by Elle Keaton
Stepping away from the ticket counter, he stuffed the remainder of his cash and the ticket into the front pocket of his jeans. Several groups of people swarmed around the waiting area, and an espresso stand in the far corner was doing brisk business regardless of the time of day and the summer heat outside.
Nonchalantly, Miguel started down the corridor toward the men’s room. Pushing the door open, he slipped inside, taking a deep breath of relief. The underlying odor of ancient urine and old linoleum sloppily disguised by pine-scented cleaner didn’t bother him; it was almost a comfort. At the sink, he washed his hands before wiping the sweat from his face and neck.
The door opened, letting another traveler inside, and before Miguel could see the person a once-familiar body pressed against him from behind, smashing his hips painfully against the edge of the counter. A deep voice whispered in his ear, “Hey baby, what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?” There was a whiff of laughter at the end of the sentence. Miguel struggled automatically, trying to turn around. “Don’t.” Something unpleasant pressed against his ribs. “Feel this?” Miguel nodded; something was hot and wickedly sharp against his skin. “Good boy.”
Justin’s soft southern accent dripped with sweet poison. Miguel used to love the sound of his voice. That’s how they’d met; Miguel had heard him talking to a friend at a bar, and his lazy drawl had made Miguel stop and stare. They’d made eye contact, and by the weekend they were sleeping together. Two weeks later he’d moved in.
“I got us a place for the weekend, just like old times. We can take walks and look at the water. I’ll make you breakfast in bed. If you behave. If you don’t behave, I’ll have to hurt your little friend, the pretty one from the coffee shop. It was so nice to see you there, helping another lost soul.” Justin breathed softly into his ear, still keeping him pressed against the counter.
Miguel nearly vomited. Justin had been in the Booking Room the day he had comforted Angel. That was the only person he could be referring to; Miguel hadn’t had time since then to go for coffee, and he’d never done anything like that before. He thought he’d been so careful.
“How did you find me?” he whispered to the wavy piece of metal that passed for a mirror.
Justin chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “I never lost you. Are you coming? Angel is waiting.” He let go, stepping back and heading toward the door with the assurance of a man who held all the kings and aces.
Miguel followed.
Justin led him outside to a late-model black SUV much like the one Nate drove. Nate was a regret. Miguel knew now: the universe, god, whoever, had opened a door to something special—just a crack so Miguel would know what he was missing—and then slammed it shut. Again.
He went wordlessly, because really, what do you say when a psychopath is leading you to certain death? Miguel knew better than to get into the SUV, but if he didn’t, he would be responsible for Angel’s death as surely as if he killed him with his own two hands.
Justin started the car and pulled away from the curb. He’d been parked in a loading zone, no doubt because he felt entitled to. Miguel didn’t know why he tried to memorize everything he saw along the drive, as if he was by some miracle going to get to a phone—and if he did, who would he call? He wasn’t putting any of his friends on Justin’s radar.
Even by Skagit standards, it was a gorgeous afternoon. The temperature was somewhere in the low 70s, and a summer wind was blowing in across Skagit Bay. The sky was an indescribable shade of blue and stretched infinitely overhead. Miguel thought that he would have liked to see that sky again with Nate. Instead he had fallen into an elaborately set trap.
They were heading down Old Charter, which ran north and south along the edge of Skagit Bay. They passed the old ranger station. Miguel could see how much further along the restoration was since the last time he had driven by. He tamped down an irrational wish that he would be alive to see it finished. Formidable Douglas firs, Pacific madrones with their oddly peeling cinnamon-brown bark, and ponderosa pines populated both sides of the windy road, occasionally parting to offer drivers a view west out past the glittering bay to the islands beyond. Not a cloud in sight.
