. Chelsey gave the man another glance through the window. The mid-forties visitor appeared nonthreatening. Even if he caused trouble, she had the dog to protect her. Before the man could press the bell again, she whipped the door open. He opened his mouth and stared at her dumbstruck, expecting someone else.
“May I help you?”
The man raised on his tiptoes and peered into the downstairs as if searching for someone. When his eyes landed on Jack, the man took an involuntary step backward. He wore sandals on his feet, sunglasses pushed atop his head. A few flecks of gray dotted his dark hair.
“Sorry. I must have the wrong address. Is this Thomas Shepherd’s house?”
“Yes, you’re at the right place. He’s working today.”
“Oh, of course.” He cleared his throat and reached into his pocket. After he didn’t find what he was searching for, he dug into another pocket, gave Chelsey an embarrassed smile, and checked his shirt pocket. “Ah, here it is. My name is Neil Gardy. I’m an agent with the FBI Behavior Analysis Unit.”
Gardy flicked open his wallet and displayed his credentials. The identification appeared legitimate. Thomas had FBI contacts?
“Chelsey Byrd,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Thomas’s…friend. He should be home from work in three or four hours. Do you want to leave a message?”
“Uh, sure. Tell him Agent Gardy is in town and stopped by to say hello. Well, I’m not actually in town. I’m staying in Coral Lake.”
“Are you investigating a case?”
“Just a pleasure trip. I always wanted to visit the Finger Lakes region.” He sifted through his wallet and produced a business card. “I wrote the number for the inn on the back. Have him call me when he has a chance. I’d love to catch up.”
“I’ll tell him. Thomas will be sorry he missed you.”
Gardy peeked his head around Chelsey’s shoulder.
“Hey, doggy.”
Jack growled. Gardy backed away.
“I won’t take more of your time. Nice to meet you, Ms. Byrd.”
The vacationing FBI agent descended the ramp and followed the walkway to his minivan, a humorous vehicle for an agent with the Behavior Analysis Unit. As he backed onto the lake road, he beeped the horn and waved. Chelsey waved back to the odd, yet friendly agent. She watched with curiosity as his vehicle vanished down the roadway.
16
Thomas narrowed his eyes at Chelsey’s message as he navigated the cruiser around a bend. Agent Neil Gardy was in Coral Lake? Gardy never took vacations. The man worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Thomas pictured the agent in a Hawaiian shirt and laughed to himself.
There were no interstate routes near Coral Lake. Two rural roads meandered down the east and west sides of the long, narrow lake, the properties growing in grandeur as he approached the village. He repeated the address in his head and checked the GPS. If memory served correctly, the inn lay on the northern shore in the village center.
When he found the inn, Thomas parked the sheriff’s cruiser at the rear of the lot. This wasn’t his county, and he didn’t wish to step on toes. When he found Gardy’s room, he knocked twice and waited. The door opened to an unexpected sight: Agent Gardy in cargo shorts, sandals, and the Hawaiian shirt Chelsey mentioned. Her description failed to do the shirt justice. Thomas squinted at the bright colors.
Gardy’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Sheriff Thomas Shepherd. I figured you’d call first.”
“I had a few hours this afternoon and thought I’d drive over.”
The FBI agent stood aside and motioned Thomas into the room.
“Come in, old friend.”
Thomas wandered inside and took everything in. The resort suite featured a kitchenette, a generous living space, and a deck overlooking the lake. An overstuffed suitcase lay on the bed.
“I can see why you’d want to stay here. Very nice.”
“Right? Come out to the deck. The dinner cruise is pulling out of port.” There were two chairs on the deck. Thomas sat beside Gardy as a dinner boat filled with tourists drifted past the inn. “So you’re the big cheese in Nightshade County now. What’s it like being sheriff?”
Thomas shrugged.
“It’s a dichotomy. I have jurisdiction over the county, so lots of responsibility. Yet the job is quiet. Most days, that is.”
“I read about the Thea Barlow case. The murders drew national attention.”
“Your profile was dead on,” Thomas said, setting an ankle on his knee as he eyed the agent with skepticism. “I appreciate your help.”
Gardy waved a hand through the air.
“Anytime. That’s what we’re there for.”
Thomas studied the water. Coral Lake was as blue as the Caribbean when the sun began its afternoon descent. A slew of boats bobbed and motored across the water, one dragging a girl on an inner tube.
“You’re a long way from Virginia, Gardy. What made you choose Coral Lake for a vacation spot?”
Gardy’s lips moved in silence, as though he’d practiced his response.
“Agent Bell and I worked a case here a few years ago. I fell in love with the village and always planned to return.” He opened his arms. “And here I am. Back in paradise.”
“Speaking of Agent Bell, she corresponds with my neighbor.”
A confused look fell over Gardy’s face.
“Your neighbor?”
