When she’d pulled herself together she went back to her room for a robe and returned to the kitchen table.
Janochek noticed the handcuffs. Began searching for tools. It took a while but hacksaw and vise-grips did it. He washed the dirt and gravel out of the boy’s wounds at the sink. Pushed Murray’s thumb back into joint, or as close as he could get it anyway. Bandaged it tightly to his hand and first finger.
* * *
Janochek made hot chocolate and instant coffee. “Hate this stuff,” he said, gesturing to his cup. He’d no sooner joined them at the table than he stood and found his cell phone. “Need to reach Gates,” he said. This time, instead of the department, he called the cell number on the card Gates had given him.
Wound up leaving another message.
IF A PHONE RINGS IN THE FOREST
Gates awoke, neck aching, steering wheel crowding him. Clicked the overhead light to check his watch, almost three a.m. Quiet. He twinged when he remembered Kiefer. Out there somewhere. Maybe already dead. What could he do? Decided to revisit Barker’s wife in the hospital.
He had hoped she’d come around but found her still unconscious. Nurse said Barker had been in briefly, left hours ago. Gates sat at the sleeping woman’s side, holding her hand, whispering simple reassurances, stopping as he himself began to fall asleep. Gave up. He’d come back in the morning.
* * *
At the department he let himself in the side door, saw no one, sat at his desk and sorted the reports from the Mary Lake canvassing. No eyewitness. Cars and pickups were always parking and leaving around the lake’s perimeter. People in and out of cars so ordinary as to be invisible. Biking, strolling, walking pets. Strangers were business as usual.
Restless, he nevertheless decided against finishing the dregs of the squad room coffee. No sense adding an ulcer to insomnia. He would go back to his truck just in case he might be able to nap once more before daybreak.
* * *
Gates woke this time to a gray dawn, sun not yet coloring the eastern horizon. Inside, he washed his face in the locker room sink, finger-brushed his teeth, pitched the black syrup of yesterday’s coffee, and started a new pot. When he reached his desk he saw he’d left his cell phone on top of the reports he’d read earlier. Idiot! Checked it and found five messages from Janochek. Called immediately. Got no answer. Checked voice mail. Janochek’s last message said Murray was there. Gates felt the muscles in his neck relax … hadn’t been aware how tightly he’d been carrying himself. He’d grown certain the boy had been taken and probably killed. Both Kiefer and the girl had told how, after they explored the hillside grave site, they were observed and maybe followed by a van … a van, the preferred vehicle for kidnappings. Gates had acted on that assumption, acted immediately to intercept the kidnapper, but it didn’t work because the boy hadn’t been taken.
He collapsed to his chair, put head in hands, gritted his teeth at the thought of telling Faraday when she came in. Kiefer had plenty of reason to disappear for a while. Gates had overwhelmed him by telling his horrible family story, addiction and suicide. What had he been thinking? He had no business sharing, he knew, and it shamed him further. He had hoped in telling Kiefer the boy would see him as human first, law officer second. See him as just another person with troubles of his own and therefore trust him. Work with him. But he was guilty of a hidden agenda, also wanting a personal favor. Kiefer talking to his son. Gates shuddered in a long exhale of grief. He hadn’t cried in a long time and the sheriff’s office wasn’t the place to start again. A few deep breaths helped him collect himself.
He could understand. The kid had needed space to shake off Gates’s painful story. Of course. The boy hadn’t expected it and didn’t know what to do with that information. Gates imagined Kiefer walking halfway around the lake and then following Kilkee Drive to the West Side trail. Hiking up in the scrub hills where trails wandered for miles, no houses, very few people. The kid had walked till he felt better, maybe taken a nap, and then late last night had gone back to the cemetery. That made sense. That’s why the canvassing and the Be-on-the-Lookout hadn’t picked him up.