Eventually Justin turned right off Charter and bumped the SUV down a long driveway with signage announcing Private Property—No Trespassing. A newer home was perched on the edge of a cliff. The house was gorgeous and in other, less life-ending situations Miguel might have appreciated its construction. Three stories of glass faced west; even in the most inclement weather, occupants would enjoy a magnificent view. Decks jutted out on each level, and at the ground floor a patio with a large gas grill and table and chairs was protected by an awning, waiting for vacationers to enjoy the day.
Justin led him through the front door. Even that was a work of art, dark wood intricately carved with flowers and exotic birds. As Miguel had thought, the view from inside was immediate and intimidating. It followed a person everywhere.
The owners—not Justin; even though he had a key, Miguel was certain of that—had furnished the dwelling in the latest Sunset magazine style. White couches positioned for optimal views, a large glass coffee table, and a double-sided gas fireplace. The kitchen was open to the great room, beautiful and fully appointed with stainless steel appliances and gleaming cookware. A long countertop with a bowl of fruit placed in its center stood between the two spaces.
“Where’s Angel?”
“Are you worried about your little friend? He’s fine. What do you think of the place?”
“Why are you doing this?” Miguel didn’t know what he was doing, trying to engage this psycho who had controlled his life for too many years.
Justin almost looked offended, which, if Miguel hadn’t been terrified, would have been funny. “I’m treating you to a weekend away. You work too hard. Come see the rest of the house.”
There was nothing to do but follow him. Miguel couldn’t leave Angel in the house with Justin, even if he could find a way to escape. There was no evidence of a landline; did builders put those in houses these days? Were they required?
They passed the second floor, which from the quick look Miguel managed had several bedrooms and a large bathroom. On the third floor, the master bedroom took up half the footprint of the house. Like the rest of the place, it was decorated entirely in white. The walls, accents, and bedding, all snow white. The young man on the bed was as pale as Miguel remembered.
“Angel,” Miguel whispered.
Angel slowly turned his head as if he hadn’t heard the two of them coming up the stairs. His gaze was vacant, and he was not nearly as petrified as Miguel expected. He didn’t answer, probably because there was duct tape covering his mouth. His expression was uncomprehending. This was not the anxious kid who’d melted down at the Booking Room just a week ago.
“What did you do to him?”
“Poor Angel, he was so upset. I had to offer him a sedative. He is doing much better now. Right, Angel?” The way Justin crooned “Angel” made Miguel’s skin crawl.
“What do you want from me? I’ll do whatever you want. Please, let Angel go.”
The room was freezing, or maybe that was just Miguel. Angel didn’t seem to be cold, even though he was naked on top of the white comforter, his dark hair the only splash of color on Justin’s canvas.
“Take off your clothes.” Justin walked closer to the bed, looking down at Angel as he spoke. “Now.”
Whatever else Justin had been doing in the years since Miguel had left him, he had been keeping fit. He was bigger, heavier, and probably stronger than Miguel. Miguel tried to think how he could overpower him… but there was nothing. He wished he’d taken self-defense or karate or something so he could be the hero right now.
Instead he took off his clothes. The air was chilly against his skin.
“Good boy.” Justin picked up the small pile of clothing, tucking it under his arm. “Get on the bed. I didn’t realize until now, the two of you will be lovely together.” He looke
d at Miguel, long and assessing. “Don’t do anything stupid. Our pretty Angel will pay for it.”
Miguel got on the bed. It dipped under his weight as he slid as close as he dared to Angel.
“Lay down.” Justin stood at the end of the bed, acting, Miguel thought, much like a curator in an upscale gallery would while arranging his art, a finger to the corner of his mouth as he considered the display. “I was right, you are beautiful together. Put your hands behind your head, Miguel. Very nice.” He reached out and tugged Miguel’s left leg, arranging it so he was fully exposed, knee bent and pointing outward. “Perfect. Stay just like that. I’ll be right back.”
Justin left the room, taking Miguel’s clothing with him. The snick of the lock echoed in the vast silence of the room. Miguel looked over at Angel. His eyes weren’t vacant anymore; their expression was pleading and full of fear.
