by James Swain
Going to my Legend, I popped the trunk. I found the file on Lonnie and Mouse’s victims that I’d been carrying around, and beneath the trunk’s tiny interior light, I poured through the pages.
I came to the missing person reports that my old unit had given me two days ago. My eyes locked on the victims’ photos. Then I knew.
Victoria Seppi had been Lonnie and Mouse’s fourth victim.
CHAPTER 51
dropped the file into the trunk, and slammed it shut.
The dismembered townspeople of Chatham were staring at Linderman and me. They were in their late forties to late fifties, white, and decently dressed. Many of the women wore expensive jewelry, and several men sported fancy wristwatches. Not a single one of them looked poor.
“Have a nice night,” a man in the crowd said.
The words had an ugly ring to them. A number of men in the crowd were resting their hands on the guns concealed behind their shirts. It felt like a posse. I had been in hostile environments before, but nothing like this.
Linderman and I climbed into my Legend. Buster had tuned into the bad vibes and was standing up on the backseat, growling at the crowd. As I pulled away, he started barking. I didn’t slow down until the town was in my mirror.
“Pull off the road and kill your lights,” Linderman said.
I pulled down a darkened side street, and turned off my headlights. Moments later, a car filled with men cruised past.
“Think they’re looking for us?” I asked.
“Probably want to make sure we leave town,” Linderman said.
I drew my Colt from my pocket, and stuck it between my legs.
“Did you see the hostess?” I asked.
“Just in passing. Why?”
“Her name’s Victoria Seppi. She was Lonnie and Mouse’s fourth victim.”
“Are you sure?”
I retrieved the file from the trunk, and got back into the car. I removed Seppi’s missing person report from the file, and passed it to him.
Linderman read the report with a flashlight so as not to illuminate my car’s interior. He clicked off the light when he was done.
“We need to nab her and find out what’s going on,” Linderman said. “Her case is still open. She’s committed a crime by not contacting the police. I have every right to detain her.”
His voice was strained, and I could tell he wanted to get to the truth as much as I did.
I called information, and got The Sweet Lowdown’s number. Then I called the restaurant. Victoria Seppi picked up, and I asked her how late they stayed open.
“Kitchen stops serving at eleven o’clock,” Seppi said.
I thanked her and hung up. We had several hours to kill.
Driving to the outskirts of town, I parked behind an abandoned factory that had once manufactured cardboard boxes, and let Buster run loose. I leaned against my car, and tried to calm down. Knowing that Sara Long was somewhere nearby did not help my mood. Nor did the fact that Chatham was filled with people who might try to kill us if we tried. If we didn’t handle this right, it was going to blow up in our faces.
At a few minutes before eleven we drove back to Chatham. The town’s streets had cleared out, the restaurants and bars closing up for the night. I parked two blocks away from The Sweet Lowdown, and killed my headlights.
We watched the restaurant’s employees leave through the front door, then saw the neon sign go off. Finally, two figures emerged. Gabe, the owner, and Seppi. Gabe locked the front door and went to his car, while Seppi walked around the building.
Linderman reach into his coat, and removed his wallet. He took out his FBI badge and pinned it to his windbreaker. “Follow her,” he said.
I turned on my headlights and drove down the street toward the restaurant. Gabe drove past me, his eyes half shut. I punched the gas once his vehicle was out of sight.
“Hurry,” Linderman said. “I don’t want Seppi getting into her car.”
I took the corner with a squeal of rubber, my headlights catching Seppi as she entered the metered parking lot behind the restaurant. She turned instinctively, and looked directly at us. Fear shone in her eyes. She fumbled with her purse, and its contents spewed out onto the ground. She cursed and began to run.
I pulled up alongside her, and Linderman rolled down his window.
“Victoria Seppi. I’m with the FBI. I order you to stop,” Linderman said.
Seppi looked sideways at us. The fear in her eyes had turned to desperation. Instead of slowing down, she kicked off her shoes, and tried to outrun us.
“Hit your brakes,” Linderman said.
I did as told. Linderman jumped out of the car, and gave chase. Seppi was fast, but Linderman was faster. He quickly caught up, and grabbed Seppi from behind by the waist. They both went down to the ground.
I pulled the car up alongside them. Buster was standing up in the backseat, barking furiously. I calmed him down and jumped out.
Linderman and Seppi were still on the ground. Seppi struggled helplessly beneath Linderman’s weight. Not a sound came out of her mouth. I had seen that with victims of abductions before. The screaming was only on the inside.
“Do you want me to handcuff you?” Linderman asked.
“No,” Seppi said through clenched teeth.
“Then cut the nonsense. We just want to talk with you.”
“They’re going to kill me,” Seppi said. “Do you understand that? They’re going to kill me, and my mother, and then they’ll kill both of you.”
“Not if we have anything to say about it,” I said.
Seppi looked up at me for the first time. She must have seen something in my face that told her I was one of the good guys. She stopped struggling, and almost at once began to cry. Linderman climbed off of her.
“Here. Let me help you,” I said.
