Luke shrugged and went to his right, practically tripping over a tree stump. A line of ants marched around a tree.
Grady shook his head and started in the other direction. “Look up in the trees too. The clues said something about Jack and the Beanstalk.” Grady veered left and glanced up a large pine tree. He breathed in its deep musky scent. Nothing there. After turning in the other direction, he pushed up his glasses, which had slid down the bridge of his nose, and walked a few feet to the right.
Sunlight peeked through the branches of a large maple tree. Sweat dripped down Grady’s neck. He shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted, noticing something about eight feet up. Was there a log lodged between two branches?
He examined the tree bark at eye level, noticing scraped pieces—like someone had recently climbed the tree. The lowest branch was reachable if he jumped and swung himself around. He dropped one shoulder out of his backpack, then the other, then set it on the ground. “Luke, I think I see something.”
Tree and bush branches rustled as Luke approached. “Where?”
Grady gripped the lowest branch of the maple tree and swung his legs up. He hung upside down for a few seconds, huffing, before he righted himself and his glasses, straddling the tree branch. He nodded up the tree. “See it between the second and third branch?”
Luke shaded his eyes with his hands and looked. “Yeah. It looks like a log.”
“It might be a plastic one.” Grady scrambled up the next branch. Flies buzzed, swarming around his head.
Luke waited at the base of the tree. “Throw it down here. I’ll check it out.”
Grady huffed breathlessly, standing on the second branch on his tiptoes, hugging the tree. He reached for the next branch and missed. Too short. A fly landed on his bottom lip. He spit at it.
“Let me get up there. I’m taller,” Luke hollered.
“No way. I can get it.” Grady wrapped his legs and arms around the tree and shinnied up like a bear after honey. Dang, he was sweaty! And what was that smell? Phew. He scaled his way up until his fingertips touched the log. He let go of one hand and clutched the log with his other, grasping it in the palm of his hand. Yes! “It’s definitely plastic.”
Grady’s heart raced and he smiled. “Here, catch.” He pitched the object down to Luke. “There’re too many freakin’ flies up here!” He scooted down one branch. His feet dangled until they found the next one.
Luke fumbled the catch below, dropping the cache in the dirt. He bent over it, pinching his nose. “It smells like a dead fish.”
Grady scrambled down the tree and jumped with a thud from the last branch. “I know. I hope this ain’t no prank.” He wiped his sticky sap-coated hands on his shorts and examined the log.
Luke knelt on the ground. “What’cha think?”
“It’ll open. See the seams here?” Grady knelt next to Luke and pointed to the hinges on the side.
Luke covered his nose in the crook of his elbow. “I’m not opening it—especially if it’s for a stupid whistle. There’s something creepy in there.”
A buzzard squawked above them, swooped down, then landed in the maple tree close to where the log had been.
Grady stared up at the bird’s beady eyes and then down at the log, pinching his nose. “You wuss. It smells rotten, that’s all. I’ll open it.” He took the log, twisting it one way, then another, before it finally split apart, the contents spilling onto the ground. A red yo-yo, a ruler, a comic book, a logbook with a pen, and something in a semi-opened Ziplock bag tumbled out.
Luke said, “Cool!”
Grady lifted a thin stick off the ground. “Yeah, but what’s in this bag?” He unzipped the rest of the plastic bag, and an odor wafted from the inside. “Gross. It smells like something died.” He turned his head away, burying his nose in the crook of his arm, the stench burning his nostrils.
Luke pinched his nose and took the stick from Grady, poking the contents. “It looks like some fleshy thing.” He moved the thing back and forth with the stick, examining it from all angles.
“What the hell is it?”
“I think it’s a … a body part of some sort.” Luke stabbed at the object.
The hair on Grady’s arms stood straight up. “Why ain’t it bloody then?”
“Hell if I know. Maybe it’s from an animal.”
“Animals bleed and have fur. This has neither.” Grady’s brow creased. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Were they being watched?
Luke stood and backed away, his eyes widening. “Crap, I think it looks like the end of some guy’s pecker.”
