I grabbed my dog and ran back outside. I hit RETURN on Pusser’s last call.
“What is it, Callahan? You decide to come clean on Doogan?”
“Meg’s missing.” A long pause ensued. “Pusser. Did you hear me? My cousin’s missing.”
“Where are you?”
“At her place.” I gave him directions, but he already knew where she lived. “Something’s not right,” I said. Panic set in. “It looks like there was a struggle.”
“I’m not far. I’ll can be there in ten.”
He hung up. I called Gran and caught her before she left the house. “Hey.” I kept my voice calm. “Is Meg there by chance?”
“Here? No. I thought you were getting her.” Anxiety zinged over the line. “Where is she? Has something happened to Meg?”
“Please don’t get upset, Gran. I’m sure everything’s okay.”
“But it’s not like her to simply not show up.”
“She’s probably with Eamon. I’m going to check his place, okay? I just wanted to let you know that I might be late getting to the church.” Keep calm, Brynn. No need to get Gran all upset. “How’s Gramps?”
“He’s sleeping. I called Mrs. Black. She said she’d come sit with him until Meg gets here.”
“Good. I’ll see you soon.” I hung up before she could ask any more questions.
Wilco and I circled around to the back of Meg’s trailer. There was no sign of a break-in; nothing seemed out of place. A chill ran up my spine. I pulled my sweater tighter and folded my arms across my chest. Where are you, Meg?
I looked at Wilco. Maybe he’d picked up on something?
But Wilco hadn’t picked up on any scents—thank God. Instead, oblivious to the sounds around us, he’d wandered over to a truck parked along the curb, one of those jacked-up units with big tires and a frame that sat high on a lift kit. He half-squatted his single back leg, lifted the stump of his lost one, and peed. Big-time. A look of relief washed over his face. He had this thing about tires—the bigger the tire, the bigger the relief.
Back out front, I checked Meg’s car. It was locked, and the hood felt cool. I scanned the immediate area. There was another trailer on the lot next to Meg’s, but it looked vacant. No cars were parked outside the mobile home down the road either. I looked back and forth—Meg’s car, the neighbor’s place, up the road, and back to Meg’s car. What the hell’s taking Pusser so long?—I was getting antsier by the minute.
I turned to head back inside the trailer when Wilco perked up, his eyes zeroing in on the tree line. I followed his gaze. A dark shadow darted between a nearby electrical pole and the edge of the forest. I blinked. A trick of light? An animal?
Wilco’s reaction told me differently: ears back, tail high, lips rigid. I went to him and squatted, placing my hand on his neck and leveling my gaze with his. What do you see, boy?
I caught another flash of movement around the edge of the transformer box. A figure wearing a dark brown hooded camo suit, boots, and a ski mask. Not an animal. A man.
A man lurking behind Meg’s trailer.
My muscles tightened and coiled like a snake’s body. I sprang up and struck out across the backyard, running full speed. Instantly, the man broke from cover and ran toward the neighbor’s trailer. I hiked my dress to my thighs to free my legs and ran harder.
Wilco ran next to me, almost playfully, keeping pace with my pace, his eyes darting from the ground to me and back to the ground again. Wilco was the best human remains detection, or HRD, canine around, and if I was being attacked or threatened, he’d kill to defend me, but he wasn’t conditioned to attack on demand. So, while I had no doubt this mysterious person was a threat, or maybe even our killer, to Wilco this was just a fun romp in the neighborhood.
The man had a least a forty-yard head start and was moving fast, dodging between parked vehicles and trailers, quickly making his way deeper into the trailer park. A metal garbage can seemed to spring up out of nowhere, blocking my path. It crashed to the ground, clanging like a thousand cymbals.
The front door of the trailer swung open. The owner stepped out. “Hey! What the . . . ! Who’s gonna clean up this mess?”
My foot hit on a paper plate slimed with blobs of potato salad and a half-eaten ham sandwich. I skidded and hit the pavement, gashing my palms and knees.