“Scout Mourning. She’s a teenager with an interest in criminal profiling. Scout wrote Agent Bell and received a reply.”
“That sounds like Bell. She has a soft spot for kids. Plus, the woman never stops blabbing about profiling.”
“Since you’re in the area, perhaps you’d be willing to sit with Scout before you leave and tell her about the job. She’s as bright as they come, and she even helped me catch Jeremy Hyde last year.”
“Absolutely. I have three more nights in Coral Lake. I’m happy to meet with Scout.”
Thomas sat forward with his elbows on his knees and gave Gardy a wry smile.
“And maybe you’ll tell me why you’re really here.”
Gardy swallowed.
“What?”
“How long have we known each other? Agent Gardy never takes a vacation.”
The agent opened his mouth to protest and clamped it shut. He fell back in his chair, deflated.
“What gave it away?”
“The Hawaiian shirt. Laying it on a little thick, aren’t we?”
“It is an unfortunate wardrobe choice. But I fit in with the locals.”
“Then there’s your suitcase. You packed for a few weeks, not for a few nights. And if I open the closet doors, I bet I’ll find black suits on hangers.”
Gardy wagged a finger at Thomas.
“Don’t I always say you should be a profiler?”
“You’re deflecting.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“So why are you in Coral Lake? This is about the woman’s hand in the church, isn’t it?”
Agent Gardy chewed his lip.
“Listen, Thomas. As far as the FBI is concerned, I am on vacation. It just so happens your case might be a part of something bigger.”
“I’m all ears.”
Gardy stood from his chair and leaned his hands on the railing. He looked over the lake, the humor gone from his face.
“A severed hand inside a confession booth. You got off easy. In Kalamazoo, he left a human leg on a kids’ playground in the center of the city.”
“You’re certain it’s the same guy?”
Gardy’s silence spoke volumes.
“He’s a phantom, Thomas. Over eight years, he’s murdered twelve people, including four children. At least, those are the twelve I’m aware of. He’s impossible to catch because he doesn’t have a preferred victim type like most serial killers. Men, women, young or old. It doesn’t matter with this guy. He just likes to kill, and he has a taste for it.” Gardy gestured for Thomas to follow him inside. “Come with me. There’s something I need to show you.”
Agent Gardy opened his laptop case and set the computer on the desk. He slid his ID into the card reader and typed a password. After he passed the FBI welcome screen, he opened a folder and clicked on a map. Gardy tapped his finger on the screen.
“Not only does he change his victim type, he moves around. He’s killed in Michigan, New England, Ohio, and various points around the Mid-Atlantic.”
“Does he always leave a body part behind?”
“Not always. But when he does, he prefers to dump the body part in a populated area. Killers like our unsub love to grab the headlines. He dumped a teenage boy’s head outside a busy restaurant in Annapolis. The bastard avoided the traffic cams. There must have b
een a hundred people inside that restaurant and just as many on the street, and nobody saw him.”
“Does he ever kill in the same place?”
“Never.”
“So why did you travel to Coral Lake? It appears he already murdered his victim and left a part of her behind. He won’t strike again, right?”
“He might. Because it’s personal this time.”
Thomas pulled his chair closer to the computer.
“Why do you think it’s personal?”
“Think about it. Leaving the hand inside a confession booth guaranteed only one person would see it.”
“Father Fowler, the priest who received his confession.”
“Exactly.”
“Problem is, Father Fowler won’t divulge the man’s confession,” Thomas said. “All Fowler told us is the man claimed to know him from years ago.”
Gardy’s eyes lit.
“That’s a start. Honestly, that’s the closest we’ve come to learning about his past. But there’s a bigger problem.” Gardy traced an invisible circle around the map with his finger. “See the pattern? Nightshade County lies in the center of the circle.”
“This is his home base.”
“And he’s spinning out of control. I have a bad feeling about this guy, Thomas. He’s just getting started.”
Thomas tapped his foot.
“What do you need from me?”
“An invitation, if you’re interested. You know the protocol. The FBI won’t send me in unless the locals make the call. We’re like vampires. I’m not allowed to enter your home until you open the window.”
“If what you say is true, I want the FBI in Nightshade County.”
“Consider it done.” Gardy dropped a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Together again, Thomas. Just like Los Angeles. Let’s catch this guy.”
17
Deputy Aguilar gasped and bolted upright. She stared at the bedside clock with no clue where she was or if it was early or late. The bedroom seemed darker than normal, the ambient light blocked at the window by blackout curtains. Beside the bed, the alarm clock flashed the time, a signal the power had gone out, resetting the clock. She rubbed the grit from her eyes and fluffed the pillow, frustrated she was awake again in the middle of the night. Until the shooting, she’d slept like a baby. Eight hours every night without fail. Now she was lucky if she stole four hours from the sandman before she slogged into work.