47
“She was on her way to Port St. Joe to find the man who raped her as a child,” I say to Reggie. “Still can’t account for the eight-hour gap during the day but I am pretty sure about this.”
I’m racing through Panama City with my emergency lights flashing and my siren on.
“That’s what she was doing where she was,” I say. “Losing her friend really got to her. She blamed herself. Which meant she really blamed her step-uncle or whatever he was—the pederast with her drug-addicted, narcissistic aunt at the time. We’ve got to find him.”
“You think he killed her when she came looking for him?”
“I think it’s a good possibility,” I say.
“What’s his name?”
“Billy LaDuke,” I say.
“I’ll find him. How far out are you?”
“Forty-five minutes. Be there as fast as I can. What’s the word on the remains?”
“FDLE just left,” she says. “Tech told me the skeleton is definitely female and around the right age. So it could be her.”
“They confirm she had been moved recently?”
“Yeah. Say they may be able to give us a good idea from where after they get everything back to the lab and test it.”
“Cool.”
“We’re getting there, John,” she says. “We’re gonna close this thing. After twelve years.”
And until she said that I guess some part of me actually thought we might, but the moment I heard her verbalize it, to actually make her hopeful declaration, I knew we wouldn’t, knew somehow we were already too late.
A few moments after ending my call with Reggie, my phone starts vibrating again. The call is coming from an undisclosed number.
“John Jordan,” I say as I answer it.
“Hello, Mr. Chaplain Detective John Jordan,” a digitally demented voice says.
Instantly I know it’s him.
“What should I call you?” I ask.
“By my actual name,” he says. “Jeffrey Dixon Hunter. That’s my real name and this is an actual confession. Every single word of it is true. I’m not some punk kids playing a prank. I sent your friends the real picture of Randa and I’ve been emailing you. I’m telling you everything because it’s too late for you to do anything about it. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Were you able to track me through my emails or the Snapchat image I sent?”
“No.”
“And you won’t be able to trace this call or track me now, but feel free to try if you must. But whatever you do, listen to me carefully. You need to really pay attention to what I’m saying. Okay?”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m a cold-blooded killer. It’s just the way I’m wired. You might call me sick. And maybe I am. But I love to have my way with young women—and my way is hurtin’ ’em with my hands and my dick. Preferably at the same time. Y’all got it wrong. That little black girl . . . she wasn’t killed by her brother’s loser drug suppliers. I crushed that sweet little grape. God, was she good. So tight and strong. Love the ones with endurance . . . ones that like to tussle.”
He pauses but I don’t say anything.
“Am I shocking you?” he asks.
“I only wish you were.”
“Heard a few confessions over the years, have you? Still, can’t be easy.”
“Honestly,” I say, “it’s a lot easier hearing a straight confession or even someone bragging about what he’s done than it is someone making excuses and justifications and blaming the victims or their parents or the TV.”
“There is no excuse for what I do,” he says. “No justification for rape and murder. And that’s exactly what it is. Rape. I rape women. I hurt them. I brutalize them. I overpower them and do just what I want to with them. And I murder women. When I’m done fuckin’ them I snuff them out. Doesn’t even take much effort.”
He pauses but I don’t say anything, just think of a world where there are men like Jeffrey Dixon Hunter, the same world Anna and my little girls inhabit, and I’m filled with such rage I want to beat such men to death with my bare fists.
“Early on I told you I’d beat you, didn’t I?” he says.
“You did.”
“And I have. I’m only telling you the things I’m telling you because I’m already gone and you’ll never find me. You lose. You were no match for me. I’m not saying you wouldn’t have found me eventually. I was right there in front of you, after all, but . . . you didn’t find me or grab me when you had the chance. I won.”
“What happened to Randa?” I ask.
“Acknowledge I beat you first, then I’ll tell you.”
“You beat me,” I say. “Clearly.”
“Do you even know why Randa was where she was yet?”
“I think so. Looking for someone from her past.”