I righted myself and kept going. Blood dripped into my boots, my lungs stung with exertion, and, for a second, I lost him. I stopped and listened, straining to hear something other than my own heart pounding in my ears.
Who was this guy? Did he have something to do with Meg’s disappearance? Possibilities flew through my mind. He wore camo. A hunter? A stupid hunter, perhaps. I hadn’t seen any orange, and it was shotgun season. What type of idiot does that? And why run? Maybe an unlicensed hunter, a poacher. Or one of the Mexicans we’d seen before. Or maybe it was Dub. I already knew he was a psychopath. Was he lurking behind Meg’s trailer, stalking yet another red-haired Pavee woman? Neither my mother nor Sheila were killed where they were found. Did he hold them somewhere in his mobile home, maybe in that horrible room Doogan had described, making them wait in terror for the end . . .
Meg. Oh, Meg.
A distant crashing sound drew my attention to the right. Dogs broke out into a rapid chorus of barking. I hesitated and looked in the other direction. The mobile home park was now a symphony of echoes, as sounds banked off the metal-sided trailers like balls in a pinball machine. Where’d he go? Where is he?
Another crashing sound. A neighbor shouting. I swiveled and looked behind me. Then, refocusing on my task, I scanned the neighborhood for any sign of the intruder: sounds, a flash of color, anything. Nothing. Crap. I’d lost him. And maybe my only chance of finding Meg alive . . .
The sound of a grinding engine cut through the air. My head snapped to the right. I heard it again. Definitely coming from the right.
Breaking into a full sprint, I tore down the street, checking every parked car I passed. Nothing.
I heard it again. This time, I pinpointed it a couple streets over. I ran between two trailers, over the next street, and through the side yard of a mobile home. Up ahead, an old Ford pickup, brown and yellow with a topper, struggled to start up. I ran faster, but I was too far away. With the next crank, the truck’s engine roared to life. Tires squealed and smoked as it peeled away from the curb and raced down the road. I yanked out my cell and got off a couple shots before it completely disappeared, then jogged back toward Meg’s trailer, my pulse in my ears.
Wilco, still feeling playful, darted back and forth in front of me, stopping here and there to sniff out an interesting odor.
“Callahan!”
Pusser was in Meg’s side yard, waving me toward the trailer. “Where the hell were you?” Two more cop cars screeched to a halt in front of the trailer. “I saw your car . . . I thought . . . I called in every unit in the vicinity.”
I passed by him, hitting SEND on the photo as I made my way to the front of the trailer. “Check your texts,” I said. “There was a guy here earlier. He ran. I chased him through the neighborhood. He had a truck parked a couple roads east of here. I just sent a picture of the truck.”
“Got it.”
“Think you can get a license plate number from that?”
“I’ll send it in to the department. Get an analyst to enhance it.”
He motioned for his officers to stay put and followed me inside the trailer. “The door was open when I got here,” I explained. “Her music was playing.”
He followed behind me. I headed for the bathroom, stopping at her bedroom on the way. I stopped in front of the dresser. Pusser came up next to me. “What is it?”
“Her purse and phone are still here. There’s no way she left without them. And check out the bathroom. Water’s all over. I think . . .” My voice cracked with fear. “I think someone snatched her from the shower.”
“Take it easy. Maybe she’s at work.”
“I don’t think so. Joh
nny gave her the day off for the funeral.”
He crossed to the bathroom and used a handkerchief to open the bathroom door. An unrecognizable emotion flitted across his face as he peered inside, but he recovered quickly. “Was this door closed when you came in?”
“No. I shut it to keep my dog out.”
His brows shot up, but before he could say anything, I started in. “I think it’s Dub.”
“Dublin Costello? How’s that?”
“His trailer, the fire . . . I don’t think it was arson. I think Dub torched his own place. To hide evidence.”
“What brought you to this conclusion?”
