The Keres Case (Heartfelt Cases Book 4)

by Gilbert,Julie C.

  “Seriously, I can show you my license.” The man spoke slowly and clearly. His brown hair seemed to be from a bottle, as the roots were going white.

  “Hands. Now,” repeated Wickerman.

  “The car’s hot,” complained the man, looking at Wickerman with wide brown eyes.

  “Then put them on your head. Just do it now.”

  The man obeyed. Wickerman cuffed him and shoved him against the hot car, searching for weapons. He came up with a pocketknife and a wallet, which he promptly checked for identification.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t arrest me,” said the man, sounding bored.

  Wickerman spun the guy around and pressed him against the car.

  “Who hired you, Rick?” The question came out as a growl. Part of Wickerman’s temple throbbed with rage.

  “Richard,” corrected the man. “Richard Longhue, PI.”

  “Let me question him,” said Ann.

  “Go ahead, detective. Have a good swing. It’ll add to my lawsuit ag—”

  “You’re not helping,” Ann said, cutting off the slimy private eye. “Answer his question.”

  “I can’t give out sensitive client information.”

  “Maybe you’ll feel like talking more down at the station.” Wickerman hauled the man away from the car and led him toward his patrol car.

  “You’ve got nothing on me! This is ridiculous!” cried Longhue.

  Ann and Detective Wickerman searched Longhue’s car for things that lay within plain sight. The camera sitting on the front passenger seat showing recent pictures of Wickerman’s house and a digital video recorder left on the driver’s seat gave them more than enough reason to further question the obnoxious PI. Wickerman seemed to be keeping his cool, but Ann didn’t know how long that would last.

  When they got back to the Edinboro station, Wickerman handled the check-in procedures for their guest. Ann met Patrick to bring him up to date and find out if he found anything new about the case. Officer Porter joined Detective Wickerman in the interrogation room with Richard Longhue. The Duncans stayed in the observation room.

  “Do you think he’ll say much?” Ann asked, knowing her husband could read people pretty well.

  “I doubt he knows much,” said Patrick. “He probably got paid in cash and received instructions on where, when, and which pictures to take. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was supposed to get himself arrested either.”

  “What makes you say that?” Ann thought it an odd thing to suspect.

  “Porter and I caught a kid watching the station and reporting to somebody using a burner phone. We grilled him then cut him loose. Somebody paid him a hundred dollars to drop off the package and describe what happened.”

  “Did you track the call list?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Three guesses who the kid called last.” He tilted his head toward the interrogation room.

  “Longhue?”

  “None other. I started a background check while you and Wickerman were off playing with the PI, but it came back squeaky clean.”

  “Too clean?” Ann wondered.

  Patrick shrugged.

  “Probably, but given his business records, times have been tough for our intrepid handyman turned PI.”

  “I wonder what made him make that switch,” Ann mused.

  Wickerman and Porter’s interrogation of the private investigator revealed little. Longhue, despite a few reservations, accepted the cash surveillance job. He knew it was a cop’s house but had not known how the information would be used. He received a bonus for recording the live footage and waiting for the police to arrive. He would have gotten another bonus if he’d provoked Wickerman into striking him.

  Forty minutes into the interrogation, Ann and Patrick agreed Longhue was basically opportunistic scum, annoying but harmless. They slipped off to do some other work, wanting to accomplish something before catching the Tyler family on the six o’clock news.

  ***

  Ryker’s Base of Operations

  Elk County, Pennsylvania

  Dara Surhan lay on her bed trying to read a fantasy novel on her Kindle. The news droned on in the background with the sound set low so as not to be too disturbing. Ryker had forbidden all forms of media for several months, but eventually Dara and her father had worn him down on the television issue. A familiar face flashed across the screen. Dropping the e-reader, Dara grabbed the remote and turned up the sound.

  The petite, doll-like anchor—Amy Pritcher—gazed out at the audience and spoke gravely.