Besides. Why kidnap Kiefer? The horse was already out of the barn, the damage done, the body on the hill found. Someone observing would probably think the boy had been messing around the rodeo grounds and stumbled onto it. How many people knew Kiefer could locate dead people? Janochek and his daughter, and Duheen. Someone watching would have no idea, wouldn’t suspect that Kiefer knew other people had been buried there and were now moved and missing.
The van driver, possibly the killer … what could he know? Probably only that the site had been discovered. Kiefer had been bringing other people to the grave. And if the killer had been watching he’d already seen the forensic team at the woman’s burial ground. No reason to keep pursuing Kiefer.
Janocheck and the kids were probably sleeping after a difficult night. In a couple of hours he’d drive over and get Kiefer’s story.
It was quarter till seven and Mrs. Barker might be awake. He called to find she had begun to respond. Good. He’d go over in a couple of minutes. With a cup of fresh coffee, he brought himself up-to-date on the homeless investigation, the missing Dumpster, and its possible relationship to Trask Engineering.
He needed a list of all Trask construction sites and all of their staging compounds where they might store equipment. Any warehouses. But maybe that was too obvious. He also needed a list of Trask properties. Lately he’d been focused on Roth Trask, but both he and his half brother, Chuck, might be implicated in the tax fraud and therefore in the missing homeless. Better get a list of the Barker properties, too. And that reminded him to send another info request to West Coast homeless missions to see whether Jerel Smith or Harold Smith or even Jerell Barker had turned up.
He finished writing and posting the inquiries: property list requests to the county clerk and recorder, census info to the Homeless Children’s Network and the shelter directories in California, Oregon, and Washington. Noticed a shadow on his desk. Faraday. Holding a sheaf of file cards.
“Any news on Kiefer?”
“Home. Safe. It’s a long story,” Gates said, reluctant to meet her eyes.
“Glad to hear it. Made for a miserable night. How long have you known?”
“Got the voice mail a few minutes ago. Haven’t spoken to Janochek or the kids. What are you carrying?”
She set the cards in front of him faced so he could read them. “Yesterday afternoon I asked for this month’s 911 call cards related to missing teens. Wondered if Kiefer had disappeared before or if there were any reports of a vehicle attempting to lure a boy, that sort of thing.”
“Good thinking. We assumed his disappearance was related to the homeless but it might have been something else altogether.” This would be the time to tell her about running the boy off with his inappropriately personal and gruesome story, but he didn’t.
“I found something else,” she said, pointing at the stack of cards. “Look at the top five.”
Gates picked them up and fanned them to see the dates. Roughly one per week. Four weeks ago a boy named Marvin Suh complaining that police still hadn’t found his friend Jerell Barker. Three weeks ago, Claudia Clemens, same complaint. Suh again same week. Two weeks ago, Clemens. Yesterday Suh again. Gates looked up to see Faraday biting her lip and frowning.
“These kids aren’t giving up.” Faraday shook her head. “They’re certain he wouldn’t run away. They know something we don’t. Something I didn’t bother to ask. I looked back at my mis-per report on the Barker kid. I think I got it wrong. I think something happened to him and the dad’s stonewalling.”
GREEN BLINKING LIGHT
Janochek swept up the phone on the first ring. “Gates, finally! Murray’s here.”
“I know.”
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“This isn’t Gates. Do not hang up. Do not hang up. Your children’s lives depend on it.”
&
nbsp; Silence. Janochek struggled to assess what he was hearing.
“If I have your attention, say ‘good.’”
“Uh … good.”
“Listen very carefully. Give the children no cause for alarm or I will kill all of you immediately. Do you understand?”
Janochek was frozen. Disbelieving, then afraid. “Yes,” he said. He kept his face blank as he stood and walked a few feet away from where they’d been sitting at the table. He could feel Pearl and Murray’s stare at his back. “I understand,” he said. “Gates can’t come to the phone right now.”
“We have very little time,” the voice said. “If any of you run out the front, I will shoot you dead. If you go out the back, my man will kill you. All of you. Immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“If you disobey I will detonate the package I’ve taped to your gas line. The explosion will destroy everything within twenty yards, leave a ten-foot crater. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Without worrying the children go to your kitchen window. Your screen has been removed. Look where the gas pipe enters your foundation.”
