Brooke, who’d been sniffling since almost the start of the conversation, started to cry in earnest. Detective Wallace pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket—what a nice, old-fashioned thing for a young, modern man to carry around—and gave it to her.
“Zachary,” Gabe said, looking relieved to have the boy’s real name to go on. It was an excellent clue, and she knew it. That, in itself, was worth the ordeal she had gone through to learn it.
But it wasn’t the most important thing. Oh, no.
“What happened after that?” Julia asked.
Olivia looked at her, blinking, her mouth opening, then closing. She lifted her hand to her throat, trying to focus, wanting to help, but unable to think, unable to even consider thinking about the moment his face—her face—had gone into that water.
“What the hell do you think happened? He died,” Gabe snapped, sounding angry. He strode over, stood beside the chair—the one where he’d held her on his lap just last night—and put a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to say anything else, Liv. You can put this all behind you, forget about it.”
A nice thought, but it wasn’t true. She looked up at him, saw the concern and appreciated it more than she could say. “I need to tell you one more thing the man said.”
“Yes?”
“When Zachary tried to deny letting me go, the man got angry, saying that word of my escape was all over the news.”
He drew in a low, audible breath, understanding washing over his features. It all clicked in his mind, the way it had in hers. “The sunlight on the water,” he mumbled.
She nodded.
“Christ.”
“What is going on?” Brooke asked. “What are we missing?”
“You don’t remember the details as well as I do, you were so young,” Olivia said, tearing her gaze off Gabe to glance at her sister.
Gabe jumped in to explain. “Dwight Collier, the man everyone assumed had kidnapped Olivia and killed young Zachary, was himself killed in a shootout with police the night Olivia escaped.”
Detective Wallace muttered a curse, and Julia gasped as it hit her, too. But Brooke, sweet Brooke, whose mind didn’t work in warped, evil ways, still didn’t quite see.
Olivia leaned forward, reaching for her sister’s hand. “I heard the killer’s voice, and I know he was the same man who had taken me, and . . . who did what he did to me.”
Brooke squeezed her fingers tighter.
“Jack—Zachary—helped me escape, and I spent the night in the cemetery. But he was killed in the daytime. I saw the blue sky, I saw the gleam of sunlight on the water, and word of my escape didn’t hit the news until the next morning, when they found me in the cemetery.”
Hours after Dwight Collier was dead.
Suddenly, her sister saw the same thing they all did and looked every bit as dismayed. “Oh, my God.”
Olivia knew it was true, didn’t doubt what she’d experienced with her own eyes and ears, but it was still hard to take in. Yesterday, she’d voiced concern about an accomplice, wondering if someone else had walled up the boy’s remains. In truth, Dwight Collier had been the accomplice all along, sent to pick up the ransom money and paying for that errand with his life.
Which meant the man who’d kidnapped Olivia, drowned her, then murdered Zachary, had escaped altogether. And he might very well still be out there.
Chapter 8
After he’d finished burying the rich businessman from Jacksonville, Johnny Traynor went into the motor home and headed for the kitchen to wash up for supper. He’d told Jack to have his food ready, and when he entered, his stare immediately went to the table to make sure he’d been obeyed. He saw a bowl filled with some canned stew, a plate stacked with bread, a box of crackers and a big glass of water.
Well, wasn’t that fine.
“Good job, son,” he said, smiling broadly at the boy, who stood in the corner, his eyes big and round in the near darkness. His smile quickly faded, however. “Why din’tcha turn the lights on? It’s dark as a witch’s snatch in here!”
The boy darted toward the lamp and flicked it on. “I din’t think you’d wanna waste the gas from the generator. It ain’t been dark but for a couple’a minutes, and I could see okay.”
Johnny gave him a thumbs-up. “Smart thinkin’ there, Jackie-boy.”
Seeing the sticky, dried blood and dirt on his fingers, he paused for a second, confused. The dirt, sure—he’d buried a man, hadn’t he? But the blood . . . he couldn’t quite recall where that had come from. The body’d been all wrapped up in plastic, hadn’t it? It’d been lyin’ there on the ground, waiting to be buried when John had gotten back from . . . wherever he’d been.
