Footprints of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #1)

by Tim Ellis

  “I get the busts?”

  “Well, apart from the fact that I’m not a PI yet, and even if I were I could only make a citizen’s arrest, I think that makes sense. This case is way beyond a PI’s job description. If I’m right, this will make you a household name. You’ll be able to take your pick of men.”

  “I’d still pick the rotten apple.”

  He nodded. “That’s true. Maybe Rae could run a competition in the newspaper. That way you wouldn’t need to choose, it’d be down to dumb luck.”

  “You think where men are concerned dumb luck doesn’t hate me?”

  “You giving up then?”

  “I didn’t say that. A woman has needs.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen those needs when I was working the street. The need to be lied to, the need to be cheated on, the need to be smacked around a few times . . . All I can say is you want to keep those needs in a locked drawer. It’ll get expensive if I have to keep coming round to bust down your door.”

  They both laughed.

  She put her hand on his arm. “I’m really grateful, Tom.”

  “You don’t need to be grateful, and you don’t owe me. In my book, this is what a friend does for another friend. No thanks necessary, it’s just the way it is. Now, if you feel you got to lock me up, go right ahead. Getting rid of that slime ball wasn’t part of the deal. I’ve been working the case for a couple of reasons. First, I made a promise to Gretchen Hebb to find her daughter – I still haven’t done that yet. Second, Carrie came for a visit . . .”

  “She finally came to see you, huh?”

  He didn’t tell her about the morning roulette that he played with the Smith & Wesson – that was just between him and Carrie. “Yeah . . . Anyway, she told me I had to find the children, and you know I always did what Carrie said.”

  “You not found another woman yet?”

  He shook his head. “Carrie was the only one for me.”

  “Carrie died five years ago, Tom.”

  “That may be so, but she’s still here and here.” He touched his head and his chest. “For me, love was a one-shot deal.”

  “You’re lucky. I often thought I was in love, but I never was. It was just lust, which soon passed.”

  “So, do we have a deal, or are you going to lock me up and throw away the key.”

  “You’re asking me to put everything I’ve got left on the line, Tom.”

  “I know, but you know I’m good for it.”

  “And that’s the only reason I’m going to go along with your crazy plan.”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  “I better not.”

  The carpenter knocked. “All done,” he said, holding out the keys to Mona. “Seventy bucks, please.”

  “Do we need to check it?” Tom asked him.

  “Feel free, but I’m a craftsman. You find anything not right with that door, you give me a call, and I’ll come right over and fix it for free.” He passed Tom a business card.

  “Good enough.” He handed over the seventy bucks. “Thanks for your work.”

  Mona drove him back to the station.

  “I’ll get Rae to ring you, so you have her number.”

  “You still got no cell?”

  “It’s on my shopping list.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re a dinosaur?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “You want to listen to them.”

  They agreed to talk on the phone later when they both had time. Mona would be off duty, and he and Rae would be sitting in Allegre’s old truck staking out Oscar Gibson.

  ***

  Mercy Hebb’s life was ebbing away. All she had left were questions. What had it all been for? What difference had she made? Why didn’t he just finish her off?

  Her whole body was a mass of searing pain. Even though she’d told the man everything she knew and some things she didn’t know, he kept cutting pieces off her. She guessed it wasn’t about what she knew or what she hadn’t told him anymore – it was about his sexual gratification. Some people got off on hurting other people – sadists they were called. Didn’t it all start with the Marquis de Sade?

  She had nothing left to give. Everything – physically and psychologically – had been taken from her.

  The man gripped her hair and yanked her head back. “Here,” he said, pouring warm water in her mouth. “It’ll be your last.”

  “Are you going to kill me now?”

  “Do you want me to kill you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I don’t think so. You and I have formed a special relationship, a bond that I’m not ready to break just yet. And if the truth be known, I don’t think you really want to die.”

  “I do. Please let me die.”

  “You’ve given me a lot of satisfaction. In fact, I think you’re the best I’ve ever had Mercy, and I don’t say that lightly. If you knew how many women I’d tortured and killed, you’d be flattered, believe me. You’ve certainly lasted the longest.”

  She had no willpower, no expectations – nothing. He had stripped her bare.

  He turned her around. She felt the scalpel slice into her buttock. People used to say how she had a nice butt – not anymore. Now, it was hanging out everywhere.

  She heard a noise, but she didn’t look up. What was the point? She just didn’t care anymore.

  “He wants you to kill her now,” a man’s voice said. She hadn’t heard the voice before.

  “I’m getting there.”

  “No more delays. Kill her, and dispose of the body.”

  “Have I ever let you down before?”

  “Is all this necessary? Christ! Look at her.”

  “Official complaints should be put in writing. Are you making an official complaint?”

  “Just get it over with. Shall I tell him you’ll do it?”

  “Of course. It is, after all, why you employed me.”

  “There’ll be two more soon.”

  “Male or female?”

