by Dan Padavona
“Hmm, we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. We can’t prove he stalked Ryan.”
“You’re right. But he gave Sasha and Brit a severe case of the creeps. Hitting on Brit also proves he wasn’t loyal to Nadia like he claims.”
“Infidelity doesn’t make him a murderer.”
“No, but he lied. And despite Pinder’s claim, Hart doesn’t have an alibi for the morning Nadia disappeared or the evening the killer dumped her in the woods. The stolen necklace places Hart inside Nadia’s bedroom after her disappearance, possibly after her murder. Who sneaks into his dead ex-girlfriend’s house and steals a keepsake?”
“That raised my eyebrows too. All right. Next, Chris Doyle.”
Doyle’s photograph pops up on the laptop screen. Darcy crosses her legs at the ankles, leans back, and closes her eyes.
“He’s an interesting suspect. I don’t trust him. The entire interview, he didn’t hold eye contact.”
“And he has a violent streak.”
“A violent streak against women. I don’t buy the drunk excuse. If you hit a woman, you’re an abuser.”
Ketchum narrows his eyes at Doyle’s picture and taps a pen against the screen.
“He had motive and opportunity to murder Ryan. They’d been fighting, and I bet their troubles predate Doyle applying for a job in Jacksonville.”
“He was alone in the forest for ten or fifteen minutes,” Darcy says. “That’s enough time to kill Ryan, hide in the forest, then circle back after Sasha arrived.”
“What about the spider bites?”
Darcy chews a nail.
“That’s a tough one. He could have brought the spiders to the campsite. But someone would have noticed, don’t you agree?”
“Unless he hid an aquarium in the woods.” Ketchum shakes his head. “Yeah, it feels far-fetched. The other issue is we haven’t linked Chris Doyle to Nadia Ames.”
“Doyle attended Smith Town High. According to school records, Doyle graduated two years before Nadia Ames. In a small school, there’s a good chance seniors mingle with sophomores and juniors.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting Doyle and Hart alone for second interviews. We’re missing something important with both men.”
“Agreed.”
“All right. How about a third suspect? Someone we haven’t considered.”
“While Hart’s the strongest suspect, we don’t have enough evidence to go after him.”
“And since he’s the mayor’s son…”
Ketchum lets the obvious hang.
“Yeah, that would be a public relations nightmare. It could be there’s a third person we haven’t thought of. Someone keeping a low profile.”
“What would the unsub’s profile look like?”
“Without getting inside the killer’s head, we’re searching for someone who knew both victims.”
“So another student, maybe a common boyfriend or enemy from their pasts.”
“Or an administrator, teacher, aide, even a maintenance worker. Someone who saw Nadia and Brit every day.”
“That opens the door to a lot of suspects.”
A knock brings their heads around. A bald African-American man, wearing brown slacks and a matching jacket, sticks his head inside.
“Agents Haines and Ketchum? I’m Detective Goshen. Pinder told me you wanted to see where Brit Ryan died. I can take you there now, if you’re interested.”
Ketchum folds the laptop and places it in his bag.
“We’ll follow you to the campground. Lead the way, Detective.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Friday, September 18th
11:00 a.m.
If Detective Montel Goshen harbors ill feelings toward Darcy and Ketchum, he hides them better than his coworkers. On the verge of retirement, Goshen hobbles through the campgrounds, picking his way around trees and bushes as Darcy worries he’ll topple.
“Not sure which of you crapped in Pinder’s cornflakes,” he says over his shoulder. “But the grumpy bastard doesn’t want any part of this investigation.”
“Are you suggesting the detective blew us off?” asks Darcy.
“Let’s just say three uniformed officers responded to that domestic dispute in Smith Town. All Pinder is doing is taking up air.”
Goshen slows and glances at his surroundings.
“You lost?” Ketchum asks.
The detective scrunches his brow.
“It’s easy to get confused in this part of the forest. No need for people to wander off after dark, no matter how bad they need to pee. Here we are.”
Goshen consults his map and points at a tree with a thick trunk.