I pulled Seppi to her feet. Her hostess uniform was covered with dirt, as were her face and hands. She looked terribly vulnerable, and I felt sorry for her. She glanced up and down the street, and I saw something resembling anger flash across her face.
“Don’t tell me you came here by yourselves,” Seppi said.
I nodded, and so did Linderman.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” she said.
CHAPTER 52
he three of us piled into my car. Linderman sat in the backseat with a shotgun lying across his lap, while Seppi sat in the passenger seat next to me. When I told her to fasten her seat belt, she let out a nervous laugh.
“You’re funny,” she said without humor.
I turned my Legend around, and drove back to the town’s main drag. I stopped at the intersection, and looked both ways. The streets and the sidewalks were deserted, the stores shut down for the night. I glanced in my mirror at Linderman.
“Which way?” I asked.
“What’s the closet city?” Linderman asked.
“Daytona Beach. It’s about a thirty-mile drive.”
“We’ll go there. I’ll call my counterpart at the FBI’s Jacksonville office, and have him meet us.”
I pointed my car east. A part of me wanted to floor the accelerator, but I knew that it was better not to run when you weren’t being chased. We reached the edge of town without any problems, and I felt myself relax.
“We’re not going to make it out of here,” Seppi suddenly said. “Sheriff Morcroft comes by my house every night to make sure I’m home. If he doesn’t see my car in the driveway, he’ll know something’s wrong, and he’ll come looking.”
“What times does he usually come by?” Linderman asked.
“Twelve-fifteen on the nose. Sometimes he even knocks on the door, and makes me come outside.”
“How long has he been doing that?” Linderman asked.
Seppi started to answer, but the words wouldn’t come out. Her hand wiped away the tears running down her cheeks. The questions were tearing her apart, but we needed to know.
“Since you escaped from Lonnie and Mouse?” I asked.
H
er head snapped. “Who told you about them?”
“We’ve known about Lonnie and Mouse for several days,” I said. “They recently kidnapped a young woman in Fort Lauderdale, and brought her back here. She was a nursing student, just like you were.”
Seppi’s chin fell on her chest, and she fought back a sob. I stared at the darkened road in front of me. An uneasy silence fell over the car. For a few minutes, no one said anything. Buster stuck his head between the seats. Seppi broke out of her funk, and started to pet him.
“I wanted to tell someone about them—I swear to God, I did,” Seppi said. “But Sheriff Morcroft threatened me. He said that if I contacted the police and told them about Lonnie and Mouse, he was going to the nursing home where my mother lives, and put a pillow over her face. I couldn’t let him do that. Do you understand? I couldn’t.”
“How long did they hold you prisoner?” I asked.
“Two and a half years,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You want to know something? It felt like ten.”
I had a dozen more questions I wanted to ask Victoria Seppi, and I’m sure Linderman did as well. But I never got the chance to. Five miles outside of town, I spotted the outline of a car parked behind some pine trees by the side of the road. It could have been an abandoned vehicle or a pair of lovers, but my gut told me it wasn’t. Moments later, a pair of headlights appeared in my mirror, and I knew it was trouble.
“We’ve got company,” I said.
Linderman turned around in his seat and looked behind us.
“Pickup truck. Could be anybody,” he said.
I was doing sixty-five. I punched the gas, and my Legend spurted ahead. The pickup quickly caught up.
“Better lose them,” Linderman said.
“I’ll try.”
Seppi clasped her hands together and started to pray. I did not want to die in this little podunk town, and I floored the accelerator. My Legend was old, but still had some pep. Within moments the speedometer was clicking a hundred.
The pickup was up to the challenge. It caught up to me, and started to hang on my bumper. I couldn’t make the Legend go any faster without blowing the engine. Seppi turned around, the seat belt pulling at her throat. She let out a horrible shriek.
“They’re going to kill me!”
“We’re not going to let that happen,” I said.
“You can’t stop them!”
The pickup flashed its brights. I felt like the driver was playing chicken with me. I glanced to either side of the road. I was surrounded by empty farmland, most of it fenced. I considered going off the highway and trying to escape across a field, but quickly discounted the idea. It would buy us time, but the ending would be the same.
Instead, I pushed my foot down to the floor, and kept it there. The Legend found new life, and within a few seconds, I was clocking a hundred and fifteen mph. A sign appeared warning me that a steep curve lay ahead.
“Hold on,” I said.
Seppi grabbed the “Aw shit” handle over the door. In my mirror, Linderman grabbed Buster, and held him protectively against his chest.
I hit the curve in the road without slowing down. I had been involved in enough car chases as a cop to believe that I was good enough to do that. The driver of the pickup didn’t have the same faith in himself and slowed down.
I came out of the curve like a rocket. The road ahead was perfectly straight, with not another car to be seen. I heard a loud, throbbing sound, and realized it was my heart pounding in my ears.
Ten seconds later, the pickup appeared in my mirror. There was a good quarter of a mile separating us. Just enough distance to give me a momentary respite. The sound of a bullet hitting my car quickly dispelled that feeling.
I looked straight up. A bullet had ripped across my roof, and left a seam directly above where I sat. Five inches lower, and it would have blown my head clean off.
“They’ve got a high-powered rifle,” I said.
