The Edge of Sleep jb-3

by David Wiltse

  “Ash, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, Dee,” he said, his voice muffled by the bedspread over him.

  “Listen carefully.” She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the driver of the car behind her, a handsome, full-faced man with the look of Viking ancestors. He looked idly at Dee’s car, then patiently at the line in front of him, the woods to either side.

  “It’s a roadblock,” Dee said. “I want you to take Tommy and go straight into the woods. Do you understand?”

  “Straight into the woods.”

  “Straight into the woods and back to the motel. Do you understand. Ash? I will meet you at the motel. We’ve been driving in a semicircle so far. The motel is on the other side of the mountain. Can you do that. Ash?”

  “Yes.”

  “And quickly, do it as fast as you can. I’m going to talk to the man behind us and when I tell you to go, I want you to get into the woods and out of sight as fast as you can go. All right?”

  “All right. Dee.”

  “Good. Stay covered until I tell you, then run as fast as you can.” She opened her car door, then hesitated.

  “And Ash, you must not let them take Tommy away from you. They would make him suffer too much, and I know you don’t want that.”

  “I don’t want him to suffer.”

  “Of course not. But they will make him suffer if they get hold of him again. If they’re going to catch him, I want you to treat him the way you did your family. Do you understand?”

  Ash was silent.

  “Do you understand what to do. Ash?”

  “Yes, Dee,” he said, reluctantly.

  “Good. Now when I tell you to run, you take Tommy and run into the woods and then over the mountain. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “And who do you love?”

  “I love you. Dee.”

  “I love you, too. Ash,” she said as she left her car and walked back down the line.

  Ash whispered to Jack, who lay beneath him, sheltered by Ash’s bulk. “It won’t hurt, I promise,” Ash said. “I’m going to carry you, but it won’t hurt.”

  Jack said nothing.

  Dee smiled broadly as the driver of the Subaru rolled down his window to speak to her. The refrigerated air from the car feathered across her face like a north wind.

  “I can’t stick around for this nonsense, whatever it is,” Dee said. “My kid’s home alone; he’s got a little flu.”

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. Dee detected a faint European accent.

  “It’s nothing serious, but you know how we mothers are. We worry.”

  “Of course you do,” he said sympathetically.

  “So I’m going to turn around and go on back.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “So if you wouldn’t mind backing up a little so I can just swing around. You be careful, though. Somebody might be coming up behind you and we don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  The driver smiled at her. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Oh, that’s what you all say,” Dee said. “Then look what happens to you.”

  The driver was not quite sure what she meant, but she seemed so amused by him that he laughed.

  Dee returned to her car and stood by the open door. When the driver of the Subaru turned to look over his shoulder while driving backwards, she shouted, “Now, Ash!” and the big man burst from the backseat, a large bedspread-covered bundle clutched in his arms. As he charged into the trees, bent over his burden, he looked like a parody of a football fullback running into the line with a football tucked into his belly.

  Karen and Becker had set up a temporary headquarters with the State Patrol captain to monitor the radio reports coming in from the roadblocks as well as outside calls to the Bureau. The day started with good news.

  “They found an old snapshot of Taylor Ashford,” Karen told Becker. “They faxed it from Pennsylvania to Albany. The bad news is the agents left for here before the fax came in. Albany is faxing it to the Massachusetts State Patrol and to the cop house in Becket. But the nearest State Patrol fax is forty-five minutes from here.”

  “And I’m not sure our fax works,” volunteered Blocker. Karen had kept the two local cops, Blocker and Reese, with them to act as envoys or chauffeurs as the case demanded. “We don’t use it that much,” he added sheepishly.

  “So we’ll have it in forty-five minutes,” said Becker, sounding more philosophical than he felt. There was nothing to do but wait.

  When the initial report from the roadblocks came in, Karen was the first to react.

  “He may have been seen,” Karen said matter-of-factly as she slid into Reese’s police cruiser. Becker could tell she was trying not to get excited prematurely. “There’s a call from a woman; the details are a little vague, I’m going to check it out.”

  “Keep in touch,” Becker said.

  Reese climbed behind the steering wheel, started the car, then waited for Karen’s order. Becker could see she had him trained already.

  “No, you keep in touch,” she said. “If you find him, remember, he’s mine.”

  Becker grinned. “I’ll remember. I don’t want any part of him. I’m on medical extension, remember?”

  “You remember.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “There’s probably nothing to this,” she said grimly. She nodded and the car shot forward.

  Becker’s call came a few minutes later. The caller was one of the patrolmen manning the roadblock on Winkler Road on Mt. Jefferson. “We have a motorist here,” he said, “Mr. Odd Ronning, who tells us he saw a man leave the line on Winkler Road and run into the woods. He says the man was carrying something wrapped in a blanket.”

  “I know him,” said Blocker.

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Ronning. Very smart guy. If he says he saw it, he saw it.”

  Becker grabbed Blocker and propelled him into the passenger seat of his squad car while Becker took the wheel.

  “Tell them to hold him there,” he called back to the captain.

  “Uh, technically, I should be driving,” Blocker said. Becker had the siren and lights going and was already taking a curve at a speed that made Blocker uneasy.

