Footprints of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #1)

by Tim Ellis

  “No thank you. I’ll take your word for their depravity.”

  “So, I think we’ve established that Oscar Gilbert is not fit to be called a human being, and we’re still left with the emails with him using number 15 as a name.”

  “Oh?”

  “They’re all in code, and I haven’t cracked it yet.”

  “I see. What about the email addresses?”

  “Here’s an example: 0183649@limbo.net. Oscar Gilbert is 15, so the people he’s communicating with all have numbers for names, and they’ve all got an email account with limbo.net.”

  “Which is where?”

  “No idea. It could be anywhere. It’s just a computer server with email software on it. You can even download a free email server for Microsoft Windows, which has an SQL database embedded within it.”

  “You’re talking gibberish again.”

  “Yeah. Too early in the morning for dinosaurs, I suppose. Well, here’s something: we have a bunch of numbers with those email addresses. There are two sets of numbers 01 to 17, and remember that Gilbert is 15. Then there’s a whole bunch of seven-digit numbers, which all start with ‘0’ and have six numbers after the ‘0’. They’re not consecutive numbers. In fact, they look like customer numbers, or order numbers, or something else along those lines.”

  What did it all mean? He made himself another coffee. It was the worst coffee he’d ever tasted, but it was the closest thing to a fix he could get for now. Sitting down on the bed again, he held out his hand for the emails. He riffled through them. She was right; it was code. He had no idea what any of it meant, and every email was much the same:

  1533941041121311924250711133119764313734180250114091019401283711020194754

  He passed the emails back to her and said, “Have you any idea what you’re doing?”

  “None, but I think that the number 15 at the beginning of the top email is Oscar Gilbert. Also, if you noticed on the other emails, each one starts and ends with either 01 – 20, or a seven-digit number.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Why not?”

  “Take off the 15 – what have you got?”

  “33.”

  “Take that off.”

  “Okay. Well, it could be.”

  “Yes it could, but it might not be.”

  She pulled a face. “I thought I was on to something then.”

  “More money.” He sighed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we’re not going to be able to crack that code ourselves, are we? Which means I’ll have to pay someone to do it for us.”

  She pulled the towel off her head and began drying her hair. “Do you know any code breakers?”

  “No, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s solved that problem then.” He stood up. “You’ve obviously had a shower?”

  “No, I woke up wet and smelling of soap.”

  “I’ve a good mind to lodge a complaint with the management, but instead I’m going for my shower. While we’re travelling back, we’ll find somewhere to eat and get a decent cup of coffee, so get ready because I move fast when I’m on the prowl for breakfast and coffee.” He scooped up his clothes to take into the bathroom with him.

  “I’ll have to wear my wet panties.”

  “I wish you’d stop telling me about things like that,” he mumbled as he shut the bathroom door.

  Were they actually getting anywhere with the case? They’d established that Katherine Everett had gone missing on Fourth of July 2001 – eleven years ago. It was far too much of a coincidence to find her backpack and diary in the art gallery for there to be anything other than a direct link to the other missing children. And if that was true, then Mercy Hebb had only uncovered the tip of the iceberg. Were there other children taken by the same people between 2001 and 2007? Who were these people? Were they so organized that nobody had discovered what they were doing except Mercy Hebb?

  Although Oscar Gilbert seemed to be a pedophile, there was still no evidence that he was connected to the missing children. Yes, Osip Lemontov had his telephone number, there was the ninety-minute phone call from the art gallery, and the issue of his savings account with $17 million in it and the payment of $25,000 on the same day that ‘The Smile’ had been purchased, but none of those things constituted evidence of any involvement in what they were investigating.

  Gilbert was definitely involved, but involved in what?

  “I’ve found someone,” Rae said when he came out of the bathroom.

  “I’m very happy for you. I hope he comes from a decent family?”

  “A code breaker.”

  “I see.”

  “You don’t see at all. I found a maths forum on the Internet, and an English university student who says he can break any code, so I sent him one of the emails.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Why not? It’s free.”

  “Free? Tell me more?”

  “Once we know the code, we can decipher all the other emails.”

  “If they’re all based on the same code.”

  “It looks like they are to me.”

  “Okay, I’m on board. How long will it take?”

  “I’ve told him that he has twenty-four hours before I ask somebody else.”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  “Reasonable is my middle name.”

  “Your parents have a lot to answer for.”

  ***

  On LPGA Boulevard, heading towards I-95, they found Suzi’s Diner. It was a theme diner based on the singer Suzi Quatro.

  He’d never been into rock music – or any music for that matter – and rock ‘n’ roll was just noise that hurt his ears.

  As soon as they sat down the waitress – who looked nothing like the photographs of Suzi Quatro – came over and filled up their mugs. He drank the steaming liquid down in one swallow and then held the empty mug out for a refill.

  “It’s been a while, huh?” the waitress said.

  “Let’s just say, I needed that. The crap they give you in motels just doesn’t cut it anymore.”