Grady looked again and gasped. Damn, Luke was right.
Chapter Four
Brett drove to work, dodging red lights, weaving in and out of traffic like the thoughts snaking back and forth in his mind. Should he call Child Protective Services? He dialed their number, then pressed the Disconnect button, doubt paralyzing him. What if they placed Quinn in a foster home and it took forever to get her back, to prove that he was a fit parent? He’d seen it happen before.
Two blocks from the precinct he thought he’d timed it perfectly, that he’d arrive on time, but a car pulled over to the curb in front of him, blocking his way. What was the guy doing? Didn’t he realize he was stopping traffic? He banged his fist against the steering wheel.
A woman opened the passenger door, leaned in, and kissed the driver. Her husband? She got out, closed her door, and opened the back door. She resembled a model from a Victoria’s Secret catalog—high-fashion power suit, long flowing hair, lean legs, and high heels—so put together, her teeth so white they seemed to glow. Maybe she used whitening strips. Was she reaching in the back for a briefcase? No, she bent like maybe she was kissing a small child in a booster seat.
Why couldn’t Ali be put together like that?
The woman shut the door and blew her family a final kiss. Brett sighed. Ali would never be that poised or confident. He couldn’t change her, and nothing he could do would help her gain confidence. He’d tried. For years he’d tried. But he never managed to say the right thing.
The car finally pulled away from the curb, and five minutes later Brett entered the police precinct. He hurried to his cubicle. Chief Dunson shouted from down the hall. “What time is it, Reed?”
Busted.
Brett headed down the hall, ducking his head into the chief’s office. “Sorry I’m late, sir.”
An unlit cigar dangled from the chief’s mouth. “Looks like you’re making a habit of it.”
“No sir. It won’t happen again.” Brett nodded and headed back to his desk.
“That’s what you said the last time.” Chief’s voice trailed Brett down the hall.
A few minutes later, Brett sipped coffee at his desk with Clay, his partner. Clay, at six foot five, filled the room. Some of his body hung over the sides of his chair. He’d played football for U of M while in college, but after ten years of being off the playing field, he’d gotten a little soft around the middle and around his heart. He had a soft heart for underdogs, always rooting for the losing team. His laugh was as snarky as Eddie Murphy’s, kind of like a snorting sound, making other people snicker.
But Brett wasn’t laughing now. “When Quinn called this morning, I had to go check it out. There’ve been times when shaking Ali didn’t wake her. I had to make sure Quinn was okay.”
“Was she?”
Brett nodded. “Quinn was scared, but Ali sat up and spoke to me. She might go back to sleep, but I can’t control that.” He clenched his fists and lowered his voice. “I think Ali lost her job too. Which totally sucks because Quinn won’t be going to day care. As long as she’s in the house with Ali, I can’t think straight.”
“Why don’t you call CPS?” Clay nodded toward the phone, then opened his desk drawer and slid a file into place.
“They’ll find out I went over there.”
“So what? They’ll find her messed up too.”
“Yeah, but it might take them till tomor
row to check her out, and by that time she could be sober.”
“I’ll call then.” Clay reached for the phone.
Brett placed his hand on Clay’s arm. “Don’t do it, man.”
Clay said, “Why not? You need to nail her.”
“I know, but my ass will be on the line for violating the protective order. And there have been cases where the child was taken away for up to a year before the courts resolved the case. You know how messed up and overworked CPS is.”
“Maybe you should suck it up and call your old man, dude.”
Brett shook his head. His father was a local attorney, known and respected, but he couldn’t call him now, and he couldn’t tell Clay his old man had called. “He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He’s made that clear.” And I hung up on him today.
When Ali had gotten pregnant six years ago, Brett had decided to do the right thing and marry her. He hadn’t known her for long—only long enough to be attracted to her. Looking back, maybe a part of him wanted to rescue her. She’d seemed so vulnerable.
Brett reached for the phone on his desk—the one with the blocked number so Ali wouldn’t know it was him calling—and dialed her number. No answer. Either she had fallen back to sleep or she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Probably both.
