by Blake Pierce
Riley could see that Lucy was troubled about something.
“What are you thinking?” Riley asked.
“How sure are we that he’s holding his victims in a basement?” Lucy said.
Riley thought for a moment.
“Not sure at all,” she said. “For all we knew, Meara Keagan just imagined the whole thing with the clocks and the basement. It really does sound pretty bizarre. Maybe she’ll remember better later on.”
Bill was drumming his fingers on the table, looking more than a little impatient.
“Besides,” he said, “we haven’t ruled out Jason Cahill as a suspect.”
Riley didn’t reply. In her gut, she had pretty much ruled out Cahill. But in lieu of any leads, her gut wasn’t enough to persuade Bill otherwise. Anyway, Cahill was still securely in custody. If he really was their killer, they’d prove it sooner or later.
At that moment, the door opened and an excited-looking young cop looked inside.
“He’s struck again,” the cop said. “Tried to abduct a woman on a rural road. Only this time the woman got away. We’re bringing her in right now.”
For the first time in quite a while, Riley dared to hope.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Scratch was aching and bruised all over when he got home that night. As soon as he walked in the door, Grandpa started asking questions.
“Where is she? Where is the girl?”
“I didn’t get her,” Scratch said under his breath.
“What do you mean, you didn’t get her?”
Scratch didn’t reply. He just walked straight through the house toward the back door.
“I asked you a question, damn it!”
Without a word, Scratch stormed out the back door into the backyard. Then he hurried out onto the path into the woods at the far end of the yard.
“So what are you going to do now?” Grandpa asked.
Scratch still said nothing. The truth was, he had no idea what he was going to do. He was furious about botching the abduction out on the country road. He needed to vent his anger somehow.
When he reached the square clearing, he saw that the upright vent looked exactly the way it had before the woman’s escape. He’d done a good job repairing it. He’d even pulled weeds up around it again.
But he didn’t stop to admire his handiwork. He pulled open the flat, horizontal door to the fallout shelter. As he descended the steps, he heard the clocks chiming and ringing midnight.
“Shut up!” he yelled at the clocks as he walked through the door into the shelter. “All of you, just shut up!”
But of course the clocks didn’t obey. Their faces actually seemed to be mocking him—especially one that was shaped like a huge eye that blinked with every chime. A hooting owl also looked and sounded even more hateful and contemptuous than usual. One that looked like the man in the moon seemed to be laughing at him.
He picked up the cat o’ nine tails and beat himself on the back. But he didn’t cry out his usual apology, his pathetic promise to do better. He was too angry for that.
After a few blows of the whip, he noticed two more faces—the girls who were still in the cage on the far side of the room. One was staring at him with hollow, skull-like eyes. He stopped whipping himself.
“What are you looking at?” Scratch yelled at them over the din of the clocks.
One girl just kept staring at him. The other lowered her head. She acted as if he wasn’t even there.
“You!” he called out to her. “I asked you a question!”
But she didn’t look up. He strode to the cage, unlocked it, and stepped inside. The one who had been staring at him made a move toward the cage door. He whipped her in the face sharply. She drew back and turned away from him, and he locked the cage door behind him.
Then he stood over the one with the lowered head.
“You!” he said again. “What’s the matter with you?”
She didn’t reply or look at him. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her face up. She had the same empty, vacant expression as the other girl.
“Answer my question,” Scratch shouted.
“Meara’s gone,” the girl said in a barely audible voice. “She went to get help. The police will come to save us.”
Scratch felt a tingle of alarm at being reminded of the other girl’s escape.
“Idiot!” Scratch said to the girl whose hair he was gripping. “Nobody’s coming. Nobody’s going to save you.”
Now the other girl murmured in a harsh, determined voice, “Meara got out. They’ll find us soon.”
Scratch’s fury was now out of control. He seized the head of the girl he was holding and snapped her neck.
*
Riley sat beside Bill in the police station interview room, looking across the table at Sherry Simpson. The healthy-looking brunette was dazed but uninjured. Riley knew that it had taken a lot more than luck for her to escape the killer’s clutches.
“What can you tell us about the car?” Riley asked.
“A Subaru Outback, I think,” Sherry Simpson said. “Pretty old.”
“Excellent,” Riley said, taking notes. “You’re doing great.”
“How about a license plate?” Bill asked.
Sherry closed her eyes.
“It was a Delaware plate,” she said. “I saw the number. Let’s see if I can remember.”
She slowly recited four numbers.
“That’s all I saw,” she said. “Or at least all I can remember.”
Riley looked at Bill, who looked back at her with a smile. She knew that they were thinking the same thing. The first four numbers of a Delaware license plate were quite possibly the final piece of the puzzle.
“I’ll go have the staff run this,” Bill said.
He got up from the table and left the room.
Riley said to Sherry, “Did you get a good look at him?”
Sherry knitted her brow in thought.