  “One of each.”

  “Excellent.”

  She heard the second man walk away, and then the barn door opened and closed again.

  “You heard him, Mercy. I didn’t want to kill you just yet, but I have my orders. Don’t worry, though. We have one last chance to make love. I’ve already got a hard-on thinking about it.”

  “Who is it? Who’s giving the orders?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve given me so much pleasure, Mercy. Now I have the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll never know who wanted you dead.”

  He had stripped her of everything. Even at the end, when there was nothing left to give or take, he had kept the truth from her.

  Once he’d ejaculated onto the dirt of the barn floor, and his sperm formed globules in the rivulets of Mercy Hebb’s blood. He slit her throat as a last act of kindness. She was, after all, his latest conquest.

  ***

  Hank Giffey came skulking out of his farmhouse like a thief. In one hand he gripped his shotgun, in the other the little girl’s hand.

  Henry watched him through the night sight and smiled. He’d known damn well there’d been something not quite right about Hank earlier. All night he’d waited, hoping he was right, and here in front of him was vindication of his belief. He was hungry now though, and if there was one thing Henry Appling liked, it was his food – and lots of it. He’d not had time to make sandwiches, pack a hamper and a few beers, so he’d have to catch up for lost time. Yes, after he’d sorted this little problem out, he was going to have himself a feast. Maybe a stack of pancakes and waffles dripping with maple syrup, a rack of ribs, a couple of burgers, and . . .

  He eased a cartridge into the chamber of the Winchester.

  Old Giffey stopped for a brief moment and stared into the semi-darkness, but Henry knew there was no way he could see him.

  He took aim. The old man’s forehead fit nicely in the crosshairs. He squeezed the trigger, ju
st like his daddy had taught him long ago when they’d gone on hunting trips together. He shivered at the thought of how frightened he’d been. Not about the hunting – killing animals was the easy part – but about his daddy doing things to him. He shook the dark memories from his mind.

  Hank crumpled to the wooden veranda. The girl froze momentarily – as if she’d been turned to a pillar of salt, but then she bolted like a wildebeest on the Savannah. He took a shot. Tried to pick her off, but she was too fast.

  God, that girl could run. He had the feeling, if he hadn’t planned to kill her, that she could have been running for Olympic gold in a couple years’ time.

  There was no way he could chase her on foot – exercise had always been his enemy. At school, and then at college, he’d been the butt of people’s jokes – the fat kid who couldn’t do gym. Well, the one good thing about a rifle was that it had made doing gym pointless.

  He had to get back to the Jeep, which meant that she would have a head start on him and could go any which way. The sun was coming up, though, so if she was running, he’d be able see her from miles away.

  The Jeep was parked a good walk away. He hadn’t wanted to make Hank aware that he’d come back, so he’d parked in a hollow and then covered the remaining distance by foot. That was some chore in the dark though. He’d fallen on his face a couple of times, and it had taken at least an hour for him to stop sweating like a hog and get his breathing under control.

  At last, he reached the Jeep.

  It was light now.

  He clambered into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine.

  “Let’s go and get my baby back,” he said out loud, and smiled.

  ***

  Rae was nowhere to be seen. He spoke to Janice Hall – the librarian behind the counter, described what Rae looked like. It wasn’t as if she could be missed – today her hair was multicoloured, she wore a bright-red tank top, a black pleated skirt with a studded belt and an array of chains, and her army boots.

  She hadn’t dressed to blend in or be inconspicuous, and she certainly wasn’t pretending to be a wallflower. “You could have spotted her from ten miles away,” he said.

  Although the librarian was probably in her early sixties, she looked as though she’d been out on the tiles until the early hours of the morning. He could see a shadow behind her, and knew that she was dying. What illness she was suffering from, he had no idea. He wasn’t a doctor, but he could see when people were shifting between life and death.

  “Sorry,” she said. “After a while all these weirdoes look the same to me.”

  “And there’s been no commotion?”

  “I think I would have noticed one of those. This is a library after all. People are supposed to be quiet. I’ll have no commotions in my library.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of color. When he turned, Rae walking down the steps from the third floor.

  “Thanks for your time,” he said to the librarian and went to meet Rae.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Were you worried about me?”

  “I told you to stay where people could see you.”

  “The cafeteria is such a place. You’ve been gone forever. I thought that maybe they got you. I was thirsty and hungry, so I thought I’d raid the cafeteria.”

  He checked his watch. It was twelve fifteen. “Now you come to mention it, I’m feeling a bit ravenous myself.”

  “I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. Listen, we have to get you a cell. I need to be able to contact you, and vice versa.”

  “More money.”

  “We’re not talking about the national debt here. We can get you a decent touch screen for about fifty bucks.”

  “Fifty bucks!”

  “You’re a miser.”

  “A miser with a Pontiac Firebird.”

  “Rented.”

  “Anyway, enough about my finer qualities. What have you been doing?”