  “So, what can I get you fine folks?”

  They both ordered the Hoochie Koo breakfast with all the trimmings.

  “Do you know who this Suzi Quatro is?” Rae asked him.

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  “It says here . . .” she said, examining one of the themed menus, “. . . that she released an album called Free the Butterfly in 1998. I might give her a listen.” She took out her tablet and switched it on.

  Carrie’s words echoed in his head, “You must protect the butterfly and find the children.” Was he still doing both?

  The breakfast came, and the waitress filled up his mug again.

  Rae put her headphones in and started jigging about on the seat to “Devil Gate Drive” and “Can the Can” while she ate her breakfast.

  What was his next move? Well, one thing was for sure – Allegre would have something to say about his absence. The first thing he needed to do when they got back to the hotel was a security check. That was, of course, if he still lived there. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if she’d put all his possessions into black plastic bags, dumped them on the sidewalk, and the hobos had helped themselves to all his stuff.

  He kept coming back to Oscar Gilbert. Maybe it was time to take the bull by the horns and confront him. The trouble with adopting that strategy was that he’d be showing his whole hand to the enemy. Gilbert – and whoever else was involved – would know exactly what cards he had. At the moment, only some of his cards were visible. It wasn’t time to grab that bull yet. He had no substantial evidence that he could use legally. Gilbert would deny everything and call the cops.

  No, he was still thinking like a cop instead of a PI. If he was going to make a citizen’s arrest, he’d better have more than illegally-obtained evidence and a gut instinct; otherwise he’d find himself languishing in a cell waiting for a judge to lock him up fo
r a long time for breaking a whole stack of laws. By the time they let him out, he’d probably be need a Zimmer frame.

  They were dancing around the issue. Yes, they’d collected a lot of circumstantial evidence, but they were nowhere nearer finding Mercy Hebb or the children. As far as he could tell, the only possible link they had was Oscar Gilbert. If it was too soon to confront him, then maybe they had to follow him.

  “Put your man in the can, honey, get him while you can. Can the can, can the can, if you can, wow!” Rae sang.

  He waved a hand in front of her face.

  She took out her earphones.

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you stop singing; people are staring at you.”

  “People stare at me all the time.”

  He had no answer to that. The way she dressed, the tattoos, the hair – they all invited people to stare at her. “Well, stop singing anyway; it’s rubbish.”

  “When you say, ‘it’s rubbish,’ what exactly do you mean by that? Do you mean that my angelic voice is rubbish? Or that my timing is slightly off? Or that your appreciation of the finer qualities of rock music is rubbish?”

  “Yes. All of that. I hate music.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Can we go now?”

  “Ready when you are, O grumpy one.”

  He paid, and they left.

  It wasn’t far to the I-95 turnpike. Rae was still listening to Suzi Quatro, and he was thinking about the problems associated with following Oscar Gilbert. He didn’t notice the black Hummer until it smashed into the passenger door and forced them off the road.

  “Oh God!” Rae squealed. “We’re gonna die, aren’t we?”

  He had no idea whether they were going to die or not, but as the Dodge flew across the landscaped edging, in between two conifers, and down a slope – he had the idea that it would be touch and go. The Dodge skidded sideways, flipped over, and rolled three times before it came to a stop upside down against a tree.

  The reek of gasoline was uppermost in his mind as he released the seatbelt catch.

  “Rae?”

  “Still here.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Don’t know.”

  He twisted round so that he was the right way up and facing Rae. Her seatbelt catch was right next to his. In his mind, he had a vision of it not working and being unable to get her out. He pressed the catch. She slid down and banged her head on the roof.

  “Thanks for that.”

  He began pulling her out through the driver’s door, which had been ripped off, but she pulled her arm free. “My rucksack.”

  “You’ll die. There’s gasoline leaking out. It’s going to go up any minute.”

  In the time he’d said that, she’d recovered her rucksack and her tablet.

  “Okay, let’s get out of here,” she said.

  They were just able to get clear and take cover behind a small hillock when the Dodge exploded in a ball of fire. Bits of burnt metal and plastic flew over their heads through the trees and landed some distance away.

  He stared at her. “There’s blood on your face.” He inspected her head and found a minor cut on her scalp. “You’ll live.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  He stood up and looked up the slope through the flames. Two men dressed in suits and ties were standing at the top staring at him. He didn’t recognize either of them. Then they turned and left.

  “They tried to kill us,” Rae said.

  “It was a warning.”

  “Are we going to take any notice of that warning?”

  “I don’t think so, but we’ve got to be on our guard from now on.”

  “How are we going to get home now?”

  “We’d better wait and see if the police turn up.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “Do you like walking?”

  ***

  Mercy Hebb had no idea where she was. Oh, she knew she was in a barn; she knew that she was strung up like a piece of meat by her wrists; and she knew she was naked, but as to her exact location – she had no idea.