Dang, he must be getting old; he couldn’t remember shit these days. He’d come back from using the man’s own keys to break in and rob his house, taken a nap, then . . . then buried the man rolled up in the tarp.
Wherever the blood had come from, he didn’t want it on his hands while he ate the fine meal his son had prepared for him. Needing to wash, he headed to the sink, giving the kid a little hair ruffle as he passed. He’d been pleased with how well Jack had been behaving lately.
The boy ducked his head, probably feeling embarrassed about the praise. He was a shy one, quiet, maybe a little soft. But hopefully he would toughen now that he was getting older.
How old? How old is Jackie-boy?
Johnny paused and turned his head, thinking he’d heard something—a voice—but there was nothing, no sound at all but for the screaming bugs outside the trailer.
Screaming . . . the businessman from Jacksonville had screamed, hadn’t he? Somewhere off in the distance.
“Don’t matter,” he mumbled under his breath. The businessman from Jacksonville was gone now. And there was lots more money waiting to be hidden away, along with the tens—maybe hundreds—of thousands of dollars he’d collected over the past two decades. Much of it—any ransom money, for instance—couldn’t be used anytime soon. He knew better than to think those rich assholes would keep their word and deliver only unmarked bills. But someday, in a few years or so, when he was ready to retire, he’d dig it all up. Then he and his boy would move somewhere far away, live high on the hog.
But he won’t be a boy anymore, will he? He’ll be a man. A lying, untrustworthy man.
“You say something?” he asked Jack, who again stood in the corner, watching.
“Nossir, Uncle Johnny.”
His hand flew out, the back of it meeting the boy’s cheek in absent irritation. “I told you to stop calling me that. I’m your daddy, and it ain’t right for you to call me anything else.”
Tears filled up those eyes, and for a second, Johnny felt enraged by them. He wanted to put his hands around that throat and throttle the kid for being such a whiny, crying little pussy.
“I’m sorry . . . D-Daddy.”
He sighed, his anger dissipating and his shoulders sagging as he finished rinsing his hands with a big jug of water. He oughtn’ta lost his temper like that. Hell, it was no wonder Jack occasionally forgot who he was talking to. Johnny had used dozens of aliases. Folks here in Savannah, which he considered his home, knew him by a name he’d used nigh on twenty years. While if he went up to Augusta for a spell, he might answer to Jimmy, or in Atlanta to Ralph.
Then there was the name folks who weren’t quite as law-abiding called him. The people who wanted to hire him for a specialty job—like the fella who’d decided to act out that movie Fargo and have his own wife kidnapped so’s he could get rid of her and keep all their money—knew him as Mr. Wolf. When anybody started nosing around, looking for the Wolf, he knew they had a special, sneaky job in mind.
Though they confused his poor, muddled son, simple names helped him blend in, be easily forgotten, which was part of the job. He didn’t want to be remembered once folks turned up missing. It was a blue-wonder he remembered his own name sometimes.
“You’re forgiven—just don’t let it happen again.” He cuffed the boy
gently on the cheek. “Now, what say we have some supper? Buryin’s awful hard work. No way to spend my afternoon off, I tell you that.”
“No, sir, it sure ain’t,” Jack said, looking relieved. Like a dog that had got strapped a bunch and was glad to get only a single kick this time.
That made Johnny feel bad but also a little bit angry. Who was the kid to act like he had it so tough? Didn’t Johnny treat him right, put food in his belly and keep a roof over his head? And everything he did—robbing houses, snatching people and getting money for them—wasn’t it so him and Jack could have a better life someday?
Of course it was. That’s all it had ever been about. Him and his boy.
“Go on, now, get yourself some food,” he said, gesturing toward the camp stove.
“Thank you, sir,” Jack said, dashing over to get a bowl.
