by Rick Mofina
You can toss a rose on the casket of that dream.
Kate swallowed her disappointment, and as she got dressed she tried to look at the upside. Soon she’d be home in Ohio holding Grace in her arms. Yes, bills were mounting and job prospects were grim, but she could regroup and consider her future.
Her phone rang.
She didn’t feel like talking to anyone and considered ignoring it until she changed her mind and answered on the third ring.
“Kate, its Tommy at the bureau.”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“That old woman called back just now. The one you talked to yesterday, who says she knows where the baby is.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Really?”
“Yeah, she wants to talk to you. Want me to connect her to you?”
Say no, Kate thought. That old girl was likely off her meds again and talking to the Lord.
At least she means well. Kate sighed. “All right.”
The line clicked.
“Hi, this is Kate Page.”
“Hello, this is Hazel Hill. I spoke to you yesterday. I want to know when you’re coming to my neighbor’s house to get the missing baby the President was talking about.”
“Ma’am, how are you feeling today?”
“I’m fine, the Lord is fine. But I’m telling you there’s something going on next door. Please come out.”
“Ma’am, I’m not sure I can make it today, I—”
“You have to come. Did you lose my address? It’s 164 Briscoe Street, Fate, Texas. Go to the white house next to it with the carport and the pickup truck. They’re still there. Something’s going on with the baby and the riffraff and the wig-woman.”
Wig-woman?
Kate halted her dismissal of Hazel.
“Excuse me, what ‘wig-woman’?”
“The woman I was telling you about yesterday. Didn’t I tell you she was wearing a long blond-haired wig?”
“No, I’m sorry, but you didn’t say it was a wig.”
“My Lord, I must’ve forgotten—you know, I’m so forgetful I—”
“Ma’am, you’re sure this woman was wearing a wig?”
“Oh yes, I saw her take it off in their backyard.”
“What’s her hair like under the wig?”
“Short and dark like in the drawings on TV and in the newspapers.”
Kate made a note, repeating the words to Hazel.
“Short and dark?”
“Short and dark, I’d swear on my grandmother’s Bible.”
“And they arrived with a baby?”
“Yes, with groceries, luggage and a baby. They’re the kidnappers the FBI is looking for. I swear to Heaven and all the saints, something’s not right. The couple has been in the backyard talking on their phone a lot. I just know in my heart it has to be them. The Lord has guided me to help. Please come out here and knock on their door and see for yourself.”
Kate made new notes then bit her bottom lip. Admittedly she hadn’t given much weight to Hazel’s earlier call. But the wig aspect changed everything. If you were a female fugitive, would you not alter your appearance?
In a corner of Kate’s mind, an unconscious voice cautioned her to heed Hazel Hill. It spoke of newsroom legends about how great stories were lost because a tipster sounded strange, or a little bit off.
Kate had two hours before she was supposed to report to the bureau.
What harm would it do to check it out?
“Ma’am, could you give me that address again?”
56
Fate, Texas
Eyeing her GPS, Kate guided her Chevy Cobalt east on I-30.
By the time she was over Lake Ray Hubbard, she was still questioning if she should be responding to oddball Hazel Hill’s calls.
During the half-hour drive Kate had hit on the crazy points: Hazel had seen people with big heads in her trees and a little man in her yard who’d turned out to be a lawn gnome. Hazel acknowledged she was medicated, forgetful and that police often ignored her.
But as the miles rolled by Kate came back to how adamant Hazel had been about seeing a baby with a woman using a blond wig to cover short dark hair. That blond wig was a telling point, enough of one for Kate to chase it down.
But come on. This’ll end up being a waste of time, she thought as she entered Fate. It was one of the fastest-growing suburbs in the Metroplex, a sleepy small town that had been devoured by new neighborhoods of malls, schools, fast-food outlets and cookie-cutter homes with two-and three-car garages.
Following directions from her GPS, Kate found Hazel’s address in an older neighborhood. The houses here were on larger lots sheltered by tall trees. Pleasant, she thought.
She’d come to Briscoe Street and Hazel’s two-story home. There, next door, was Kate’s target: a bleak, single-story white house. It was set back deep on the lot at the end of a driveway that wound through the shade of cottonwoods and a sad-looking yard.
Looks like it might’ve been a pretty place once, she thought.
Gravel crunched under Kate’s tires as she rolled up to the house. The carport contained a vehicle that appeared to be a pickup truck backed into the spot. A blanket covered the cab and grill so she couldn’t see the plate. Beside it, outside the carport, was another vehicle that seemed to be wrapped with a tarpaulin.
Kate switched off her engine, stared at the house and wrestled with second thoughts about enquiring. She saw no need to alert police because they’d already ignored Hazel. Besides, Kate was unsure what she had here. In her years as a reporter she’d knocked on more doors than she could count. She trusted in her experience and instinct. She’d simply say she was looking for Hazel Hill and would ask if this was the right address while absorbing any details or vibe she could in the moment she might have.
All right, Page, let’s do this.
Kate steeled herself and walked to the door.