Janochek lowered the phone. “The Sheriff’s Department is going to secure our grounds but for the next couple of minutes you all need to stay seated and wait for specifics. Can you do that?”
Pearl and Murray nodded.
This must be serious, because Murray could see the strain on Janochek’s face, perspiration beading on his forehead.
Pearl, sensing her father’s discomfort, pushed against the table to stand and go to him. Murray put his hands over hers, shook his head, held her there.
Janochek nodded in approval of Murray’s effort and walked around the butcher block to the kitchen window above the sink. “They want to know if I can see the patrol car yet,” he explained, opening the window, leaning out, and looking down the hill. He saw no one. When he checked along the wall below him, he saw a four-inch box taped to the metal gas pipe where it entered the wall. A small green light blinking. He eased the window shut and made himself walk calmly toward the fridge in the corner, so his face would remain hidden to his daughter.
“The green light shows it’s armed for my signal. Do you understand?”
“Uh, yes, I see it.” Janochek’s palms were sweaty and the phone was slipping. He changed hands for a moment while he wiped his right on his pants leg, walked two more steps to the fridge door, and quietly tore a single sheet off the notepad magneted there.
“In a moment I will hang up. You will put your cell by the sink and leave it. You and your children will walk out the front door and get in your truck. There will be a phone on your seat. Start the engine, drive to the bottom of the hill, take a left, and put the phone to your ear. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Janochek said, “we can temporarily evacuate.” He turned his back to the window, tugged a pen from his shirt pocket, and set the paper beside the sink. Scribbled “taken at gunpoint.” Left the pen and writing on the counter.
“We negotiate or you’re all dead. No middle ground, no alternative. My own life depends on it. We’re going someplace to talk. Do you understand?”
“Srrh … sure,” Janochek said, clearing his throat.
“I have killed several. Do you believe me?” The man’s voice, measured, stern.
“Yes,” Janochek said, glancing at Pearl and Murray, seeing their eyes wide with concern. He put his finger to his lips, reminding them.
“I’m serious. Don’t force me to kill three more.”
Janochek wanted to say something reassuring but nothing came to mind.
“Do you remember what I have told you?”
“Yes.”
“You have fifteen seconds. Leave the house.”
The phone went dead.
Janochek made himself casually set the cell on the counter. “We’ve got to go, but we’ll be right back,” he told them, lifting his keys off the top of the refrigerator and returning to Pearl and Murray. “The sheriffs need us to leave while they search. I’ll answer your questions when we get rolling.” He pulled Pearl from her chair, shot her a fierce look as she started to protest about the fact that she was only wearing her pajamas and robe. “Not now!”
Murray was up, tugging her along with them.
Janochek paused for a second at the front door, hesitated, looking at the door-side table. His back to the kids, he swept the weapon into his pocket, praying he wasn’t making a fatal mistake. First to the truck, he threw open the door, picked the phone off the bench, and keyed the ignition.
Pearl clambered into the passenger side with Murray right behind. “Are we in—”
“Hush!” Janochek cut Pearl off.
Murray, hiccuping now, held tight to the armrest as Janochek bumped the truck down the narrow road to the street. He’d never seen the man like this. He thought he knew what was happening. They were going to be shot. He grabbed Pearl and pushed her toward the floor, held her as she fought. Didn’t notice the phone until Janochek slewed a left on Continental and put it to his ear as he raced down the street toward the 44 freeway.
The phone buzzed and Janochek answered.
“Slow down! Don’t attract attention. Look below the steering wheel.”
Janochek did. Another box with a blinking light. “Yes,” he said.
“I am in range. One button, instantaneous. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Janochek needed to clear his throat again but was afraid to.
“Stay on Continental to Florence Street, one block before South.”
“I know it.”
“Take a left and drive up the ramp into the cargo truck near the corner.”
“My pickup may not make something steep.”