“This is where the boys discovered Mrs. Ryan,” Goshen says.
“You weren’t part of the investigation?” Ketchum asks.
“That was my night off, and I’m damn glad for it. According to the reports, they found her at the base of the tree.”
He removes the crime scene photograph. Brit Ryan’s dead eyes glare at the canopy. Her face appears pallid, and two puncture wounds ooze pus between her chest and shoulder. Darcy studies the image. A hill rises behind the trees. Footprints trail over the ridge, but they could belong to anyone. This is a frequently hiked region. After the police noticed the spider bites, they didn’t consider a killer murdered Ryan in the woods.
“About these spider bites,” Darcy says. “Did Smith Town PD see any spiders on the victim?”
“Negative. Can’t imagine a spider taking down an adult, anyhow.”
“What about footprints around the scene?”
Goshen thumbs through the photographs and pulls out a picture.
“At least four pair. Probably belonged to the victim, the woman who found her, and the victim’s boyfriend.”
“But if there were four pair…”
“People walk through these woods all the time. I’m surprised the boys didn’t find more prints.”
Darcy compares the pictures with the woods. In her mind, she sees Brit Ryan splayed before her. Could the fourth set of prints belong to Kealan Hart, or a suspect they haven’t considered?
“The thing is, I don’t buy the venomous spider angle,” Goshen says, glancing at Darcy from the corner of his eye.
“But that’s the official position of the Smith Town PD.”
He lifts his shoulders.
“I wasn’t on the investigative team, and I’m retiring in eighteen months. I don’t give a crap who I piss off.”
“So you’re worried Detective Pinder made a mistake,” says Ketchum, stepping closer to the detective.
“Look, Brit Ryan had a blood alcohol content of 0.15. Those campers were drunk out of their minds, and a count that high will get you into trouble.”
“That’s consistent with blood poisoning.”
Goshen snaps his fingers and points at Ketchum.
“Bingo. So Ryan is already sick when she sits against the tree. That drunk, she might be hallucinating. Maybe her body broke down, and she died in the forest after she lost her way. Then a spider finds her and takes a few bites. What killed her, the blood alcohol content, or the spider? I’m not a betting man, but I’d throw good money at the former. You ever see a spider in the wild capable of killing an adult?”
Yes, Darcy thinks.
Back in the SUV, Darcy leans against the door as Ketchum motors toward Smith Town. Paging through the police report, she hisses and snaps the folder shut.
“Talk about shoddy work,” she says, drawing Ketchum’s attention. “The police barely acknowledged the footprints at the murder site, Brit Ryan might have died from alcohol poisoning, and they spelled her name wrong on the report.”
“Did they?”
“Her first name is Britney, not Brittany.” She tosses the folder on the floor. “Pinder mailed in the investigation.”
A call comes in on Darcy’s phone. She recognizes the 352 area code—Florida.
“This must be the professor calling me back,” Darcy says, switching to speakerphone.
Before they left the campgrounds, Darcy had phoned Dr. Anastasia Hayworth, an entomology professor at the University of Florida.
“Thank you for returning my call, Doctor. You’re on the line with Agents Haines and Ketchum.”
“My pleasure,” Hayworth says. “But I admit I’m skeptical.”
“So you read the reports from North Carolina.”
“I did. Every ten years, there’s a rash of unexplained deaths in the United States. Our environment, the very air we breathe, contains toxins, poisons. Throw in food poisoning, and there are many things in the world that can kill you. Spiders are convenient scapegoats. People have an irrational fear of spiders. Without them, mosquitoes and flies would overrun the world.”
“I phoned the American Association of Poison Control Centers.”
“Did they give you the statistics on spider bite deaths in the United States?”
“Yes,” Darcy says, setting the phone in the center console.
“So you know fatal bites are rare in the United States. Just two in the last five years, both from the brown recluse.”
“And the victims were elderly, possibly with underlying health conditions.”
“Correct. Now, outside the United States, a few species capable of killing a healthy adult exist in the world.”