“Doogan found some stuff in Dub’s trailer the other day.” I had no choice now but to come completely clean with Pusser. Meg was missing. I told him about the blood on the carpet fiber, the photograph of Sheila at the Sleep Easy, and the porn videos. I emphasized the porn videos. “Think about it. My mother and Sheila were both red-haired Pavees. Dub has a thing for red-haired women. He also has a thing for power and control. I think he’s gone off the deep end.”
Pusser listened, chomping on his toothpick like a crazed man. “That doesn’t explain Doogan’s disappearance.”
“All I know is that Meg’s missing.”
“Is your cousin into drugs?”
“What? No!”
“How about you, Callahan?”
I took a step back.
“Last night, when we were talking, you seemed . . .” He hesitated. “I don’t know. Spacey. Were you and Doogan shooting up earlier that evening?”
My flashback. I’d hoped that Pusser hadn’t noticed it, but he did. And he’d taken it for something else. For a drug-induced episode.
I gritted my teeth and shot my hands deep into my pockets. “I don’t do drugs.” But even as I bit out the words, my fingertips hit on the morphine tablets I’d stolen from my grandfather’s prescription. Medicine, though. Not drugs. This was different. Just a little something to get me through until I could hook up with a new doctor. “What are you thinking, Pusser? That all us gypsies do drugs? Or maybe that the whole clan is tied in with a cartel?”
Before Pusser could answer, his phone rang. A minute later, he pocketed it. “They ran the plate on the truck. The vehicle’s registered to Al Lambert.”
“Al Lambert . . . Al?”
“You know him?”
“Yeah. He works at the motel. He’s part of that protest group trying to get us evicted.” I gave Pusser a quick rundown on my confrontation with the guy. “We had some problems at work the other day, and he ended up getting fired. He blames me.”
“He threatened you?”
“Yeah. Pretty much. Said he wanted to wipe us gypsies off the face of the earth.”
“Okay. I’ll have him brought in for questioning, but I don’t see a connection. But Doogan”—he narrowed his eyes—“Doogan did a stint in prison.”
“Yeah. Drug charges. He told me.” I glared at him. “People change, you know. He’s not involved with a cartel, believe me. Not some gypsy drug operation either. Or whatever it is you’ve conjured up in your mind.”
“Then where is he?”
The million-dollar question. “I don’t know. But he’s not high on my priority list right now.” I pushed past him and headed for the door. “I need to find my cousin.”
He cut me off, his arm crossing in front of me, his face a mixed bag of authority and frustration. “Look, Callahan. I’m looking at two murders, arson, drug trafficking, a cold-case murder that may be connected, or not . . . I’ve got every resource possible working around the clock. I’ve even brought the feds in on this drug stuff. And all this stuff going on between you people and those protesters—”
“You’re feeling pressure. I get it. But you’re wrong about us. We’re not all criminals.” I pushed past him. “You pass on any idea of a settled guy, like Al, being involved, even though he just ran off like a scared jackrabbit from an obvious abduction scene. It just never dawns on you that it could be you people involved, does it? Do whatever you want, Pusser. I need to find my cousin.”
CHAPTER 16
Fifteen minutes later, I whipped into the parking lot at the vet clinic. There were only two cars in the lot, and neither of them was Eamon’s Trans Am. I stepped out of my car, attached Wilco’s lead, and made my way to the entrance, passing a woman leaving with a beady-eyed Chihuahua in her arms. Just inside the door, a sharp-smelling mixture of animal urine and piney disinfectant hit my nostrils. I held back a sneeze, my eyes watering as I looked around. Except for Doc Styles, the waiting room was empty.
He looked up from his desk and smiled; then his gaze dropped to my dog, and his expression sobered. “Is everything okay with Wilco?”
“I’m not here for my dog. I’m looking for Eamon.”
“Eamon. Why?”
“I’m trying to find Meg, my cousin. He’s dating her.”
Recognition registered on his face. “That girl who works at the diner?”
“That’s right. Have you seen her this morning?”