“Do it.”
“Tighten your seat belt,” Janochek said, setting the phone beside him and locking the doors. “Pearl, stay down, and Murray, hold on, protect your head.”
Murray bent over his lap, arms shielding face and neck.
Janochek turned a corner and Murray risked a quick glance to see a large delivery truck, taillights shining, its dark cab fronting an aluminum container. Its rear door was fully opened and a metal ramp angled from the street into the interior, orange traffic cone on either side. Janochek goosed the accelerator just as he reached the ramp. Murray saw sparks as the bumper scraped before he ducked his head and felt the pickup bounce into the cargo bay.
Janochek had a millisecond to jam the brakes before hitting the back wall.
Murray banged his head on the pickup roof, his forearms and elbows on the dash, but didn’t directly hit his face. In his haze he heard the rear door rattling shut. He felt Pearl struggling on the floor beneath his legs and scrunched to the side to give her room.
Pearl was swearing, yelling “Dad!” Fighting to climb up on the seat. It took several seconds to push through the tangle of Murray’s legs, his high tops caught in her robe. When she wedged herself onto the bench it was nearly too dark to see. She could feel Murray sitting up on one side, her dad slumped on the other. What was that green glow? She bent to see a small light blinking under the dash on her dad’s side. Strange. She’d never seen it before and didn’t like the looks of it.
There was always a flashlight in the glove compartment. She leaned across Murray’s legs, pressed the release button, pawed in the glove box, and found it. Gasped when she shone it on her father. Janochek was bleeding from a swollen gash on his forehead, but his chest was moving. “Dad?”
No response.
She was afraid to touch him, knew first aid from sports. If he had a head or neck injury, touching him had to be done carefully if at all. But he was jiggling! Whatever they were riding in had started moving. Tucked on the pickup floor, she had no idea what had happened. Were they on a train? Who was taking them? Where? Beyond the cracked pickup windshield and the truck’s hood there was only a dented silvery metal wall. No windows.
Murray was little help when she asked.
“In back of
a truck.” He was rubbing his head, face scrunched in pain.
“Why?”
“The sheriffs?… I don’t know.”
“We’re inside a … trailer?” That didn’t make any sense.
“It’s like a delivery truck.”
“That’s crazy. Why didn’t we just drive wherever we’re going?”
“I don’t get it either. He was on the phone with someone, turned a corner and saw this big truck and headed right for the back of it. Your dad was really scared,” Murray told her. “I’ve never seen him like that.”
“Right now, he needs help.” Pearl got on her knees beside her father and reached to wipe the blood that dripped toward his eyes.
SEMI-COMA
Gates arrived on the trauma unit shortly after seven, just after the patients’ breakfast. Asked the charge nurse at the counter for a report.
“No intake,” she said. “We’re holding her on IV fluids. She was responsive”—the large woman looked to the chart on the counter in front of her—“from six-fifteen to six-twenty or so. Reflexes, blinked eyes, nodded to name, tracked stimuli, but didn’t speak. As soon as we told her she was doing well and starting to clear, she folded. Eyes closed, unresponsive, but it was volitional. She jumped at a pinprick.”
“Uh, she wants to be unconscious?”
“Seems like it,” the nurse said.
“Guess that’s why she took all those pills,” Gates said. “Can I talk with her?”
“The resident has upgraded her to stable. Be my guest.”
“Can you see that we’re not disturbed for five minutes, even if it’s her husband?”
The nurse nodded.
Gates measured the woman. Probably early sixties, overweight, soft arms, but there was a ramrod in her carriage and her light blue eyes never wavered. He believed her. Barker was a hard man, but this charge nurse ruled her territory.
* * *
He stopped at the door to Mrs. Barker’s room and watched her for a moment. Her eyes were closed and she was still, breathing evenly. He saw her very slowly reach over with her left hand and scratch her other wrist where the IV rubbed against the plastic hospital bracelet. Saw the hand slowly retrace its path to her side.
Dead Investigation Page 18