The Keres Case (Heartfelt Cases Book 4)

by Gilbert,Julie C.

  “They’re calling my flight. I’ve got to go, but let me know if you crack it.”

  “Do you have any other ideas about how I should approach the stack of endless cases?”

  Patrick thought for a long moment.

  “Try the necklaces again. There’s a reason he took those particular necklaces and left them for us. Part of his thrill is proving how stupid we are, but I think he overplayed his hand this time. Check for initials, inscriptions, or other identifying marks on the jewelry, or the toys for that matter.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  “I love you, Ann. Kiss the kids for me, and keep your gun with you.”

  Torn between laughing and crying, Ann struggled to keep her voice steady.

  “Get back here soon so you can kiss them yourself.”

  “I will.”

  Hearing the dial tone, Ann let herself weep for her friends. Father, I can’t do this. We can’t do this. Show me who’s behind these terrible deeds. Don’t let Rachel and Jon die because we failed to do our jobs. Use Patrick to save them. Let them know they’re in our thoughts and prayers. Amen.

  A soft knock sounded.

  “Julie Ann? Are you all right? What’s wrong, dear?”

  Fighting for composure, Ann managed to say, “Come in.”

  Her mother rushed in, took one look at her, and pulled her into a tight hug.

  “Just cry, love. When it’s done, tell me what’s wrong.”

  The affection undid Ann’s work fortifying her emotions, but she followed her mother’s suggestion and let herself cry. When the sobbing phase passed, Ann grabbed a tissue and cleaned her face, deciding how much she ought to tell her mother.

  “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t think I should know, Julie Ann,” her mother whispered. “You can if you want to though.”

  “Just pray, Mom. Pray for Jon and Rachel.”

  Alarm and concern filled her mother’s eyes, but she only said, “All right, but at least let me make you some tea if you intend to work late tonight.”

  “Thank you.” Ann nodded gratefully and blew her nose on a fresh tissue.

  Fortified with peppermint tea, Ann started reading more cases. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.

  Who would show up this late?

  Knowing nothing good could come at this hour, Ann drew her gun and rushed to investigate.

  She arrived as her mother pulled open the front door.

  “Mom, wait!”

  Her mother whirled and spotted the gun.

  “Put that gun away! There are children in this house!”

  “It’s here because of them,” Ann said hurriedly, yanking her mother away from the doorway. Flipping off the front porch lights, Ann crouched and cautiously peered into the dimness provided by other people’s houselights and the path lights leading to the front porch. She could just make out a plain, flat package lying in the middle of the porch. Suppressing a groan, she darted out, scooped up the package, and returned to her flustered mother.

  “Is it from him?” her mother demanded.

  After firmly shutting the door, locking it, and rechecking the lock three times, Ann silently read the bold words:

  To Special Agent Julie Ann Duncan, FBI.

  Time Sensitive. Open Immediately.

  “Maybe I should open it alone, just in case.”

  “If you think it’s dangerous, don’t open it at all,” her mother reasoned.

  A faint chime came from Mr. Davidson’s office.

  “The kidnapper’s phone!” Carol squeaked.

  Agreeing, Ann ran to the office, snatched up the phone, and checked its display screen. She opened the new text message and read:

  Pkg not trap. Open or RP = RIP.

  Still suspecting a nasty surprise, Ann dug a pocketknife out of one of her father’s desk drawers and carefully sliced through the package. Inside, she found a piece of paper with a complicated web address. Heart quickening, Ann typed the address into the browser as fast as she could and hit enter.

  It started a video.

  A man’s voice spoke clearly.

  “Good evening, Agent Duncan.” He bowed. “My master regrets his absence and the lack of live communication for this part of tonight’s entertainment.” A blue bandana hid most of his features, but he had pale skin and dark, piercing eyes. He waved vaguely behind himself. “You will see why momentarily, and I’m sure he will correct that oversight later. For now, your friend would like to say something.”