  “While Pennsylvanian authorities and federal agents continue their investigation into the disappearance of seventeen-year-old Karen Tyler, it seems the kidnapper is anxious for a big payout by Friday. The Tyler family has received a ransom demand for one million dollars to be delivered online at a website created for that purpose. You can find this site at www.savekarentyler.com. Joining me tonight is Dr. Martin Envier, a criminologist from the University of Pittsburgh, and Dr. Gina Crispin, a respected psychologist, to comment on these events. Welcome.”

  Dara’s thoughts wandered as the two PhD’s debated the implications of the Tyler case. She didn’t much care for the criminologist—who focused on the rising trend of tech-savvy criminals—or the psychologist—who focused on what kinds of family backgrounds lead people to lives of crime. Envier argued that paying the ransom would only lead to more incidents like this, and Crispin maintained that no amount of money should matter when it comes to a child’s wellbeing.

  You don’t care about her, Dara thought at the two experts.

  Do you? she silently demanded. For some reason, the thought bothered her.

  Ever since a few days after the violent relocation, Dara had done odd jobs for her father and Ryker. Mostly, she worked to keep sane. She did makeup and hair for the various projects, prepared food for the guests, and bound simple wounds as needed. She even buried the dead. To this point, she’d managed to detach her emotions from the work, but something had changed with the arrival of Karen Tyler. Soul-searching revealed a painful truth: she cared.

  Why should I care? She’s just another of Ryker’s toys.

  The news took a quick commercial break then returned with an attractive young reporter introducing the Tyler family. Recognizing Lina Galen, Dara tuned back in. The Tyler family stood framed in their front doorway. Mr. and Mrs. Tyler stood like stiff pillars that had crashed together. A girl stood slightly in front of them beaming at the camera. Her soft features tugged at Dara’s heart.

  The girl waved enthusiastically at the camera.

  “Hi.”

  The reporter grinned at the child before turning back to the camera.

  “I’m here with Zachary and Rebecca Tyler and their daughter, Ellie. Their older daughter, Karen, was abducted from the Erie National Wildlife Refuge last Friday after helping authorities in the search for eight-year-old Silas Carver. They come before us tonight to petition the public in recovering their daughter.”

  The camera tightened on Mr. Tyler, who clutched a piece of paper in his right hand and draped his left arm protectively around Ellie’s shoulders. His voice shook as he delivered his statement.

  “The kidnappers have contacted us with a ransom demand we cannot meet. They set up a website so people can help us raise the money. Please help us purchase our daughter’s life.”

  “Do you have anything to add, Mrs. Tyler?” asked the reporter.

  Mrs. Tyler’s voice also wavered.

  “We just want our daughter back. We want her home safe. That’s all any parent wants. Karen’s a sweet girl. She always tries to help people. We’re not allowed to help her, and I don’t know why! Please, help us.”

  “Give Kare-Kare back!” added Ellie.

  “I think that sums up our collective cry,” the reporter intoned, staring at the camera. “If you have any information or would like to help the Tyler family, please contact local authorities.”

  A number scrolled across the bottom of the s
creen. Dara felt the urge to call, but what could she say? I’m with Karen Tyler, but I don’t know where. Please help. She scoffed at the helpless thoughts.

  The news anchor sat facing sideways talking to the screen with the Tyler family and Ms. Galen.

  “Thank you, Lina.” Facing front again, Amy Pritcher said, “Joining us by satellite phone is Edinboro Chief of Police Edward Finney with an update on the case. Good evening, Chief. What can you tell us?”

  “I assure you my department is working closely with the FBI to bring this case to a happy conclusion as swiftly as possible. As long as there are leads, we will follow them.”

  “Sources say that one of your officers is resigning from the case. Can you confirm that?” inquired the anchor.

  “I cannot comment on that at this time.”

  Dara shut off the TV. She needed to think and plan. She had already read the script Ryker wrote for Karen. She knew the ending, and she desperately wanted to change it.

  Ellie’s plea played on a cruel loop: Give Kare-Kare back!