  She knew it didn’t really matter where she was, because – when all was said and done – she knew she was going to die. She had seen their faces. She knew who was in charge. She knew the gory details of what they were doing and how they were doing it. In effect, she knew far too much for her own good.

  They’d only kept her alive this long to make sure they knew everything she knew. She’d told them everything . . . everything. They knew about her childhood, about the first time she’d had sex with Chester DuBarry, about the time she’d snorted cocaine and taken part in an orgy, about the brown envelope she’d given to her mother, about the encrypted files, and about Tom Gabriel. They had her notebook, all of her contacts, all of the addresses. There wasn’t anything she knew that they didn’t know.

  How could it be otherwise? At first, she’d resisted, but not for long. He’d cut her – not once, but a hundred times. He’d hacked off pieces of her body – until there was more of her on the floor than on her body. And what was worse, was that she could see those pieces – her ears, her lips, her nose, a finger, Even if they released her now, she could never return to the world. Death would be a welcome release. The only hope she had left was that Tom Gabriel would be able to somehow stop them from doing what they were doing, but it was only a faint hope.

  She’d gotten too close, and she’d kept everything to herself. She should have told someone, but she’d wanted all the glory. It would have made her name – she’d have been as famous as Woodward and Bernstein. When people thought of investigative journalism, Mercy Hebb would have jumped into their minds. Now, she would be thought of as a victim – if they thought of her at all. It was likely that the police would never find her. Once she was dead, she’d be buried in an unmarked grave, and the world might one day wonder whatever happened to Mercy Hebb. Oh, she wasn’t the first investigative journalist to die following a story – that was the nature of the beast. There had been many others, but apart from her mother and Tom Gabriel, no one even knew she was following a story. She was just missing.

  Elvis Presley came into the barn carrying his scalpel. That wasn’t his real name, of course, but the man could curl his top lip like Elvis, so she’d given him that nickname. What else was there for her to do?

  “Now little lady, let’s see if there’s anything you’ve forgotten to tell me.”

  “Please . . . no more . . . I’ve told you everything.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, slipping the scalpel between her legs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  After a while, when nobody came, they decided to climb up the slope. Tom reckoned that at least half an hour had elapsed since the Dodge hurtled down the hill and exploded.

  “You go up first,” he said to Rae. “And then if you slip, I can stop you from sliding back down.”

  She gave a hesitant laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? It’ll be a lot safer . . .”

  Even though there was no one else for miles around, she put her hand over her mouth and whispered, “I’ve got no panties on.”

  He shook his head. Because he’d been a useless father the first two times, he was being punished. Someone, somewhere had given him care of Butterfly Raeburn. They were hoping he was going to get it right this time – that somehow he’d get lucky. He wasn’t feeling optimistic.

  “I only thought to wash them this morning,” she explained. “They were too wet to wear, so I stuffed them in my bag.”

  “You’d better hope you don’t slip and fall on your fanny then.” He pushed himself up. “You wouldn’t want to take half the forest back with you, would you?”

  She faked a smile. “You chose the wrong career. You should have been a comedian. I’ve never laughed so much.”

  “I can see that. Be careful not to wet yourself.”

  “Ha ha! Please, no more. I think I might die from all this laughing.”
>
  As soon as they reached the top of the slope and could see the road, a fire truck arrived with Holly Ridge Fire/Rescue 742 on the side. It was followed almost immediately by a police car with a sergeant inside.

  “We got a call,” the burly lieutenant said, as he directed his team to reel out the hoses and scramble down the slope.

  Tom knew that it was simply a question of extinguishing the fire. There was no hope of salvaging the Dodge. It was a burnt out hulk.

  “Tell me what happened,” the sergeant said, pulling a notebook from his top pocket and a pencil from behind his ear. He was tall, in his early forties, and had begun to expand around the middle.

  “A black Hummer forced me off the road,” Tom said. “Took me completely by surprise. We were lucky to get out alive.”

  “A woman called in. Said she saw what happened, but wouldn’t leave her name. She verifies your story.”

  Tom rubbed his stubble. “At least she called. A lot of people wouldn’t have bothered.”

  The sergeant eyed him suspiciously.

  “Over thirty years on the force,” Tom explained. “St. Augustine Police Department. Retired now though. Meant to be taking it easy, but you know how complicated life gets.”

  The sergeant smiled, offered his hand and said, “Don’t I just. Eddie Plaziuk.” His voice was a lot more friendly than it had been. “Racked up sixteen – going on seventeen – years myself.”

  “It’s not easy though, is it?”

  “Sure as damn it. It’s like walking through a minefield.”

  They both reflected silently on the dangers of navigating that career minefield.

  “Any idea why the Hummer rammed you?”

  He jabbed his thumb at Rae who was cozying up to the firefighters. “The girl’s a reporter with the St. Augustine Record. I’m helping her out. Got a feeling she might be onto something about missing children.”

  “Really?”