The yard was uncared for, the shrubs had run wild, a couple of rusted wheel rims rested against the house beside several deteriorating cardboard boxes overflowing with beer cans and take-out food containers.
The flags of indifference by the people who lived here.
Before knocking, Kate strained to see, hear, or feel any movement. Breezes hissed through the treetops, birds sang, and way off in the distance she heard a dog. She raised her hand, knocked once on the worn wooden door and was ready to knock again when it cracked open slightly with a creaking sound that invited, or dared, her to enter.
“Hello!” Kate called into the house.
Several moments passed in silence before Kate held the door and knocked hard and loud.
“Hello? Is anybody home?”
No response.
What now? Kate thought.
She glanced to the street. No one was around. She glanced at Hazel’s house, then to the empty lot next door before deciding to stick her head inside the house and call again while knocking.
“Hello! Anybody home?”
No response.
There’s nobody here.
She decided to enter. She’d check the place out. Maybe someone’s hurt, she reasoned for her trespass. Her objective was to look for signs of life and leave. The door squeaked as she opened it wider to a small foyer that flowed into a living room. The air was stale and stank of sweat and cigarettes. Aside from the worn duct-taped sofa and big TV, the decor was contemporary I-don’t-give-a-damn.
“Hello! Is anybody home?”
The quiet was eerie, as if the place were holding its breath.
Every step she took was amplified in the stillness.
Kate turned to enter the hall that appeared to lead to the kitchen but stopped. A towel was on the floor, a white one that appeared to be stained.
; As she lowered herself to look at it she froze.
Oh, my God!
The letters were frayed, but the embroidery said Tumbleweed Dreams Motel.
The baby was here!
Kate’s heart was pounding.
Using her phone she took a picture then gasped. Ahead, on the floor, she saw running shoes, then a pair of jean-clad legs that became blocked at thigh level by the door frame.
Someone’s on the floor.
“Hello!”
Who splattered all this paint?
That was Kate’s first thought upon rushing to find a man facedown on his stomach, before realizing that the paint was blood and it was oozing from his head.
“God.” She touched his back, then his neck. He was still warm but she felt no pulse. Blood had webbed everywhere. The kitchen floor was littered with garbage, a broken chair, dishes, utensils and huge pieces of used duct tape in the aftermath of a struggle.
“Pleeezzzhelpmee!”
Beyond the kitchen, in the hallway leading to the rear door, Kate found a second man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his chest drenched in blood.
Kate called 911 for an ambulance, frantically explaining, repeatedly telling the dispatcher all she knew.
“I think there’s been a shooting, two male victims! The white house next door to 164 Briscoe Street!”
Kate went to the sitting man. “I’ve called an ambulance. Can you hear me? What’s your name?”
“Helpmmee!”
“The ambulance and police are coming. Where’s the baby... Who’s got the baby?”
“Masssoo. Gone to Assfnton—Ficksson farmanchch...”
Straining to understand, Kate got closer to him. “Say it again. Where’s the baby?”
“DOA’s or Assnnfton. Rrraanch. Pleeasehelppmmee— hurtsssbaaadd.”
Kate repeatedly asked the wounded man about Caleb Cooper for more than a full minute. As he continued his struggle to give her information, Kate reached into her pocket, found her pen and someone’s business card. She used the back to scrawl every syllable of his response before his voice weakened, his eyes fluttered and he lost consciousness.
She caught her breath upon hearing a noise nearby.
A baby’s stifled cry?
It came from another room.
She shoved the card into her pocket, and before she turned, the floor creaked, and Kate’s head was swallowed by a blanket as everything went black.
57
Fate, Texas
A rented blue Chevy sedan eased by the Faulk house unnoticed and parked a few doors away on Briscoe Street.
Pavel Gromov killed the motor.
Before taking any action, he studied the property through powerful binoculars. A small car was parked out front. The carport was empty. Next to it, Gromov saw a large tarp covering a vehicle.
There was no activity. All was quiet.
“I have a bad feeling about this place,” Yanna Petrova said after glancing around the neighborhood. Yanna was still contending with her situation with Gromov, which was becoming more surreal at every turn. Through his near-psychopathic actions he’d become a perversion of Virgil, taking her through the realms of hell. And as their circumstances grew more desperate, she feared she’d be implicated in his crimes and never return to Moscow or see her family again. “I have a very bad feeling about this place, Pavel.”
Gromov was silent.
Yanna had Lamont Faulk’s computer on her lap and continued searching it, relieved to be wearing latex gloves. Not only because they protected her fingerprints but because the laptop’s content was revolting. Faulk was beyond depraved. Still, Gromov had demanded she keep extracting information from it and make notes, because they were running out of time.
After Gromov’s beating of Lamont Faulk in his garage, they’d returned to their hotel where, at Gromov’s insistence, Yanna had mined Faulk’s computer into the night, finding addresses for the house in Fate, for Garza and DOA.