  “We need you on the radio,” Becker said. “I need two hands on the wheel.”

  “I see that,” Blocker said.

  “Call the roadblock on Winkler and tell them to hold all cars coming down the mountain.”

  “Down the mountain? I thought we were going up.”

  “We are. We’re going up in the left-hand lane; the right one is full of cars being stopped by the roadblock.”

  “Right.” said Blocker.

  Becker waited to a count of three before he said. “Better do it now so we don’t meet anyone coming down when we’re going up.”

  “Right!” said Blocker, full understanding coming to him a little late. He reached for the radio as Becker squealed around a curve, into the left lane to pass a truck, then back into the right as an alarmed motorist in the oncoming traffic slammed on his brakes.

  The name on the mailbox was “Lynch,” which Karen thought was grimly appropriate to her own frame of mind. An attractive honey blonde was waiting for them on her porch, a girl by her side. A large collie dog lay listlessly at the woman’s feet. It lifted its head at the approach of strangers, then lay back down at a word from the woman.

  “She a beauty, or what?” Reese asked under his breath. Karen glanced at him, wondering if his tone bespoke a relationship with the woman named Lynch, wishful thinking, or simple connoisseurship. To Karen’s eye, both mother and daughter were beautiful.

  “Hey, Peg,” Reese said shyly, looking at the woman, then quickly away, and Karen realized it was wishful thinking. This woman had far too much natural dignity for a local cop to contend with.

  “Astrid saw him,” Peg said, indicating the little girl peeking around from behind her. She spoke directly to Karen, cutting Reese out of the communication loop i
mmediately. “She was playing in the backyard, yesterday. She told me right away, but I’m afraid I didn’t give too much importance to it until I heard about the roadblock. Show them, honey.”

  The little girl had been standing behind her mother’s skirt, but stepped forward now as if realizing it was her turn onstage. She possessed her mother’s coloring, the same bright eyes that twinkled with intelligence and barely restrained amusement. She led them directly to the back of the house and pointed toward the ditch that ran next to the railroad tracks.

  “He came out of there.” the girl said. “He climbed out, then a hand cotched his leg and pulled him back in.”

  Karen shuddered at the image of the hand emerging from the ditch and grabbing… She told herself it was not Jack. A boy playing with friends. Not her son. Someone else being caught and pulled into the ditch. Not Jack.

  “Did you know the boy?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see him before?” Karen asked. The little girl shook her head.

  “What did he look like? Can you describe him?” She thought she would have to drag a description out of the girl, helping her every step of the way. Children were notoriously bad witnesses. But Astrid had either been rehearsed or she had a good eye for boys.

  “He had brown hair and cut-off jeans and a T-shirt,” she said. “He was maybe a year older than me… He was cute.”

  “The shirt… ” Peg started, then deferred to her daughter.

  “And he was scared,” Astrid continued. “He wasn’t crying, but he was scared.”

  “Did you see who grabbed him?” Reese asked.

  Astrid answered by speaking to Karen. She, too, seemed to know who was important.

  “Just a hand,” she said. “I just saw a hand.”

  “You can’t see into the ditch from her angle,” Peg said. She knelt to her daughter’s height to demonstrate.

  “Did you see anything on the T-shirt?” Karen asked.

  “I’ll show you,” Peg said and turned to the swing set. “It was right here,” she said, puzzled, then she muttered something and called “Erik!”

  A second collie came around the corner of the house, a white cloth in his mouth.

  “Come here,” Peg said briskly.

  “He’s so dumb,” the girl said.

  After a brief tussle, the woman got the cloth from the dog’s mouth. She stretched it out and displayed it to Karen. It was a plain white T-shirt, wet from saliva and torn from the dog’s teeth.

  Karen looked inside the collar and felt her knees buckle. She clung to Reese for support.

  The name written on the collar in laundry pencil was Jack’s.

  Karen’s voice crackled over the radio as Becker began the long climb up Winkler Road, passing the string of stalled cars in the right lane.

  “Anything yet?” she asked.

  Becker took the radio microphone from Blocker’s hand. “I’ll be there in about two minutes. Where are you?”

  “I’m with Officer Reese,” she said. Becker wondered if she were driving the other police car, too. If so, Reese was in for a more frightening ride than the one he was giving Blocker. “We found Jack’s T-shirt.” Her voice was strained, as if every word cost her an effort. “We’ve been studying the map. If Lamont was in Becket yesterday and on Winkler Road today, there’s only one area he was likely to be coming from. We think he had to be staying some place along Route 37 unless he was out yesterday just driving around, which isn’t likely. If whoever was driving the car on Winkler that he got out of turned around, chances are he’s heading back to where he came from. It’s probably the only safe spot he knows. We’re going to check out the motels on 37. Reese tells me there are only three.”

  “How are you?” Becker asked.

  Karen clicked off without answering, but Becker thought he heard the bark of a sardonic laugh before the radio went dead. As they pulled to a stop at the roadblock, Blocker said, “There are four,” but Becker was already out of the car and moving.

  “Ronning?”