“I’m sorry, but it was dark. I saw him in my headlights for only a few seconds, and he looked sort of washed out, so I couldn’t make out any detail. I couldn’t tell what color his hair was or anything like that. Then when he was looking in my window, all I could see was that he had a nice smile. He fooled me for a moment.”
Riley kept jotting down notes.
“What about when you were fighting him?” Riley asked. “What did you notice?”
Sherry paused to think some more.
“I think he was taller than me,” she said. “Maybe five foot nine or ten. He was of medium build, in pretty good shape. He gave me quite a fight.”
Then Sherry shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I wish I could tell you more. I should have paid more attention. Maybe if I’d taken a photo …”
Riley patted her hand comfortingly. “It’s all right, Sherry.” She understood what the poor woman was feeling. It was often the most sharp and observant witnesses who expected most from themselves.
“No, it’s not all right,” Sherry said, her voice choking a little. “I should have done something after I’d shocked him, when he was dazed. I should have knocked him out. Or killed him. But I was just so scared and anxious to get away. Now he’s still out there.”
“Sherry, listen to me,” Riley said firmly. “You’re very brave and very smart. Three other women have died at his hands so far. But you got away. And with what you remember, we’ll probably be able to catch him at last.”
Sure enough, Bill poked his head inside the door.
“The license plate numbers did the trick,” he said. “It’s a Subaru Outback all right, a 2000 model. And the owner’s name is Travis Kesler. He lives right here in town.”
“Let’s get a team together to pick him up,” Riley said.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
A small team of local cops swarmed along beside Riley and Bill as they approached the large house. Lucy followed up at the end of the group. Everyone had weapons drawn.
Riley saw no
lights in any of the house windows, but that wasn’t surprising at four a.m. Her mind clicked away, analyzing the information they had gathered. It had turned out that Travis Kesler was a well-off and well-known Ohlman citizen. In the rush to set up his arrest, Riley hadn’t had time to ask a lot of questions about him.
The house had three stories, and it surely had a basement. Riley had no reason to doubt that they’d found the right man. And yet she couldn’t help noticing the big three-door garage adjoining the house. What kind of cars would she normally expect to find in an upscale garage like that? Maybe a Mercedes, a BMW, or a Porsche.
He doesn’t seem like an old Subaru kind of guy, she thought.
However, DMV records had left no doubt that Travis Kesler was the owner of the car that Sherry Simpson had seen out on that country road. It was more than enough to carry out an arrest.
Riley and Bill climbed up onto the porch. She looked at Bill and he at her. She nodded, and they both drew their weapons. Bill pounded on the front door.
“FBI,” he shouted. “We’re looking for Travis Kesler.”
A silence fell. Bill looked at Riley. She understood that he wanted to know whether to break through the door. She shook her head no. If Kesler was at home, he was possibly asleep. There were cops posted on each side of the house now, so there was no danger of him escaping through another door.
After a moment, Bill hammered on the door again. A light appeared in a window. The door opened, and a man clad in pajamas appeared. He was carrying a rifle.
“Put down the weapon!” Bill shouted.
The man peered out at them. The three agents all had their FBI jackets on and Riley was holding up her ID out for him to see.
“Okay, okay!” the man said, putting the rifle on the floor. “Now I see that you’re really FBI. I didn’t know, so I got my gun.”
“Are you Travis Kesler?” Bill asked.
The man nodded.
“You’re under arrest for the murders of three women. And the abduction of Meara Keagan. Turn around.”
The man backed away.
“Wow. Wait a minute. This is some kind of mistake.”
“Turn around, I said,” Bill repeated.
Riley was studying him. He seemed about the height and build that Sherry Simpson had described. But did he really look as though he’d just fought a woman who had defended herself with a stock prod?
A woman’s voice called out from the stairs.
“Travis, what’s going on?”
Riley could see that she was wearing a robe and a nightgown. She was coming down the stairs.
“It’s the FBI, Abby,” Travis Kesler said. “I think they’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”
Then a child’s voice called out from upstairs.
“Mommy, Daddy, who’s there?”
Another child could be heard crying. Riley’s head filled up with questions. Could Kesler really be holding his captives in a house with a wife and children? It made less and less sense by the second.
“It’s all right,” the woman yelled up the stairs at the children. “Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”
There’s something wrong with this picture, Riley thought.
With a silent gesture, Riley signaled Bill to put his cuffs away. Bill didn’t look very happy to comply. Riley turned her attention to Travis Kesler.
“Mr. Kesler, do you own a 2000 Subaru Outback?” she asked.
“Yes,” Kesler said.
“Could we have a look at it please?”
Kesler looked genuinely confused now.
“No,” he said. “It’s not here.”
“Where is it?” Riley asked.
“My sister has it, I think. Maybe.”
Bill looked incredulous. “Maybe?” he said.
“May we come in?” Riley asked the couple.
Kesler shrugged. “I guess,” he said. “I’ve got to say, though, this is pretty weird.”
Riley called to the cops outside, “Stand down.” She nodded to Lucy, who stationed herself on the front porch.