When they’d set out the following morning, they’d discovered the battery in their rented sedan had died. Service took several hours. They’d gone less than three miles when the repaired car broke down on a freeway, causing a number of problems. By the time Gromov could have the car towed, get through to the rental agency and be provided with another vehicle, a green Ford sedan, they’d lost the day.
Throughout it all, Gromov remained deceivingly calm.
For now, watching him examine the property, Yanna saw the veins in his neck and forearms pulsating, betraying the heart of a man who was seething under the surface.
“I believe my grandson is inside that house, Yanna.”
“What is it that convinces you? Did you see a baby inside?”
At that moment, emergency sirens shattered the tranquility as an ambulance, then a marked police car, sped to the house, followed by a second ambulance and two more police units.
“What’s going on?” Yanna asked.
For the next twenty minutes, sirens wailed as more than a dozen emergency vehicles converged on the property, indicating that a serious incident had taken place inside.
Yellow crime-scene tape was stretched around the house, police cars blocked the driveway where a sprinkling of neighbors, worry etched on their faces, gathered to watch. Soon, news trucks arrived, TV cameras and reporters emerging from within.
As events played out before them, Gromov turned to Yanna. “See what you can find out.”
Yanna went online and searched news sites and the address. “A local radio station is reporting a possible double homicide and a survivor at a residence belonging to the Faulk family on Briscoe Street.”
Gromov began thinking as Yanna came upon a fuller breaking story from a newspaper website.
“This one is newer—the report questions the possibility of a link to the double homicide at the Faulk home and— Oh no, Pavel—‘The recent homicide of Lamont Faulk at his garage in the Metroplex...’ HE’S DEAD! HE DIED! Gromov!”
Gromov blinked several times then calmly started the car. “They’ll be searching for his laptop and soon they’ll be canvassing this neighborhood.”
Without passing in front of the crime scene Gromov drove slowly down the street away from it. He stopped a block away in front of a house.
“Keep the laptop on and place it at the end of the driveway. If police are tracking it, it’s best they find it here near their crime scene.”
Yanna did as Gromov had instructed her to do. Then they drove out of the neighborhood the same way they’d entered: unnoticed.
Gromov exhaled slowly as he calculated where they needed to go next.
58
Fate, Texas
Kate sat in the back of a Rockwall County ambulance.
Its rear doors were open, and she stared at the death house on Briscoe Street while the paramedics assessed her and sirens filled the air. Her adrenaline was still pumping, increasing her pulse rate.
Other than some bruising, she was okay.
They’d discovered her in the kitchen lying on the floor, bound in a blanket coiled with duct tape, indicating that whoever attacked her only wanted to subdue her, not kill her.
“Did you hear me, Kate?”
“Sorry.”
“I said the police are going to want to talk to you again. First, I’m just going to give you a little oxygen.” The paramedic, his name was Dwayne, slipped a plastic face mask over Kate’s nose and mouth. “Breathe normally for me.”
Kate tried, but it was difficult amid the wailing sirens and activity. As she looked over the chaos, a million thoughts streaked through her mind; some of them she’d already conveyed to Rockwall County Sheriff’s Deputy Al Hardwick, who was the first to talk to her.
I heard a baby...it
had to be Caleb Cooper...I saw the towel from the motel...crazy Hazel’s tip about the woman using a wig to cover short dark hair fit the description...two people were dead...so much blood...the paramedics said the man I talked to is dead...what did he say before he died?...I asked him about the baby...think...he mentioned a ranch...the ranch had a name...what was it?...where is it?...Ellamaton? Afanton? Aneffton?...think...think...someone called DOA...I’m sure I heard that clearly....
Kate’s attention shifted to police stretching yellow tape around the house to secure the scene as more emergency vehicles rolled onto the property. They were from the Rockwall County Sheriff’s Office, the Dallas County Sheriff’s Office, Texas Department of Public Safety and the Dallas Police Department. There were more agents from the FBI, which had jurisdiction. The FBI’s Evidence Response Team also joined the investigators.
Kate spotted FBI Agents Grogan and Quinn among a group at the corner of the house under a tree. They’d been there a long time taking notes and making phone calls while talking with Deputy Hardwick. Kate had overheard someone say that the two other men huddled with them were the detectives from the Dallas police. Grogan and Quinn shot glances in Kate’s direction before they broke from the huddle and approached the ambulance.
“Did you give her any medication?” Grogan asked the paramedic.
“No, she didn’t need anything.”
“We need to talk to her alone.”
“Sure, let me remove the mask.”
The FBI agents took Kate to the far side of the property. “How’re you holding up?” Grogan asked.
“Still shaky, but okay.”
“We got a full briefing from Deputy Hardwick.” Quinn turned to a fresh page in her notebook, checked the time and wrote it down. “Now, how about you tell us what happened, how you got to be here and what followed? Take your time.”
Kate began by telling them how the first call came into the bureau from Hazel Hill, the woman next door. How Kate had initially dismissed her as a crazy person before deciding to follow her gut on the disturbing detail about the wig. Then Kate relayed how events unfolded after she’d entered the house, to the point paramedics and the deputy arrived and freed her.