  Seconds later, Rachel Parker appeared, firmly taped to a chair.

  Ann’s mother gasped.

  The man walked back to Rachel, said something, and tore off the tape covering her mouth.

  The recording skipped like a section had been edited, but finally, Rachel spoke.

  “Hi, Ann. This man and his master wish for you to stop working on the Tyler case. I told them you wouldn’t listen, but he insisted I tell you anyway.”

  Ann barely heard the words. She kept her attention on Rachel’s fierce gaze. The look held a countermanding message. Something akin to: If you sacrifice my kids to save me, I’ll never forgive you.

  The recording skipped again, indicating another rough edit.

  A more defiant Rachel said, “Goodbye, Ann.”

  After one more awkward editing job, the man returned speaking from slightly off camera, which stayed focused on an unconscious version of Rachel.

  “Stop the investigation or she dies, so says my master. I look forward to hearing your decision. Wait for my master to contact you.”

  Something about the message disturbed Ann. After reassuring her mother as much as possible, Ann gently ushered her out and returned to her work. Once her mother was gone, Ann released the magazine from her gun, tucked the weapon into the bottom right drawer of her father’s desk, locked it, and pocketed the key. Then, she put fresh batteries and a new cassette into a mini-recorder she kept in her purse.

  She needed to solve this case immediately, and for that, she needed a miracle.

  Chapter 31:

  The Head Game

  Davidson Residence

  Fairview, Pennsylvania

  Around 2:30 in the morning, as Ann was returning from a stretch and refreshment break, the kidnapper’s phone buzzed and did a vibrating tap number on the desk corner where she’d left it silenced. Picking it up, she threw a quick prayer heavenward, set the mini-recorder, and accepted the call.

  “I’m going to regret talking to you, but speak your mind.”

  “That’s hurtful, Annie. I thought feddies were polite to a fault. You should be nice to me. I can kill your parents’ ward and your friends any time.” For once, the voice lacked the sounds of alteration. That could mean the kidnapper simply used more sophisticated software, but Ann took it as more proof of his need to dare them to find him.

  Something about his statements stuck out in Ann’s mind, and the voice had a familiar quality that made her think she’d heard it before. She couldn’t dwell on the feelings though. Inserting aloofness she certainly didn’t feel, Ann asked, “Did you speak with Malia’s father?” She flipped back to a series of articles she’d read about an hour ago then checked the tracer locator that would eventually tell them where to find Malia.

  A telling silence fell.

  “Yes, we had an interesting conversation.” The man’s voice had turned contemplative, but he cleared his throat. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I have a working theory,” Ann said, quickly scanning a newspaper article she had printed out. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “That would be no fun, Annie,” said the man, sounding disappointed. Excitement and a childlike curiosity entered his voice during his next question. “Have you thought about your friend’s request?”

  “I have,” Ann confirmed. Truthfully, she had tried not to think about Rachel and the dangerous game she’d been caught in. On the whole, kidnappers and killers couldn’t be trusted to tell the whole truth, but they often included partial truths
to make their lies more palatable. The man’s lackey had forced Rachel to tell her to drop the case and then reiterated the point by saying if Ann failed to heed the request, Rachel would die. “I want to know your true intentions.”

  “I thought my man was clear enough.” The voice was tense, quick, and alert.

  “Too clear.” Ann flipped over a few browser pages to another article and then again and again to check two more police reports, skimming for one name. She found it. “The whole thing seems like too much effort to make a pointless, impossible demand.”

  I don’t have the power to stop an investigation. You know this. So, why ask?

  The man chuckled.

  “What do I really want?” The question was so perky it sounded like a completely different person.

  Ann’s mind flew to notes for the Tyler case. First contact was usually the most telling, as each party gained a sense of their opponent.

  “I think you told the Tylers the truth, Damien.”

  Another revealing silence fell.

  When the man spoke, his questions flew out like horses released to race.