  How can I give her back? I can’t even help myself!

  Dara looked across the cramped room to her dresser and glimpsed herself in the mirror. Crazy thoughts began coalescing in her head.

  It might work, but then what?

  Chapter 13:

  Peacemaker

  Davidson Residence

  Fairview, Pennsylvania

  Malia Ayers awoke Wednesday night with a thought from her sister, Nadia.

  I have a job for you.

  Malia opened her eyes and glanced around for Nadia’s avatar. The translucent figure appeared as expected.

  “What is it?” Malia whispered, not the least bit disconcerted by the sight that would have frightened anybody seeing it for the first time.

  To Malia’s surprise, Nadia hesitated.

  “I believe you can save Karen Tyler,” she said at last.

  “The girl on the news?” queried Malia. She savored her sister’s familiar, soothing British accent. “How can I help?” Malia’s Gifts of changing people’s emotions hardly seemed conducive to a rescue. That was more Varick or Nadia’s area of expertise. Varick could break into almost anywhere and take down any opposition. Nadia could read people’s minds, coordinate large-scale plans, and deeply analyze things. Even Jillian, their sister with the Dream Shaping Gift, would have a better chance of finding the kidnapped girl.

  Following Malia’s thoughts, Nadia said, “I cannot locate the girl any easier than the police, but you might be able to lead them to her. I hesitate to tell you how because it will be dangerous. There are too many variables to safely predict every outcome, but the odds of Karen surviving improve greatly with your presence.”

  “How do I get to her?” Malia noted that her emotions ran evenly between fear and excitement. It was a valid question. Malia understood the limitations of being a child better than most people. Children her age primarily worried about what movies to watch, which video games to play, and how many friends they had on Facebook. Most children weren’t genetically altered by scientists seeking new forms of therapy.

  “I am not fond of that part of the plan,” Nadia admitted, frowning. “It requires interacting with unsavory sorts. I can arrange for you to meet people who would happily add you to their collection of unfortunates.”

  “Will Varick protect me?” Malia asked, thinking of their older brother whose training had turned him into a fine fighter.

  “I have another task for him,” answered Nadia. “The choice is yours, Malia. I think you are ready, and I am certain that Karen Tyler’s chances of surviving improve if you help. However, you must trust in yourself and your Gifts to succeed. There will be other missions to undertake in the future. This is the one here and now.”

  Nadia’s trust convinced Malia she should help Karen.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “I knew you would,” Nadia said, winking. “Have you made progress with the tracer Mr. Parker left with you?”

  “So that’s why you wanted me to get one from him.”

  “One can never have too many advantages,” Nadia pointed out. “The people we fight follow whatever rules they like. The lives we fight for are worth the price of forethought.”

  “Can I leave a note? The Davidsons will worry otherwise.”

  “Please do. The Davidsons will worry regardless, but a note should help. Is the tracer undetectable on your person?”

  “I can keep it safe.” Malia figured that a little paint and some tape should do the trick. Or maybe I can make it blend in with my skin. She experimented a moment with the tracer in her palm, directing the microscopic machines that facilitated her Gifts to cover the small metal object.

  “That is good, but the tape and paint will be easier,” said Nadia. “Do not activate the tracer until you reach the final destination.”

  “When should I leave?”

  “Tonight. I am reasonably certain you are near a shipment of children headed to the same place that holds Karen.”

  Malia didn’t bother asking how Nadia knew. She had stopped trying to analyze Nadia’s Gifts long ago.

  “Reasonably certain?”

  “Well it could be a different band of child smugglers working in Pennsylvania, but I think the state has met its quota of those.” Nadia’s figure grew fainter. “Be safe, love.”

  “You’ll have to show me the way,” Malia muttered to the air where Nadia’s avatar had disappeared.

  I will not leave you.

  Drawing comfort from the thought, Malia changed into more suitable clothes, wrote the letter, prepared the tracer, and slipped out the window.