Clay arched his eyebrows. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You have these bulging black bags under your eyes, and your pants are about to fall off. It’s not healthy living like you do—this ain’t right, man.”
Brett’s radio cracked with static before he heard the dispatcher. “Base to twenty-five, base to twenty-four. Possible assault and battery at 1246 Ditch Rd. EMS is on the way.”
Brett set his coffee down and hurried to the front door.
Clay followed and paused. “My wheels are in the shop. Can I hitch a ride with you?”
Brett nodded and pushed out the door, summer’s heavy humidity enveloping him in a sauna. He unlocked the car door. “Hop in.” They climbed in and Brett cranked up the air. The clock in the sedan showed 9:10. Maybe he’d get the chance to stop at home after this call. Ditch Road wasn’t far from Ali’s.
When Brett pulled in front of the house on Ditch Road, the ambulance had just arrived, its lights flashing in the driveway. The front door of the house stood open. Neighbors gawked from their porches and in the street. Brett and Clay hurried to assist.
Three feet inside the door, the victim lay on his back, naked from the waist down in a heap, writhing and screaming. As the EMTs wheeled their gurney into the house, they fired questions at the man. “What happened?”
“Are you blind? My dick is missing. Someone whacked it off.” He flapped his arms above his groin.
Clay knelt at the victim’s side. “What’s your name?”
“Jake”—he paused to catch his breath—“Hunter.”
Brett had seen a lot as a cop, but nothing like this. Hunter’s pecker was gone, and in its place was a short stub covered in blood with a thin strip of rubber knotted and dangling from the end. Brett’s stomach lurched. “Do you know who did this?”
“How the hell would I know? It’s not like I gave them permission.” Spittle flew from Jake’s mouth as he spoke, the alcohol on his breath filling the room. “I wasn’t awake when it happened. Someone drugged me and then sliced it off.” He winced and groaned as the techs lifted him onto the gurney and inserted an IV needle into his arm.
Brett said, “What do you remember?”
Jake took a deep breath. “Nothing. I was lying on my bed last night”—he pointed to the bedroom—“and woke up this morning … dickless.” He sucked in another deep breath, clenching his teeth. “It was probably my ex-wife. I’ll kill her.”
Brett quizzed him about his ex-wife, jotting down her name, phone number, and where she worked. “What time did you get home?”
“I closed Louie’s bar.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Maybe 2:20. I don’t know.” His face gathered in tight wrinkles as if he was forcing the words to come.
Brett made a mental note of the guy’s tattoos, his greasy hair and dirty fingernails, and the dried blood on his thighs. “Did you hear, feel, or see anything after you fell asleep?”
Jake stared at the ceiling as if trying to remember. “He put something like a rag over my face … smelled like some kind of gas.”
Clay glanced around the room. “Have you seen the rag?”
Jake, still lying on the gurney, sat up and lunged for Clay, grabbing his shirt in his fist, sticking his face close to Clay’s. “I ain’t had time to look for no rag. I’ve been too busy looking for my dick! You need to find it, you asshole!”
Clay’s large hands shot out and pushed Jake down on the gurney, restraining him. “Keep your hands off me. We’ll do what we can.”
“Easy for you to say.” Hunter nodded toward Clay’s crotch. “Yours is intact.” He fell limp onto the bed as the EMTs covered his body and rolled him out the front door and into the ambulance.
Brett radioed in the report, telling the dispatcher the victim’s name and requesting the crime scene crew. After, he dug out the supply kit from the trunk of the cruiser, and he and Clay each donned a pair of plastic gloves, then unrolled yellow tape around the front door.
By the time they made it back to the bedroom, Clay couldn’t hold back any longer. His laugh rolled from deep inside and grew so loud it echoed off the walls. He grabbed his crotch and shivered. “Did you see that stub? This is some scary shit!”
Brett laughed with him. “Makes me want to wear iron briefs under lock and key.”