“John, that makes him sound like a former lover or a coach from high school. She was looking for the monster who ruined her life. And she ran into another one. A worse one. She was all hopped up on pills, booze, and revenge. Slid her little car around on the road. And here’s the important part of that. She hit her head. Thwack. Forehead to steering wheel. Check. See . . . all you investigators and all those armchair detectives with their silly little podcasts . . . y’all all thought the odds of someone like me coming along in the seven minutes or so she was out there alone were just too great. I mean, fuck, what would odds like that even be? But it wasn’t exactly like that. No, our little dazed and confused girl wandered around for a while. Got away from her car. Started walking. Hid from the tow truck and the cop and anyone else who passed by. But eventually came upon me.”
He pauses again and I wait.
“I know you have questions,” he says. “I know you want more details. I left it all behind for you. It’s there. You’ll find it. I’ve got no problem with you looking, with you digging up the rest of the info. What I would have a problem with is you coming after me. That’s a no-no. And I’ve taken out a little insurance policy to make sure you don’t. So please don’t be stupid. Don’t come after me and I’ll guarantee a happy ending for you and the rest of them. Come after me and I guarantee not only will you never find me but you’ll never see one of your friends again. Listen to me, John. Are you listening? Everything I’ve told you is true. All this really happened. But pretty soon you’re gonna get some more information that will—that should greatly impact your decision. Listen to it. Let it in. Go against your instincts. Save your friend. Prepare yourself to do that now so that when the time comes you’ll be ready. That’s what this little call was about. To try to get you prepared. To say I beat you. And to say goodbye and that it’s been a real pleasure watching you work this thing. It really has. Now let it go and get yourself some rest. You need it.”
48
“Are y’all okay?” I ask.
As soon as the killer disconnects the call, I phone Anna.
“Yes. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Dad and Verna are there with you, right? And you can see Taylor?”
“I’m holding her and yes they are. Why?”
“Just a new threat from the killer,” I say. “Tell dad to keep his weapon drawn and ready for the next little while until I call back. Y’all stay inside and keep the doors locked. Would you call Frank Morgan and tell him to do the same for Johanna?”
“I will and we will, but you’re the one who needs to be careful. Who’s guarding you? You’re out there with him.”
“I’ll be extra careful,” I say. “Call you in just a little while. Love you.”
“Love you.”
As soon as I end the call with Anna, I call Reggie.
“I was just about to call you,” she says.
“Before we do anything else,” I say, “we need to take a roll call. I just had a call from the killer and he’s threatening one of us. Will you check on Merrick and your kids? I’ll check in with Jake and Merrill about Sam, Daniel, and Nancy. Tell everyone to stay p
ut and be vigilant until we get a better sense of what’s going on.”
Without waiting for a response, I end the call, tap in Merrill’s number, and tell him what’s going on.
“Everything quiet here,” he says. “They not even up yet.”
“Double check,” I say. “Wake them up if you have to. I’m gonna call Jake. I’ll call you back when I can.”
Two more taps and Jake’s line is ringing.
After several rings and no answer it goes to voicemail.
I leave him a message and then call him right back.
Same thing again. Several rings. No answer. Voicemail.
And again.
And again.
As I’m coming into town and trying Jake yet again, my phone begins to vibrate. It’s Merrill.
“He’s not here,” he says.
“Who?”
“Daniel. He’s gone. I’ve searched the whole house. There’s no sign of forcible entry and I would’ve heard it if there was. His car is still parked out in the lot. His wallet and keys are still in his bedroom. But he’s gone. Guess he could be out on the property for some reason—walking, checking the mail, hell, I don’t know, but I can’t watch her and go out looking for him.”
“Stay with her,” I say. “I’ll send a deputy over to search the grounds.”
“Can’t fuckin’ believe I lost him, man. Shee-it. Ain’t like me.”
“We’ll find him,” I say, and hang up.
A moment later Reggie is calling.
“Merrick and all our kids are good and together,” she says. “And I have a deputy out in front of the house. And before I forget—nobody reported Billy LaDuke missing, but he’s been missing a very long time now. He used to live in a camper or van or something on the sites where he worked. The people he was working for just thought he took off—the way contractors do. Wonder if he took Randa and vanished or . . . Where are you?”