  The man from the Subaru station wagon extended a hand uncertainly. “Odd Ronning,” he said.

  Becker took the hand, using it to shake and simultaneously to pull the older man toward the police cruiser.

  “Becker, FBI. Can you show me where the man went into the woods?”

  “Of course,” Ronning said, already being eased into the backseat. He exchanged nods with Blocker.

  There was no place to turn the car around without time-consuming maneuvers, so Becker put the car in reverse and went back down the mountain backwards.

  “She was very charming,” Ronning said.

  “She?”

  “But manipulative, you know? I had the feeling she didn’t want me to see the man get out of the car.”

  “There was a woman driver?”

  “Of course. Very attractive. Blonde, you know. Lovely smile.”

  “Christ,” said Becker.

  Blocker watched with growing anxiety as Becker wheeled the car backwards down the hill, his head out the window, the engine screaming in protest at speeds for which reverse gear was never intended. Neither Becker nor Ronning seemed aware that anything unusual was taking place.

  “The man?” Becker asked.

  “I didn’t get much of a look. Nothing more than a glimpse, really. But he was very big. I’m sure of that.”

  “And you said he was carrying something?”

  “He carried something against his chest and there was a blanket. I saw the end of it flapping halfway down his leg”

  A good man, Becker thought. He wished he could exchange him for Blocker.

  “Right here,” said Ronning, and Becker squealed to a halt. “The man ran in right about there,” Ronning pointed.

  “Could you tell which way he was headed?”

  “Oh, up. Definitely up the mountain.”

  “And the woman left the line in her car and went back down the hill?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Becker stood on the road and looked up the mountain. Visibility into the tree line was only a few feet and, from his angle, the top of the mountain could not be seen. Becker took Blocker by the arm.

  An angry motorist leaned out of his car and yelled, “What the hell is going on?” Becker ignored him.

  “Get on the radio and ask for help, get at least three more men, then start up the mountain.”

  “What am I looking for?” Blocker demanded.

  “What the hell are you guys doing?” the motorist called.

  “Hey, shut up,” Blocker said, then, to Becker, “How do we know this guy didn’t just go into the woods to take a leak, waiting all this time in line…”

  “He took a blanket with him, maybe he went in for a picnic,” Becker said. “Or maybe to take a nap. In that case it won’t take long to find him, will it? Listen, Blocker, if this is Lamont, he’s killed nearly a dozen people by now, including his own family. If you find him, do not assume he’s hiding in the trees because he’s modest about his bathroom habits. And do not try to engage him, either. Just get on your walkie-talkie and tell headquarters, then keep an eye on him, understand?”

  “You never mentioned anything about this being a killer. I thought we were after a kidnapper.” Blocker rubbed the handle of his service automatic nervously.

  “Look, I know this is not the sort of thing you run across around here, but it’s what you’ve got on your hands now. Just find him and keep a safe distance. Nothing will happen to you.”

  “Where are you going to be?”

  “I’m going to get behind him, if I can. Now call for help, please.”

  Becker stopped again as he was about to get in the car.

  “What did you mean, ‘there are four’?”

  “What?”

  “Earlier you said ‘There are four.’ What were you talking about?”

  “There are four motels on Route 37, not three.”

  “Doesn’t Reese know that?”

  “We usually do
n’t consider the Melba Inn. I mean, when people ask us about a place to stay for the night, we send them to the other three. A tourist wouldn’t be happy in the Melba”

  “Tell her that,” Becker said, then, “Never mind. I’ll tell her.”

  Becker called Karen on the radio while squealing backwards down the mountain but got no response. He relayed the message to headquarters and asked them to pass it on. As he came to a stop, he wished they had more men. Karen should not be searching motels herself; she should be running the show. Not that she had much choice; Reese was hardly the caliber of man to trust with the job and all of the State Patrol men they had were manning roadblocks. The men from the Bureau had yet to show up and Becker wondered if, ironically, they hadn’t been slowed by the traffic jams caused by the roadblocks.

  Becker eased the cruiser off the road, into a drainage ditch, and got out of the car. If he had judged properly and Lamont was going over the mountain to reach the only escape route on the other side, Becker now had the angle on him. If he hurried, he might be able to intercept Lamont before he started his downward leg.

  Becker slipped into the woods and began to work upwards and around the mountain in a long spiral path.

  The climb was steep but not arduous in the beginning, and Ash was able to do it with Tommy still clutched in his arms. The closer he got to the top, however, the steeper the slope became and he was required to grab at trees and rocks to maintain his balance. He tried it one-handed for a time, but when he stumbled and fell directly onto the boy. Ash gave it up. He took the bedspread off and studied Tommy for injuries. The boy had only had the wind knocked out of him and he looked around now, wild-eyed, squinting at the first light in an hour but anxious to see where he was.

  “We’ll leave this here,” Ash said, as much to himself as to the boy. He folded the bedspread carefully, then put it down atop a rock. He wanted to be able to tell Dee where he had left it so that they could come back and get it. They still had the blanket on the floor of the car, but she might want the spread as well. Dee was careful about not keeping things that did not belong to her.