“No, and I haven’t seen Eamon either. He was supposed to be in earlier this morning.”
“He didn’t show for work?”
“Nope.”
“Is that like him?”
“No, but . . .” He blew out a stream of air. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, Brynn. If Eamon does shows up, I’ll tell him to give you a call.” He dismissed me with a quick glance toward the door, then busied himself with some papers.
I shifted my weight and blurted, “Meg’s missing.” He looked up, his eyes rounding with surprise. I continued, “I can’t find her anywhere, and I was just at her trailer, and it looked like there’d been a struggle.”
“You think something’s happened to her?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
His eyes darted toward the backroom and then to me again. He knew something. “What is it?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I stepped closer, leaned over his desk, and spoke a little louder. “If you know something, tell me.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Listen, Doc. There’s been two women murdered, and now my cousin’s missing. This is no game. Tell me what you know.”
“There’s some meds missing from the supply area.”
“What type?”
“Ketamine. We use it as an anesthesia. But some people abuse it. The street name’s Special K.”
I’d heard of Special K. “The date rape drug?” I stared at Styles, sickened.
“That’s its reputation, but addicts use it to get high. I receive controlled shipments monthly. They’re strictly regulated and kept locked up in a refrigerated storeroom.” His gaze fell. “Eamon and I are the only ones with keys.”
I clutched my stomach. Was Eamon an addict? “How much is missing?”
“I’m just now going through inventory records. The numbers are off by several dozen units. It comes packaged in cases of ten-milliliter vials.” He cleared his throat. “And that’s just in the last couple of months.”
I didn’t know the dosages for that drug, but Styles’s clenched jaw told me all I needed to know: Eamon might be an addict, but those numbers hinted at much more. More than likely, Eamon was a dealer, or maybe he was somehow tied into Al’s prostitution business. Ketamine could be used to subdue young girls, eventually forcing them into sex trafficking. My mother had worked as a prostitute. Sheila too, maybe. Was Sheila really seeing Eamon as a lover . . . or was he pimping her out? Was this tied into their murders? And now Meg. Oh Meg! Where are you? I knew Eamon didn’t live far from Gran and Gramps, but I’d never paid attention to where exactly. I leaned over Styles’s desk. “Get me Eamon’s address.”
He retrieved the address from his files, jotted down the information, and handed it to me. “I hope she’s okay.”
A sickening feeling settled in my stomach. Time was ticking down on Meg’s life.
“Me too,” I whispered. “Me too.”
* * *
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at the vet clinic, looking for Eamon. I thought he might know where Meg is, but he’s not here. And, get this, Styles thinks he’s been stealing ketamine from the supply closet.”
“Ketamine? How much?”
“Enough to make half the county high as a kite.”
Pusser let out a low whistle.
“Styles says Eamon’s a no-show for work today. I’m heading by his place now.”
“No need,” Pusser said. “I’m at his trailer now. No one’s here.”
That pulled me up short—so Pusser was also worried about Meg. That should have made me feel better, but it only meant the danger for Meg was clear to the sheriff as well. “He drives a late-model Trans Am.”
“Nope. Not here. Think they’re on the run?”
“Meg and Eamon?”
“It makes sense, you know. The two of them stealing ketamine from Styles, selling it to locals. Maybe the Costello woman was in on it. Your mother too. Or she could have been one of their customers. It could all be connected.”
“No. Not Meg.” So Pusser wasn’t worried about Meg but targeting her. I should have known.
“You’ve been away for a long time, Callahan. She’s widowed. Times are tough. Maybe she’s desperate.”
“No!” I banged my hand against my car. The sudden movement startled Wilco, or maybe he felt the vibration. “Get off it, would ya, Pusser? Something else is going on here.” I tried to quell the anger and panic growing inside me. Bottom line, I needed to find Meg, and getting Pusser angry wasn’t going to help my cause. “I’m heading to the diner. Maybe someone there knows something.”
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