“Coming into town. Daniel is missing. Merrill is inside keeping an eye on Sam. Can you send a deputy over to Barefoot Cottages to search the grounds for Daniel—preferably someone who knows him?”
“Done,” she says. “I’ll—”
“And Jake’s not answering. Can you call the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department and get someone over to Nancy’s place to check on them?”
“On it. Call you right back.”
When she is gone, I call Merrick.
“Hey, Reggie told me what’s going on,” he says. “You okay?”
“Having trouble reaching Jake and I don’t have Nancy’s number. Can you call her and check on them?”
“I’ve tried her a few times this morning and keep getting her voicemail, but I’ll keep trying.”
“Let me know when you get her,” I say. “And text me her number just so I’ll have it.”
When I end the call with him, I try Jake again. And again I get his voicemail.
I disconnect and call him again.
And this time I get him.
“John?” he says in a confused and groggy voice. “You . . . gotta . . . see . . . this. Get down here . . . fast as you can.”
I see Reggie up ahead, not far from the Sunset Coastal Grill. Her vehicle is parked on the side of the road, its emergency lights on.
I pull in behind her and she jumps into the car with me.
“Franklin County deputy at the house says it’s an active crime scene and there’s a letter addressed to you. Let’s go.”
49
The first thing I notice when we pull into Nancy’s small yard is that Jake is okay. He’s standing in a small group of deputies running his mouth—something I’ve never been so glad to see him do.
I hug him when I walk up.
He looks a little embarrassed to be hugged by another man in front of the Franklin County deputies, but gives in and gives me a quick hug back.
“You okay?”
“Just a little loopy,” he says.
“More so than usual?” I ask.
“I was drugged,” he says. “Was out all night and most of the day. I’m fine. You need to get in there and . . .”
I catch up with Reggie near the front of the house, and the Franklin County sheriff, a tall middle-aged man with a potbelly, gives us gloves and leads us in.
The house is empty except for Nancy’s husband Jeff on his hospital bed in the front bedroom.
“Jake said a woman lives here too,” the sheriff says. “No sign of her.”
We walk into the front bedroom after him.
A young female paramedic in navy pants and a white uniform shirt is monitoring his vitals. “He’s stable,” she says. “Just sleeping.”
“Thanks, Margaret. Could you excuse us a minute?”
“Sure, Sheriff.”
She leaves.
On the hospital table next to Jeff’s bed is a sealed envelope with my name on it.
“Why don’t you take a look at that while I bring Sheriff Varney up to speed on what we’re dealing with?” Reggie says.
I nod, reaching for the envelope with my gloved hand while she tells the older man about the Randa Raffield case.
Dear John,
I only realized how that sounds after I wrote it, but it fits. Because this is a breakup letter of sorts. It’s funny, but I really will miss you. Miss this. Miss everyone. Well, almost everyone. Every word I confessed to you on the phone as Jeffrey this morning was true. It just wasn’t my confession to make. It was this man’s, the one in the hospital bed—Jeffrey Dixon Hunter. And he was a hunter. A mean, vicious, prick of a predator. He attacked me like I told you. It happened just like that. I was there to confront Billy LaDuke. That’s all. Had no intention of killing him. Just had to face down the monster, which I did. When I realized that the place where I had my little accident was in walking distance from his construction site, I locked my car, hid for a while, and then walked over there. I knew he slept in a van or a camper on site, but when I got there he was still working. I told him how fucked up I was because of what he had done to me, how much I was hurting others, and how that meant he was still hurting others. I tried to tell him, to share my truth with him, but he went crazy. Started yelling and shaking. And then he hit me. Just punched me hard in the face. Knocked me down. I jumped up. Fought back. But I was no match. Hunter stepped in. I thought he was saving me. He and Billy fought. And he killed him. But he wasn’t saving me. Well, he was, but for himself. He wanted me for his own sick, twisted pleasure. LaDuke is buried under British Bob’s house in Windmark Beach subdivision. Hunter buried him there then pounced on me. He beat me and raped me there but then brought me back to this place and did all kinds of other shit to me. Told me he had just buried Annie Kathryn Harrison in the backyard and I’d soon be in the hole with her. But he underestimated