“Isn’t it true there are large sections of the rain forest that we haven’t explored, and is it possible a deadly spider species exists, but we haven’t discovered it yet?” Ketchum asks.
“Sure, and some species live in the rain forest canopy and avoid human contact. But I don’t know what that has to do with the North Carolina victims.”
Darcy opens her laptop as she converses with Hayworth. Using a satellite Internet connection, she queries tarantula photographs.
“I’m a skeptic too,” says Darcy. “But this weekend, I encountered a spider in my backyard that didn’t resemble any known arachnids in this part of the United States. My original thought was the spider must have been an escaped pet, perhaps a tarantula. But the specimen I observed doesn’t resemble any tarantula I’ve found online.”
“Could you describe the spider?”
“I estimate the spider was two to three inches with a large abdomen. Black. Very little hair compared to a tarantula.”
“Interesting. That doesn’t sound like a black widow, and brown recluse spiders top out under an inch. From your description, it’s possible the spider is a young tarantula. Sometimes spiders hitch rides inside luggage. That would explain a non-United States species showing up in your backyard. Have you seen other spiders like it in the wild?”
“Thank goodness, no. It was quite aggressive.”
“If you capture a specimen, I’d like to see it.”
Darcy bristles at the idea. Capturing the spider? What if she trapped the spider in a jar and it crawled out inside the house?
“Let’s hope that’s the last one I see. But if I come across another, I’ll call you.”
“Better yet, we’ll meet on a video call. That way you can show me the spider. Until then, maintain a healthy skepticism. Reporters love a venomous spider story. Worst-case scenario, people panic and kill native spiders. Then you have a bigger problem on your hands with mosquitoes and diseases.”
After the call ends, Darcy watches as a brown spider crawls across the dashboard. Last week, she wouldn’t have given the arachnid a second glance. Now she lowers the window and ushers the spider through the opening.
Ketchum grins at Darcy.
“You’re right,” she says. “I’m not taking any chances.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Friday, September 18th
5:40 p.m.
Exhaustion grips Darcy as she falls into the kitchen chair. When Julian pops the cap off a beer and hands Darcy the bottle, she takes a sip and sets it down. The pot roast in the Crockpot lends the kitchen a warm and wholesome smell. Down the hall, Jennifer’s bedroom door stands closed. Darcy can’t remember the last time Jennifer stayed home on a Friday evening. Though she feels guilty for stifling her daughter’s social needs, safety is the priority until she catches the Smith Town killer.
“I already thanked you for speaking with Jennifer,” Darcy says, reading the label on the beer bottle. “But I’m dumbstruck. I figured she’d be on the rampage by now, once reality set in. What high school senior responds well to a lockdown?”
“She’s more perceptive than we give her credit for. Jennifer understands the risks, and she’s not taking chances.”
Darcy nods, unconvinced. Biting her lip, she watches Julian scoop dinner into bowls.
“What did you find out about Jennifer’s new boyfriend?”
Julian pauses mid-scoop. He carries Darcy’s dinner to the table and sets it in front of her.
“She’s dating, but I don’t know the kid’s name.”
“Does Cynthia?” Another pause. “Give it up. Cynthia spoke to Jennifer after the windshield broke. And Jennifer trusts your partner. Was my daughter really at Kaitlyn’s house, or did she sneak across town to see a boy?”
“I won’t put words in Cynthia’s mouth. But I gather Jennifer didn’t spend the day at Kaitlyn’s.”
Darcy blows on the steaming food before setting it on her tongue.
“I don’t like this. Jennifer needs to be straight with us. If she’s dating, I support her one hundred percent. After what she went through in Genoa Cove and Georgia, she deserves better. But lying to us…I’m tempted to take away her car privileges.”
Julian dabs bread in his stew and chews.
“Give me a night to snoop around. I’ll volunteer to drive Jennifer to Kaitlyn’s. She already asked if I’d take her. So if she leaves her friend’s house, I’ll follow and figure out what she’s up to.”