  ***

  Super Saver’s Motel

  Cochranton, Pennsylvania

  Malia felt foolish knocking on the splintering motel room door, but she was proud of having successfully hitchhiked down here from Fairview. The seven presences she detected beyond the door told her this was the right place. Two felt hot and hostile while most gave her the cool impression of fear. The thin walls amplified the whispers rather than holding them in.

  “Who could that be?” wondered one male voice.

  “How should I know?” hissed another male voice.

  Malia noted that this must be the leader.

  “You said this place was safe,” accused the first voice.

  “Go away!” ordered the leader.

  Malia knocked again.

  Somebody cursed.

  “Do you think they’ll go away if we don’t answer?” asked the lackey.

  “Doubtful,” muttered the leader. “We ain’t that lucky.”

  Malia knocked a third time, making sure to pound the door much louder than she had the first two times.

  Somebody whimpered.

  “Keep still!” barked the leader.

  Malia closed her eyes and reached out with her Gift, cautiously sending the cool presences calm feelings. She needed to be careful when persuading the captives to release some pent up fear. If she soothed them too much, the hostile men would notice the difference.

  You are doing fine, Nadia encouraged. They will answer soon.

  “Phil, see who that is and send them packing,” instructed the leader.

  “Can’t. Light’s broken.”

  Actually, the light was fine. Malia used more of her Gifts to disrupt the circuit carrying the necessary electricity. She knocked hard yet again.

  “Bring that fool in here before he wakes the whole motel,” instructed the leader.

  The door swung inward and a man seized Malia’s left arm and yanked her inside. The door crashed closed with a bang. Curious eyes fell on her from all sides.

  “It’s a kid,” Phil muttered, clearly stunned.

  “I can see that. What’s she doing here?”

  “I got lost, can you help me?” asked Malia.

  “What are we going to do with her, Hank?”

  Hank growled.

  “I don’t know, Phil. Now that she knows our names and faces, would you like to
give her our birthdays and social security numbers too? That might help the cops track us down easier.” Hank shifted his stony glare to Malia, “Where are your parents?” He spat the question like an accusation.

  “I don’t know,” Malia answered honestly. She guessed the Davidsons were home sleeping, but she had no clue where her biological mother or father were currently located. Dr. Dean Devya kept several labs throughout the United States, and he had several bolt-holes abroad as well. Dr. Karita Robinson had not been a part of Malia’s life for a long time, aside from a brief interaction a little over a year ago. Malia shook herself to refocus. “They live far away. I’m supposed to meet my aunt here, but I can’t find her.” That part was a complete lie.

  Hank’s look said he knew she was lying but couldn’t fathom why and didn’t much care. He knelt so he could meet her eyes.

  “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

  “Malia.” She considered lying, but since that skill clearly needed help, she stuck with the truth.

  “That’s a real pretty name,” said Phil, softening his voice into the fake friendly charm people pour on in the presence of puppies and babies.

  “Well, Malia, you can stay here tonight,” Hank offered magnanimously. “As you can see, it’s kind of a full house, but there’s always room for one more.”

  “Thank you.” Malia watched the five captives lined up against the far wall. At first glance nothing seemed wrong, but a closer look revealed the plastic ties binding their wrists together in front of their bodies. Their ages ranged from about four to fifteen. The oldest boy had his feet taped together. Two or three of the bravest children shook their heads in warning.

  “Run,” said one little boy.

  Try to leave to avoid suspicion.

  “I—I should go now.” Malia blindly reached back to grasp the doorknob. “My aunt will be worried.”

  Phil moved faster than Malia anticipated, throwing her onto the bed and slipping a plastic tie onto her wrists. She barely got out a surprised cry when his palm slammed down over her mouth, pressing her lips against her teeth. She tasted blood.

  “Don’t scream,” said Phil.

  “That’s the key rule here, Malia,” Hank explained. “If you draw attention to us, somebody dies. It might not be you, but you wouldn’t want to be responsible for somebody else’s death, I’m sure.”