Seppi brought her hand up to her mouth like she was going to puke.
“We’re sitting ducks as it is,” Linderman said. “Slow the car down, and put on your emergency lights. I want them to think we’re pulling over.”
“We’re not?”
“Just do as I say.”
I let my foot off the gas, then flipped on the emergency flasher. The Legend quickly lost speed, and the pickup caught up to us.
“What now?” I asked.
“Just watch.”
In my mirror, I saw Linderman roll down his window. He was crouching low in his seat, so as not to be seen by the pickup’s driver.
“How close are they?” Linderman asked.
“About a hundred yards back,” I said.
“Are they directly behind us?”
“Yes.”
“Put your indicator on, and slow down some more.”
I did as told. The pickup drew dangerously close. At any moment, I expected another bullet to hit my car, and my life to be over.
“How far back are they now?” Linderman asked.
“About three car lengths,” I said.
“Perfect.”
I stared at my mirror. Linderman stuck his body through the open window, and aimed the Mossberg at the pickup’s windshield. Flames spit out of the shotgun’s barrel as he fired. I heard three shots in rapid succession followed by the sound of the windshield imploding. The pickup veered off the road, and took down a fence. It rumbled across a barren field before abruptly disappearing.
I pulled off the road and parked in the grass. The three of us got out. The wind was blowing from the north, and I could hear the strains of country music in the distance. I pulled Buster out of the car, and went to where the pickup had taken down the fence.
“What are you doing?” Linderman said.
“I want to find out what happened to them,” I said. “If they’re still alive, they’re going to call for reinforcements. We’re twenty-five miles from Daytona. We’re not going to be able to run away from them.”
“We need to leave, the sooner the better,” Linderman said.
I was holding my car keys. I threw them to him, and they hit Linderman squarely in the chest.
“You go,” I said.
I followed the tire tracks across the field with Buster beside me. The sound of Garth Brooks grew louder with each step I took. The ground seemed to fall away, and I stopped. Down below was a large, man-made hole, what locals call a borrow pit. The pit was filled with uprooted trees and piles of debris. The upside-down pickup lay at the bottom, its wheels still spinning and music coming out of its cab.
“Next to me,” I said.
Buster glued himself to my side, and together we climbed down. Nearing bottom, we both started to slide. I righted myself, and drew my Colt.
“Get out and show me your hands,” I said loudly.
There was no response from the pickup. I approached in a crouch, my gun held with both hands. In the moonlight, two men hung upside down in their seats. One had a hunting rifle with a sniper sight clutched in his hands, while the other held a pistol. Their faces had been blown clean off.
Reaching in through the open driver’s window, I killed the pickup’s ignition. I didn’t like killing people without knowing who they were, and I searched the driver’s pockets, and found a wallet along with a handful of loose change.
I pulled out a driver’s license. Holding it up to the moonlight, I read who the dead man was. I cursed loudly.
Walking around to the other side of the cab, I picked the other dead man’s pockets. I found his wallet, and read his ID. I cursed again.
I hurried back to the highway with my dog. Linderman and Seppi stood next to my Legend, waiting for me. Linderman threw my keys back to me.
“Find anything?” the FBI agent asked.
“You just killed the sheriff of Chatham and his deputy,” I said.
CHAPTER 53
drove to Daytona without seeing another car on the road. It wa
s a welcome relief, considering what had happened.
Daytona had more cheap hotel rooms than probably anywhere else in Florida. Many were located near the speedway where the Daytona 500 was held each year. Linderman chose the Holiday Inn across the street from the speedway, and rented a suite in the rear of the building, which let me park away from the road.
We took Seppi to the suite on the hotel’s second floor, and fed her black coffee and doughnuts and let her watch TV. The sheriff and his deputy’s killings had done a number on her, and she flipped through the channels aimlessly, unable to focus on any one program. I asked her if she wanted us to send someone to the nursing home to make sure her mother was all right, and she shook her head.
“No one’s going to hurt my momma now,” she told me.
A few hours later, the director of the FBI’s Jacksonville office, Special Agent Vaughn Wood, arrived, along with his female assistant. Wood wore a black turtleneck and black cargo pants that made the dark rings beneath his eyes much more pronounced. His assistant wore a blue pantsuit and looked like a soccer mom. They’d brought a tape recorder with them, which they set up in the suite’s living room in order to interview Seppi.
Seppi sat on the couch and chain-smoked cigarettes. Linderman sat in a chair facing her, and did the questioning, while Wood, his assistant, and I stood against the wall. Seppi started by talking about her background. She was a native of Chatham, as were her parents, and had had a normal upbringing. Then, she described her abduction from Daytona Community College, and why she’d never gone to the police.
“I love Chatham,” Seppi said, feathering the smoke of her cigarette through her nostrils. “But my town has a dirty secret that I was raised not to talk about it. So this is hard. You understand?”
Everyone in the suite nodded.
“In the late 1980s, the paper mill shut down, and Chatham hit the skids,” Seppi said. “There were no jobs, and times were tough. One day, some locals were sitting around a bar getting drunk. One of them was a guy named Travis Bledsoe.