  “Did he call you? Are you his source? How did you know? Who else knows?” Just as quickly, the man’s tone and pitch changed again—sounding almost like a demon’s denial. “That’s not my name. Has not been my name. Never was my name!”

  Heavy, oppressive silence grew between them.

  Either this guy’s a really good actor or he’s broken up top.

  Ann burst the silence with a quiet statement.

  “You just told me, Damien.”

  The man’s ensuing laughter neared hysteria.

  “You are good,” he commented, once he’d calmed down. He continued in a voice that held a whole lot of crazy. The man’s diction became clearer even as the timing between words changed erratically. “Call me Ryker. It is my true name, my name of destiny. Damien was a mortal, temporary, weak soul.”

  “All right, Ryker. It’s late and I’m tired. Spell it out for me. What can I do to save my friend?”

  She picked up her cell phone and tapped out quick text messages to Baker, Patrick, Taggert, and Morgan.

  Bd gy = Damien Caldwell, Little Val, NY.

  “Nothing.”

  Ryker’s answer filled Ann with a strong sense of despair until she realized that’s exactly the effect he wanted.

  “Not true or we wouldn’t be talking.”

  “True, Annie,” Ryker admitted. “You are good at this game. I want to know how far you’ll go to save your friend.”

  “Meaning … what exactly?”

  “What makes you work? If I gave you directions to find me, would you come alone and unarmed to save her?”

  “No,” Ann said, though it hurt to say it. “You’re a liar. I’d be throwing away my life and probably Rachel’s too.”

  “We’re going to have to work on our trust thing, Annie. Get some rest. I’ll see you later today.” Ryker’s parting words held a creepy tenderness.

  The connection cut off, so she stopped the recorder.

  Within his lies, nuggets of truth existed. He wanted to be challenged and truly believed he would see her soon. Ann distracted herself from that disturbing thought by reading about Damien Caldwell’s first kill. Patrick’s guess had been correct. Jaya Wilkerson had disappeared from her home in Little Valley, New York as summer vacation started during her fourteenth and final year of life. The police had suspected Caldwell’s involvement but could never prove anything without a body or other proof of foul play.

  Until now.

  They would need to track down the Wilkerson family and get DNA samples to compare with the body found in the Erie National Wildlife Refuge, but Ann felt certain of the match. Height, estimated weight, and timing of the death fit with Patrick’s theory about the killer’s first victim.

  Caldwell’s name appeared again and again in news articles and police reports. He begged them not to give up the search for Jaya, claiming she was his best friend.

  So why did you kill her?

  Tired as she was, the question wouldn’t release Ann. She studied the picture of Jaya Wilkerson’s innocent face that had plastered the small town for months. Her wide cheekbones flanked a part mischievous, part mysterious smile. Her long, thick hair hung in dozens of careful braids, and Ann could easily imagine her expressive brown eyes asking a thousand questions.

  From the little Ann could glean from articles, reports, and interviews, Damien and Jaya had been friends. Jaya’s younger brother and mother said she spent a lot of time with Damien. The small town rumor mill ran overtime given the racial differences between the Caldwells and Wilkersons. Mrs. Wilkerson had even indicated that Damien’s behavior had become obsessive. She spotted him watching the house at odd hours, following her daughter, and slipping Jaya notes that would later be burned in the fire pit. The two would take off on their bikes for hours at a time. The day Jaya disappeared, Damien claimed they were supposed to go hiking on an isolated trail but she never showed up.

  Liar. I bet that was the last thing the girl ever did.

  The more Ann thought about the Wilkerson and Tyler cases, the more she understood Damien’s need to control things. That statement could easily be floated for any serial killer, but he took it to a new level.

  He probably killed Jaya to preserve the perfect image of her.