“How long have you been here?” Miguel was afraid to take the tape off. If they were going to get away, they would need the element of surprise.
Angel shrugged, then held up three slim fingers, shrugging again. For three days, Justin had imprisoned Angel. While Miguel had been seducing and playing house with Nate, Angel had been suffering.
“Has he done anything?”
Angel shook his head. Thank fuck.
A surge of vicious emotion overwhelmed Miguel.
All these years he’d lived in fear of Justin finding him in Skagit, fear of being forced to return to the way things had been in Spokane, fear for his job, fear for his life. All these years he’d allowed this… this despicable piece of shit to rule his life and his happiness? For what? So Justin could come waltzing back in as if he owned Miguel—and now he was adding Angel to his list of ruined lives?
No. Fucking. Way. Not going to happen. Miguel’s heart pounded in his chest. He was surprised Angel couldn’t hear it, the sound was so loud in his own ears.
Chapter Sixteen: Nate
The break they needed came sooner than Nate could have hoped. Unfortunately at the expense of two lives. Klay had sent Buck home promising to call when, if, they found anything. Thirty minutes later he fielded a call from an SkPD patrol officer. A Skagit resident had reported an abandoned car in her neighborhood. Almost any other part of the county and no one would have bothered to call it in, but the shiny late-model white sedan had been left parked on a street in the high-end Soldiers Hill area.
The uniformed officers who’d responded to the call happened to be the same two who’d brought Miguel in for questioning less than forty-eight hours earlier. A gruesome scene unfolded. Instead of being vacant but for abandoned stolen goods and the random trash car thieves leave, there were two bodies in the trunk. The couple, a man and a woman, had been shot and then stuffed inside. Although the warm weather had not been kind to the corpses, neither officer threw up on the crime scene. A win.
The county medical examiner believed they had been killed elsewhere, transported by car, and then abandoned. The scene was still being processed, but one of the responding officers had found a piece of paper in the glove box with the address of the house where Miguel’s wallet was found.
“Since your friend’s wallet was found there, I thought you would want to know…” Officer Terrance shifted from side to side while he spoke, uncomfortable under Adam Klay’s intense focus.
Terrance had recalled that Miguel’s alibi had been a federal officer and thought it was worth notifying Klay’s office. He was probably going to get hell from his commanding officers over it. Now SkPD was back out at the burned-out rental house and treating it as the original crime scene.
The SkPD’s working theory was that the fire had been set to cover up evidence of the murder of Penny and Morris Devaney, who’d made the ill-fated decision to embark on a last-minute holiday. The discovery was only hours old, and detectives had yet to investigate the victims’ background, but it seemed unlikely a youngish couple from Idaho would have any enemies in Skagit.
“It seemed pretty convenient to me that Ramirez’s wallet happened to be at the scene; there likely was more than just an accidental connection. And now you’re saying he is missing?”
“Oakes is behind this,” Nate said. “I know he is.”
“Oakes?” Terrance asked.
“Ramirez’s stalker ex-boyfriend,” Klay answered grimly.
“Oakes,” Terrance repeated thoughtfully. “Is he local?” He hadn’t blinked at the mention of a boyfriend. Not that Nate cared what other people thought, but it was a pleasant surprise.
“No,” Weir interrupted; he’d slipped back into the room without Nate noticing. “He’s in the area now, though,” he continued. “Justin Oakes was a detective with the Spokane Police Department until last September.”
“We’ve been having a rash of break-ins at vacant vacation rentals in the area,” Terrance said. “Thought it was kids for the most part. Probably was, sometimes, but you think maybe this Oakes guy has been doing the same thing? Staying under the radar by using these places?” He paused, then added, “I called back the owners of the one where Ramirez’s wallet was found.”
Something about how he said that made Nate take notice. “And?”