Johnny watched him, smiling at the boy’s rapid movements, how fast he was despite being a little scrawny. And smart, too.
Smart enough to figure out how to get out of here. Have you looked at a calendar lately?
“Damn it.” He waved a hand by his face, irritated by whatever bug was flying around inside, buzzing in his ear. “You leave the doors open again, boy?”
“Nossir,” Jack said. “They was locked the whole time you was gone, remember?”
“You sassing me?” he snapped.
“No! I promise, Daddy. I wasn’t sassin’. I just didn’t want you to think I’d let any flies in. I know how much you hate ’em.”
“Filthy little buggers.” Then he stared at Jack, who stood over by the stove, shoveling food into his mouth the way a growing boy would. A growing boy—he surely was that. His pants were about three inches too short, showing a pair of dirty ankles and skinny bare feet.
Growing up.
He shoveled a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “You know I lock the door to keep you safe when I have to go to work, don’tcha, Jackie? And didn’t I buy that fan and all that gas for the generator so you’d be nice and comfortable in here all day?”
“Yessir,” he said, then quickly added, “Thank you.”
Johnny waved a hand. He was glad the boy had remembered his manners and knew enough to be grateful. If there was one thing he couldn’t abide, it was lack of gratitude in a person. “I’ll always take care of you. I don’t want anything to happen to you, not ever. You’re my boy, and I hate having to leave you out here all alone.”
“Maybe . . .”
“What?”
Jack’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe we could live in town.”
Scowling, Johnny said, “Town’s no place for you; there’s nosy people there, cops and evil women. Plus there’s druggies and perverts who hurt little boys like you. It ain’t safe.”
Johnny didn’t mention that he had a place in town, not that he stayed there too often. He needed an address. No sense having people wonder where he lived. But Jack didn’t need to know that. No point in the boy pining for somethin’ he wasn’t gonna get.
It was safe out here in the woods. Safe, secure and private. This time, he wasn’t squattin’ somewhere, having to worry somebody’d stumble across the two of them. He owned the twenty acres around them. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to buy it, having to get a fancy lawyer to set up what he called “an investment trust.” The main thing was to do whatever he could to keep his name offa the deed so’s it would be harder for anybody to trace him. They’d have to look real hard.
Licking his lips, still looking nervous, Jack went on. “But if we was in town, maybe I could come to work with you an’ help you, and you could make sure nobody got me.”
Johnny slapped his hand on his knee, tickled by the suggestion. A boy wanting to go help his father do his job—now that’s what he called a perfect father-son relationship. But it wasn’t exactly practical considering how little Johnny liked for people to know his private business.
He’s only askin’ so he can try to run away. That’s what boys his age do, they run away.
His amusement fell right out of him, the smile disappearing to be replaced by a deep frown. His temple started to throb, and a low ache started building in the back of his head.
It came on fast. Just a little pain, then it flared into an agonizing throb. Something pounded at him, like somebody was hammering on his skull from the inside, trying to get out. He saw black spots and lifted a hand to cover his eyes. A whole bunch of blurry pictures went through his mind, and a voice whispered deep inside his head. An angry, familiar voice.
Some bones. A fire. The cops. Don’t you remember the phone call? It’s all falling down!
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sorry, Daddy,” Jack said, probably thinking he was the one Johnny had been talking to.
It’s that girl’s fault. Oh, that girl. We shoulda killed that whore, that lying little bitch who caused all the trouble. We coulda done it a hundred times. Coulda reached out and snapped her filthy neck before she ever even realized she was in danger.
We gotta do it. Gotta finish it. Finish ’em both.
Johnny leapt up from the table, his fingers pulling his own hair, his eyes closed, face upraised. “Leave me alone!”
Look at the date. You know it’s comin’. You know it.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Jack cried, scurrying out of the kitchen.
Finish her. Finish him. Then we’ll start over. Think of it: a nice, new, sweet-faced little boy, just eight years old, gap-toothed, all smiles and freckles, skinned knees and soft cheeks. He’ll never sass you, never think of runnin’ away. Never betray you. Our perfect little son.