  Armed with this new insight, Ann re-evaluated the other cases, trying to fathom the motive for each kill. The Keres Legacy might have provided monetary rewards for recent murders, but many cases predated the website. The track star, Mandisa Scott, might have reminded Caldwell of Jaya. Ann pulled up a picture of Mandisa and compared it to Jaya’s image. The girls probably wouldn’t have been taken for twins, but a faint resemblance existed. A close examination of Kayla Eaton’s picture, showed that same life-affirming spark that came through Jaya’s picture. It wasn’t a link that would hold up in court, but Ann’s head hurt too much to puzzle through the evidence for a firmer connection.

  The clock read 3:47. Ann considered calling her boss with an update, but there wasn’t much anybody could do immediately. She saved the pertinent documents, emailed her notes to Brad with a mapping request, curled up in her dad’s comfortable leather chair, and fell asleep.

  Her phone roused her at 6:10. Adrenaline shocked some sense into her body. Even so, she barely had the presence of mind to sound awake. A check of the display said unknown name and number.

  “Julie Ann Duncan. Who am I speaking with?”

  “Agent Duncan, I need your help!” whispered a frantic female voice.

  “If you’re in trouble, you should call 911,” Ann advised.

  “I can’t turn to the police! Please, it’s urgent. I need to show you something in person. We can’t talk on the phone. Please! Meet me in the tent camping area of Jefferson Township Peninsula Park at eight this morning. I don’t trust anybody else.” The caller hung up without waiting for an answer.

  Ann tapped her phone against her lips as she thought. The conversation had the odious stench of a setup, but the woman had sounded genuinely upset. If not in immediate danger of life and limb, she still sounded in danger of an emotional breakdown. Ann decided on the most logical course of action. She would let Baker know what had transpired and go meet the woman. The best way to deal with a trap was to warn others then take a large stick and poke at the trap. She figured her Glock 22 would serve as a fine stick substitute. Mind settled, Ann determined it would only take about twenty minutes to get to the park, set her phone alarm for 7:10, and went back to sleep.

  I’m going to need all the rest I can get.

  Chapter 32:

  Heroes

  Jonathan Parker’s Prison to Rachel Parker’s Prison

  Kissimmee, Florida to Maitland, Florida

  You need to be in Maitland. Nadia’s thought buzzed with tension.

  “Lawson and Wickerman are supposed to handle that,” Varick Ayers murmured under his breath. He peeked in the grimy basement windows of the h
ouse where Jonathan Parker was being held by Wayne Casey for Ryker, but there was too much dirt to see anything useful.

  They acquired the address from the kidnapper you left behind.

  “I knew I should’ve hit that guy harder,” Varick grumbled.

  Go. Nadia followed her order with the mental equivalent of a tug on the ear.

  “Will he be safe until help arrives?” Varick’s hand automatically flew to his left ear to brush off the odd sensation.

  If they hurry.

  “Then let me save him.”

  One minute.

  Varick smiled. He loved a good timed drill. His other hobbies included rigorous exercise and smacking around parent kidnappers. He didn’t consider himself unusual, but he realized his life differed from most people in their late teens.

  Taking two seconds to start his watch timer, Varick climbed up the drainpipe to the roof then slid across to the nearest window. The time limit forced him to sacrifice subtlety for speed. Gripping the roof with both hands, Varick pushed off the window hard and slammed his feet through the glass in a spectacular shower of shards.

  You are lucky that was not reinforced glass.

  Varick landed in an abandoned bedroom that needed a new paint job. His left foot touched down followed quickly by his right knee. He pushed off the floor with his right fingertips, slicing the tops of three fingers on broken glass.

  “Where’s the safety glass when you need it?” He took a moment to employ one of his lesser known but highly useful Gifts and repaired the fingertips. Next, Varick plucked up the offending glass shards and pocketed them. He doubted the authorities would waste lab resources on a broken window in an abandoned house, but one could never be too cautious.

  Thirty-eight seconds.

  “No worries,” Varick said, though the glass incident had cost him five more seconds than he had calculated. He spent eleven seconds sliding along the walls and creeping down the stairs to reach the top of the basement steps.