Darcy sets the spoon down, suddenly losing her appetite.
“You say she understands the risks. Yet she’s lying about where she goes. What if this psychopath targets her like Richard Chaney and Eric Stetson?”
“If there’s a killer hunting Smith Town.” When Darcy opens her mouth, Julian raises his hands. “Don’t worry. I’m not playing devil’s advocate, and I trust your judgment more than the medical examiner’s. And more than Pinder’s. I’ve got your back. Wherever Jennifer goes, I’ll follow.”
“And when both of us are working?”
“I’ll put my foot down and demand she stay with someone we trust. Nobody should be alone in the house until the case concludes.”
Darcy releases her breath.
“It means a lot that you’re backing me up.”
“What did you expect?”
“It’s just that you play good cop, and I play bad cop when she gets in trouble.”
“I’m a cute good cop, though.”
“The cutest,” she says, giving his hands a squeeze. “There’s something else I need to speak with you about. Adan experienced a similar injury to yours. A gang member shot him during his days as a police officer.”
“Agent Ketchum worked the force? When did you find this out?”
“He confided in me after I told him you’re struggling with the healing process. He understands, and he felt the same as you do—he worried his career was over, that he wouldn’t regain his strength. Talk to him. You shouldn’t go through this alone.”
“I’m not alone, I have you.”
“You know what I mean.”
Julian stares at his sneakers.
“It would be nice to get off the desk soon.”
“You will, and I’ll be your biggest cheerleader when you do. Now, put your detective hat on, and find out what Jennifer is up to.”
“Yes, chief.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Friday, September 18th
6:25 p.m.
The deep orange sunlight confuses Ali Haynes. She rubs the grit from her eyes, uncertain why her arms feel like rubber. Ali lies in a corner, her knees curled to her chest, her body a wet sack of cement. She blinks and stares at the room through a blurry
haze. Last she remembered, it was almost nightfall, and dinner cooled on the table. Then a knock at the door. A stranger’s vehicle broke down, and he wanted Ali to call a towing company. The remainder refuses to come back to her. Though her vision wavers, she’s sure this isn’t her bedroom. A window looks out at a meadow. Flowers provide a splash of color against the acres of grass and weeds.
A thump inside the house shocks her senses awake. The dinner interruption hurtles back to her. There hadn’t been a man on the stoop, only a speaker projecting his recorded voice. Then the closet door opened. He’d been inside the house.
Terror gets Ali moving. She pushes off the carpeted floor before her useless arms buckle. Her head thwacks the ground and sets the room in motion. The carpet fibers scratch her cheek, and there’s a sickly, pungent scent in the room. During her teenage years, her father set a plastic storage container in the backyard while he cleaned the garage. He forgot the box and left it to sit all summer. Ali discovered the container in late August and cracked the lid open. An infestation of insects—crickets, ants, beetles—skittered inside, the box’s floor coated with droppings. She recoiled and covered her mouth so she wouldn’t get sick. That’s the smell in the room. Subtle this time, yet it coats the air in a brown haze.
The man kidnapped her. Suddenly she understands the mysterious hangup calls, the bouquet. She was stupid enough to believe a future boyfriend sent the flowers.
What day is it? It can’t be Thursday. She blacked out inside the house—what happened? She recalls pain, as if a hornet stung her neck. Ali’s certain she’s been inside this room for a day or longer. It must be Friday, which means she missed school. And the appointment she set with Tina Marquez passed hours ago.
For the first time since she awakened, Ali clings to hope. Maybe the police are looking for her after the school reported her missing.
Or the school fired Ali, assuming the inexperienced teacher decided she needed a career change.
Her body cramps. Has she moved in the last day? The last twenty-four hours flicker back to her like old movies. Ali coming awake to a dark room. Footsteps outside the door. Yes, there was a man in the room with her, though she couldn’t crack her eyes open. The sting on her neck, then sleep. Another time, her eyes opened to daylight. A vehicle door closed, followed by the roar of an engine. He left her alone in the house. For how long?