Then Kesler and his wife led Riley and Bill into their spacious, tastefully decorated living room.
Riley said, “Mr. Kesler, your vehicle was identified by the victim of a near-abduction. Her attacker was driving it. It all happened just a few hours ago. The identification was solid. The victim remembered part of the license plate number.”
“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Kesler said.
“We thought Blair had it,” his wife added.
“Blair?” Bill asked.
“Travis’s sister,” the wife said. “She works for him.”
Travis Kesler and his wife both sat down, looking tired, shocked, and puzzled.
“I run a business—Kesler Services,” he said. “We coordinate local attractions and the chamber of commerce when it comes to local tourism. Handle promotional activities of all kinds. It’s a thriving business in this part of Delaware. Blair does office work for me.”
Riley and Bill remained standing.
“Why do you think she’s got your car?” Riley asked.
Kesler shrugged. “She doesn’t own her own car. Never has. So she’s free to borrow it whenever she wants. She has her own keys. I don’t pay much attention to when she’s got it. It’s just a junky old thing—the first car I ever owned. But I’m sentimental enough to keep it. When Blair hasn’t got it, it’s parked out in the driveway. It’s not there now, so I just figured …”
His voice trailed off.
“Where is your sister now?” Riley asked.
“She said she was going to take some time off to visit friends in Long Island,” Kesler said.
“And you thought she took her car to drive there?” Bill asked.
Kesler sat and thought for a moment.
“Well, I just figured,” he said. “I don’t know where else the car might be.”
Kesler’s wife added, “Sometimes she takes the train up there.”
Riley’s heart sank as the situation started to come into focus. The killer was smarter than she’d realized. He probably carried out all his abductions in stolen vehicles to avoid detection. He’d stolen Kesler’s Subaru, and Kesler hadn’t realized it.
We’re back at square one, she thought.
At that moment, something seemed to dawn on Kesler.
“Wait a minute. Has this got something to do with those other killings? The women’s bodies found in the area? Good God, do you think I’m involved with that?”
He had become quite agitated. But before Riley could explain anything, Lucy poked her head in the front door.
“Agents Jeffreys and Paige, I need to talk to you,” she said.
Bill and Riley walked out the door. Lucy and one of the local cops were standing on the front porch.
“We just got a call from the station,” Lucy told them. “Another body has been found.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
The girl’s emaciated corpse had a peculiar pink-orange glow in the early morning light. The sun was just starting to rise at Riley’s back, and the river that lay beyond the body reflected a lovely golden glow.
One of these days, I’m going to enjoy a sunrise again, she thought.
She had no idea when that day might come. Meanwhile, the rest of the sky was clouding up, and Riley heard some thunder in the distance. It was going to rain before long. And she’d been up all night and was extremely tired. If she didn’t get some sleep soon, she was afraid she’d start making mistakes.
This body lay only a few feet away from a road, where it had been easily spotted by an early morning driver. It was arranged much like the two others—face up with both arms stiffly positioned. There were scars on the girl’s face, and Riley was sure that they would find long gashes on her back, the same as with the other three bodies.
Riley, Lucy, and Bill were standing beside Ohlman’s police chief Earl Franklin, who was crouched beside the body.
“Aw, hell,” Chief Franklin said. “I think
I know who this one is.”
He stood up.
“A local girl named Elise Davey ran off during the summer,” he said. “She was seventeen. Her mother called me, said she’d run off in a fit of anger. It wasn’t the first time. She’d run off two or three times before, once for several months. I wasn’t surprised this time. Her home life is awful. Her mother’s a drunk and her dad’s abusive.”
Chief Franklin looked deeply troubled.
“We looked for her, but not hard enough,” he said. “I figured she’d taken off for some other state. She hitchhiked the other times she ran off. I should have known this time was different.”
Riley was familiar with this kind of guilt. She’d experienced it plenty of times herself. She put her hand on Franklin’s shoulder.
“How could you have known?” she said. “Don’t beat yourself up about this. It won’t help.”
“Somebody’s got to tell her folks,” the chief said.
Riley turned around to Lucy.
“Lucy, get a ride back to town. Pair up with a local cop and break the news. Try to find out if they know anything. I doubt that they’ll have any helpful information, but we’ve got to try.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Lucy said, then walked away.
Riley took in the whole scene, trying to make sense of it. She, Bill, and Lucy routinely got called in on the atypical cases—the ones where the killers had their own warped agendas. This was definitely one of those cases.
But what is this guy trying to do? she asked herself.
Some of the atypical killers she hunted down took special care in how they displayed the bodies. So far, she couldn’t find any rhyme or reason to what this new killer was doing with these corpses.
Just then a young man with a camera came running up. He snapped a picture.
“Hey!” Riley yelled. “This is a crime scene!”
The young man ignored her and kept snapping pictures.
“Come on, buddy,” Chief Franklin said, trying to coax the insistent photographer away. “You’ve got no business here.”