“This time I got the husband. They’d had a late cancellation, like we heard from the wife, but the Devaneys called after that, and he hadn’t put their info in the system yet. Then he forgot because his wife came home and they got into an argument; he ended up staying with friends for a couple of days, didn’t hear about any of this until today.”
Nate was thinking out loud. “So the victims showed up unannounced? And Oakes was there?” They all believed Oakes had murdered the couple. Everyone’s faces were grim.
“Was the property online? Like one of those places people can search for, rented by the owner and not a third party?” Klay asked.
“Yessir.” Terrance nodded.
Nate turned to Weir. “I think he’s got a way of figuring out what homes are vacant. Can you?”
“Dude, it’s like taking candy from a baby. Most of these sites have no real protection.”
“I think I didn’t hear that,” Terrance said.
“Yeah, no.” Klay broke his silence, adding, “Thank you for bringing this to our attention. You let me know if you get any flak about it.”
Technically there was no reason for the feds to be involved in this murder investigation. Klay knew that Nate was going to involve himself anyway. Right at that moment, Nate really appreciated Adam Klay’s devotion to those he called family. It seemed that somewhere along the way Nate had become part of that group and hadn’t realized it.
“Just a sec,” Nate called to the departing officer. “Can you get us a list of the residences that have been reported as broken into? I’m wondering if there is a pattern or if he chooses at random. May help us narrow down where he is.”
Terrance agreed to email a list of the homes that had reported a robbery or minor damage from what they assumed were teenage vandals. Nate and Klay were sitting back in the small conference room a few minutes later when Nate’s phone chimed with an email notification. Together he, Weir, and Klay looked at the list.
“I’m thinking he wouldn’t go to a place more than once… but what if he had a place he really liked? He’s a stalker; what if he was shopping for the perfect home?” Weir asked.
“Mmm. Yeah, maybe.” The biggest problem was, there were several hundred vacation rentals in the region. They were operating on the assumption that Oakes was in one of them and that he maybe had Miguel with him.
So far there had been no sightings of Miguel. After he’d eluded Buck, Miguel had disappeared. He didn’t have any credit cards to track, no cell phone… nothing.
“We need to interview staff at the train station, bus depot… probably not the airport. Hopefully he went to one of those places and didn’t hitchhike. Miguel pays with cash, right? I bet if someone sold him a ticket they would remember; it’s not that common anymore,” Weir stated, matter-of-fact.
Weir went to the
train station and Nate took the bus depot.
The depot was busy. Several buses were loading up for departure, and Nate had to wait until the ticket seller was free to talk. Nate flashed his badge, and the man gave him a panicked look. Whatever wrongs the little man was up to weren’t Nate’s problem right now.
“We’re looking for a man who probably paid cash for his ticket. Sometime in the last two days.”
“Lotta people pay cash,” the man muttered. His name tag read, “Rex W.”
Nate shoved the printout of Miguel that Weir had given him before they parted. “This man, do you recognize him? He may have bought a ticket sometime in the last two days.”
“I was off the last two days.”
Nate wanted to reach across the counter and strangle the man. “Who was working? And are they available?”
“Robert or Magda, probably. Robert’s off for the next couple days. Magda, she’ll be in tomorrow. What’s this about anyway?”
Nate wrestled Robert Green’s and Magda Lewis’s phone numbers out of Rex and left the bus depot. Green only lived a few blocks away in a small, rundown bungalow. Nate was welcome to stop by. Green greeted him at the door.
“May I ask a few questions?” Nate asked after flashing his badge.
“Sure.” Robert turned slowly, leaving Nate to follow him inside.
Robert perched on a grim couch in the tiny living room, surrounded by what looked to be decades of newspapers and magazines. The stacks were precarious, and Nate wondered that the man hadn’t been crushed by them. He remained standing; sitting would have been impossible anyway.
“Sometime in the past few days, did you sell a ticket for cash?” Nate unfolded the printout of Miguel and showed it to him. “To this man?”