Just like Jackie was once upon a time.
“No!” Johnny yelled, feeling like his brains were being dug out a spoonful at a time. The pain, the voices … God, why wouldn’t it stop? Why couldn’t he have any peace?
It’s got to be done.
“I won’t put my boy in the ground,” he whispered. “Won’t put Jack in the cold ground.”
You won’t have to. It’ll be like he’s playin’ a game of hide-’n’-seek. Only he won’t never be found.
A bunch of pictures entered his mind—dark corners, hidden crevices. Jack.
“No! Leave me be!”
I can’t, and we both know why. You know I’m right. The time’s coming when one of us is gonna have to finish this—and we both know it’s gonna be me.
Then we’ll start over.
If there had been any way Gabe could have swept Olivia out of her own house, away from her sister, his partner, and those annoying coworkers of hers—one more had shown up an hour ago—he would have, happily. But there had been no way. Because, somehow, in the telling of her tale, everyone in the room had decided they were part of this now and wanted to be involved in the investigation. Every damn one of them.
Including the “mousy” sister, who’d actually hung up on her fiancé the fourth time he’d called to ask her where she was and order her home. Having met said fiancé, the calls hadn’t surprised him. Brooke’s response, however, had. Every once in a while, Gabe had seen Olivia sneaking glances at her sibling, as if to make sure it was really her and not some body snatcher.
That whole thing he’d been thinking earlier about siblings came back to him. Brooke was here, fierce and protective, because she loved her sister more than she worried about displeasing her fiancé. Which was a nice thing to see, rare and sort of alien to him but nice.
“So whaddya say, Cooper?” asked Mick Tanner, one of the eXtreme Investigations guys, who seemed pretty normal, except for the thin leather gloves he wore on his hands. Gabe hadn’t asked about the gloves, having an idea what they were for, given what he’d seen Olivia do.
That didn’t mean Gabe liked him. He was prepared to dislike anybody Olivia worked with. If you’re such a great friend and care about her so much why do you let her do it?
“Cooper?” the other man prodded.
“What do I say about what?”
; “About letting us help?”
He frowned, noting that across the room Ty was doing the same thing.
“This is an official police investigation.”
“A cold case,” Tanner said, waving a gloved hand. “Come on, admit it. You know nobody at Central gives a damn about an old closed murder case, and you could use some help.”
“They’ll care if they know this boy’s killer has killed two other boys.”
“How are you planning to explain that?” Tanner asked. “How will your lieutenant react if you say an employee of eXtreme Investigations touched some remains, had a vision and told you the kid’s killer was not who the police say he was.”
Damn. Good point. He had been thinking of the results, not of the psychic means of getting them; anybody who hadn’t been in that room when Olivia had touched that finger bone would question the truth of her story.
As for Gabe, well, he no longer questioned it. He didn’t know why, or how, or what it meant, but he believed every word she said. Her reaction had been too extreme and her mood afterward far too crumbled, crushed under the weight of what she’d experienced, for it to have been an act. Plus, everything she’d said made sense. The biggest problem he’d had with her story was the time line. Now it no longer mattered. Of course the bastard hadn’t carried out every evil act in that one, awful night; he’d been able to take his time. Hell, for all they knew, poor Jack had been killed a couple of days after Olivia’s rescue.
In Gabe’s mind, he pictured the man sending Collier to get the money. When all hell broke loose, he’d have gone back to the woods in a panic, not knowing if Collier would live to talk. He’d have packed up the boy and the camper and taken off to lie low somewhere.
When he’d heard on the news that Olivia had gotten away and that Collier, the “evil kidnapper,” was dead, he’d probably decided Jack was both a traitor and a loose end. He’d had all the time in the world to kill the boy, then wall-up his body some night, because nobody was even looking for him. They’d all thought he was dead. Afterward, he’d ditched the cleaned-out truck at the bus station, wiped his hands and walked away clean.
Cold Touch Page 17