When they heard the crime crew entering the house, they sobered up. Clay spoke first. “Search for the missing part. He’ll never piss right again if we don’t find it soon. I think it has to be sewn back on within twenty-four hours.”
“How do you know that?” Brett said.
“I cut off the tip of my finger when I was a kid, and they had to sew it back right away.” He showed Brett the tip of his pointer finger. “I’m assuming it’s the same for any body part.”
The forensics teams scattered, each going to work in separate rooms, dusting for prints. Clay and Brett combed the bedroom first, finding nothing. “Looks like our guy was thorough.
They searched the rest of the house but only found hidden porn magazines and rolled joints wrapped in aluminum foil in the freezer. There was no weapon or evidence of a forced entry. They collected the bedsheets and clothing and placed them in a bag. Clay pulled the cord on the computer out of the wall socket and placed it in a box with the other evidence.
On the way back to the precinct, Clay snorted, laughed, and squirmed. “It’s kinda funny, but it’s not. Once this gets out, every guy will be sleeping with one eye open.”
Brett dialed Ali again. Still no answer. His clock read 11:34 a.m. “Do you mind if we stop off at my house first? I need to check on Quinn. I told her I’d be home for lunch.”
“Sure.”
Brett turned down the side street and waved at the neighbor walking her dog. His fingers trembled as he pulled into his driveway.
“Everything looks cool from here,” Clay said.
“Give me a few minutes.” Brett ran up to the house and turned the knob. This time it opened. Why had Quinn unbolted the door after he left? A panic bell rang. As he entered, he smelled stale cigarette smoke and a hint of the pancakes he’d made earlier. “Quinn? Ali?”
No answer. Where was Max? He always greeted him.
Brett went into the living room. Ali lay under a blanket on the couch—as if she hadn’t moved since he left. “Allison!”
No answer. She didn’t budge.
He nudged her shoulder. “Ali, where’s Quinn? Where’s Max?”
Her eyes fluttered. “Hmm?”
Brett gripped her shoulders and shook her. “Where’s Quinn?”
“Let me go.” She sat, waved her hand, and pushed him away. “I don’t know. She was here a minute ago.”
“You haven’t moved since I left four hours ago.”
Brett dashed through the house to the kitchen. “Quinn?” The same mess still cluttered the table and the sink.
He hurried to Quinn’s room. The door was shut. He turned the handle, but it was locked. Their rented home had been built more than twenty years ago. The landlord had told them Quinn’s room had been an office, which was why it had a keyed lock on the outside. Brett had never removed the lock because they’d never used it—except once. Quinn had been two and hadn’t wanted to stay in her room at night. She kept sneaking out, and Ali said she worried Quinn would roam out into the street, so she’d locked her in. When Brett discovered the locked room, he’d been livid with Ali.
Now, he shouted across the house. “Did you lock Quinn in her bedroom? What’s going on?” He pounded on Quinn’s wooden door.
No answer.
Brett stormed back into the living room. Ali sat hunched over with her head in her hands.
Brett snaked his fingers through his hair. “Did you lock Quinn in her room? Where’s the key?”
Ali shook her head, shrugged, and stuttered. “I can’t … remember … where I put the key.”
Brett’s chest tightened. He ran to the coat closet and fumbled with a hanger, bending it and straightening it as he ran back to Quinn’s room. “Quinn, it’s Daddy. I’ll get you out in two seconds.”
There was no sound.
He jammed the long metal side into the lock. “Quinn, talk to me.”
Nothing.
His fingers trembled. The hanger was too fat to fit the keyhole.
A strong hand clamped down on his shoulder. He spun around.
Clay stood before him, his eyebrows furrowed in a worried way.
Dread filled Brett’s gut. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Her window is open on the east side of the house.”
“What?” His stomach cartwheeled to his feet. “No!”
Clay took out his key chain and opened a device that contained a thin metal picklock. He gently brushed Brett aside, and speaking in his usual calm, deep voice said, “Here, let me do that. But I don’t think you’re going to find her in there.”
Cache a Predator Page 3