me and my resolve to change myself and my life. When he thought he had beaten me too bloodied and blue to do anything but take more of his worst, I got his knife while he was coming in me for the third time that first night and I used it to turn the tables. I couldn’t save Annie Kathryn, but I could save myself and many other future victims. I could work on changing myself and my life while I made his a living hell. It takes a special strength and discipline, commitment and cold-bloodedness to do what I did, to keep doing it for as long as I have. It’s why I knew you wouldn’t beat me. Why I knew no one would. I used not to be, but I am now the strongest person I know, the strongest I have ever known. I am a victim no more. Speaking of you not beating me . . . Sorry for the braggadocios emails. I was trying to sound like LaDuke or Hunter would. Oh, and by the way, the picture I sent Daniel and Merrick was real. Hunter took it while he was doing what he did to me. Anyway, I’m not a killer, but I have become cold blooded. I was made, not born. It hasn’t been easy. The hardest part was not telling my dad I was okay. I started to several times, but in time even that got easier. So this is what I did. I hobbled Hunter, immobilized him for good, and began drugging him—heavily when people were around, lighter when it was just us and I wanted to make sure he remem
bered what was happening to him and why and who was behind it. I won’t get into all the details of what I did, but an incredible transformation took place in this little house. It’s not inaccurate to say that Jeffrey Dixon Hunter killed Randa Raffield. He did. What was left of her. What he did and how I responded gave birth to Nancy Drury, the smartest, baddest bitch I know. I’ve had a few friends and lovers over the years—people who felt sorry for the widow whose hit-and-run husband was such a burden. I’ve spent years studying criminal psychology, homicide investigation, missing persons investigation. You name it. Became obsessed with catching evil fuckers like LaDuke and Hunter. And a few years ago I began to do these podcasts about true crime and criminals and I got pretty good at catching them, at helping take them down in one way or another. That’s also how I knew you were good, but I was better. So everything’s going along all nice and fine until some of these little armchair detectives want to solve my case, want to know what happened to me. I listened. I watched. I read. And eventually, I joined the team, I became part of the investigation, the podcast, the phenomenon that was the search for me. I already had the dyed-blond hair and blue contacts. I had already put on a little weight, had already been keeping a little sun on my face, and hell, I had aged over a decade. I was set. I knew I’d have to move along eventually, but until then I’d keep up with the investigation and make all the plans and preparations so that you nor anyone else would ever be able to find me. Not ever. But just to make sure you don’t, I took a little insurance. The nicest, sweetest, gentlest man among y’all, Daniel. So, John, here’s my deal. I just want to be left alone. That’s it. I haven’t killed anybody. I’m not a murderer. So why not just leave me alone? You really think the false imprisonment of a rapist and murderer like Hunter is worth coming after me for? Really? If y’all will leave me be, not come after me, I’ll not only take good care of Daniel but I’ll return him to you safe and unharmed very soon. Providing, of course, he wants to return home. By then, who knows. He’s pretty smitten with me. Oh, and tell your friend, the big black guy, not to waste time feeling bad. Daniel snuck out to meet me. I told him I had to talk to him privately and I needed to do it right then. He climbed out of the master bathroom window. Your friend did nothing wrong. Except maybe underestimate me. Y’all’ve all done that. Just like everybody else in my life. Do we have a deal, John? Will you take the defeat graciously and leave me and Daniel alone? If you do you get him back. Oh, and just know this—I left fairly early last night. I’m already where I’m going and I can’t be traced or tracked or found or extradited. So all you’ll do by trying is to cause poor Sam’s life to get even worse than it already is—which, as I understand it, is because of you to begin with, right? Whatta you say? Have you done enough damage to this couple? Will you let your bruised ego at getting beat by a girl get the better of you, or will you let Daniel live? We shall soon see.
COLD BLOOD (a John Jordan Mystery Book 13) Page 19