  “Getting depressed.”

  “Go on?”

  She guided him over to a computer where she’d set up shop.

  He saw a stack of “Missing Child” posters that she’d printed off and another pile of newspaper reports. “You left everything here while you went and gorged yourself in the cafeteria?”

  “You think anybody is interested in this stuff other than us? The fact that it’s still here untouched suggests not. And while I think of it, you owe me thirty bucks.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I can’t read on the screen, so I had to print all these posters and reports off. They came to thirty bucks.”

  “And how is that my problem?”

  “It’s your case. I’m merely helping.”

  “You’re taking advantage of an old-aged pensioner.”

  “Who drives a Pontiac Firebird.”

  “Rented.”

  “Did they lock you up? Is that why you’ve been gone ages? Did you have to wait for the duty attorney?”

  “Mona’s on our side now.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had to go round to her house and persuade her boyfriend to vacate the premises, but Mona and I are friends again.”

  “Did you tell her what we’d been doing?”

  “Warts and all.”

  “And she didn’t lock you up?”

  “No. Have you thought what would happen if we ever found these people?”

  “You arrest them, and I write a humdinger of a front-page story that will make me a famous celebrity.”

  “I can’t arrest anyone, and you can’t write a story if you’re dead.”

  “Oh! When did I die?”

  “When we found the men we were looking for and we had no backup. Nobody knew where we were, nobody knew what we’d found out, and nobody came to get us out of the mess we’d got ourselves into.”

  “And now we have backup?”

  “Exactly. We also have someone who can run license plates through the database, and use St. Augustine police resources to our advantage.”

  “And she’s doing this because she’s your friend again?”

  “She’s doing it because we’re going to do all the work, but she’ll get the busts and the credit.”

  “But . . .”

  “And you get the story.”

  “Oh! I thought . . .”

  “You’ll have to modify the story slightly, so that nobody gets into trouble, but I’m sure a woman of your beauty and intelligence can do that.”

  “You mean you want me to compromise my ethical principles as an investigative journalist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then.”

  “So, why are you depressed?”

  “Well, I feel a lot less depressed now that I know the police are on our side, but have you seen the number of missing children?”

  The corners of his mouth dropped. “I’m aware of the numbers, but how many are related to the case we’re working on?”

  “You think they just pop out with the answer to that question? For each missing child, I’ve been having to read the newspaper reports. If I had the police reports . . . well, it would be that much easier. Some of the newspaper reports don’t have the information we need, because we’re looking for –”

  “Have you brought the map with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s take everything over to a table. We can start plotting on the map where each child was taken from.”

  “Someone will steal my computer.”

  He gave her a look of munificence. “I don’t think they will. Oh, and while I think about it, the librarian thinks you’re a weirdo.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  He’d searched east and west, north, and south. Yes, she could run – he’d seen it with his own eyes – but nobody could run that fast and that far in the time it had taken him to get his Jeep. In that case, where was she?

  He returned to Ha
nk Giffey’s farmhouse. Was she trying to outwit him? This girl was special all right. Maybe there was still a chance he could let her live. He’d had to kill and dispose of the previous two girls, and he didn’t really want to lose this one so soon.

  Hank had worked his farm. Henry didn’t. His father used to plant the fields, but Henry had soon determined that the government would pay you a fine income if you didn’t work the farm. Henry took the government’s money and went about his life. Muriel’s family had money, and he’d insisted that he have a share of it if he was going to take the Wright’s ugly daughter off their hands – they had agreed. He didn’t really like women, but he knew that he had to keep up appearances, so he had given her children – she was happy and left him to his own devices.

  The flies were buzzing. That was one of the mysteries of life. Forget about the universe, life and death, and heaven and hell – where did all these flies come from?

  He checked his watch. Hank had only been dead just over two hours, and yet the flies were already laying their eggs in his eyes, his mouth, his nostrils, and the bullet hole in his forehead.

  The veranda had a large, red stain at the back of Hank’s head, but most of the blood from the exit wound had seeped through the wooden slats.

  His main priority was to find the girl, and if she wasn’t out in the fields running, then she was here somewhere. Hank would just have to wait to be buried.

  On the odd occasion, visitors came by. Tax inspectors, farm subsidy investigators, religious zealots, or people who had misread a map and needed pointing in the right direction. Most times, in any one year, you could count these people on one hand. Out here, they were left alone, which was just the way Henry liked it. Even the people who lived out here left each other alone, that’s why they lived out here.

  Standing on the veranda with the early morning sun warming his face, he looked around at Hank Giffey’s farm. Whereas Henry had built a sprawling bricks and mortar house for his family, Hank still lived in a ramshackle wooden farmhouse that needed tearing down. It was an anachronism, a blot on the landscape, but Hank had no family that he knew of. A dog called Pat was the closest Hank had to family, but Pat had passed away six months ago. Maybe Henry had done him a kindness blowing his brains out.