The Lonely Mile

by Allan Leverone

  Bill sat, tapping his foot impatiently. The man pounded the keyboard for perhaps another three minutes, finishing with a grunt of satisfaction, before lifting a pair of eyeglasses to his face from a chain around his neck and peering at Bill. “How can I help you?”

  “You the manager?”

  “You could say that,” the man answered with a wry smile. “This is my business. I own it. Ray Blanchard,” he said, leaning across the desk and offering his hand.

  Bill shook it and said, “Nice to meet you, Ray. Bill Ferguson. I can see you’re occupied, so I’ll get right to the point. I wanted to ask you about your trucks.”

  “About what?”

  “Your delivery trucks. How many do you have?”

  “Just the one. Listen, Mr. Ferguson, as you said yourself, I’m quite busy here. Are you an auto salesman or something? If so, you should know, I’m not in the market for a new truck and don’t expect to be for quite some time.”

  “No, sir, it’s nothing like that. And I’m not trying to waste your time, but this is very important. Is it possible I may have seen one of your old trucks on the road recently?”

  “I suppose so,” Blanchard answered. “When I bought my current delivery vehicle about four years ago, I sold the old one. It was still running well at the time, so, if it’s been properly maintained, it is entirely possible that truck’s still on the road. What is this all about?”

  “Did you go through a middleman, like a dealer, or did you sell the truck on your own?”

  “I sold it on my own; I thought I could strike a better deal that way, and I did. Y’know, I’m just about out of patience here, so I’ll ask one last time: What is this all about?”

  “Well, Mr. Blanchard, I need to know the name of the person you sold your old delivery vehicle to.”

  The market owner lifted his glasses off his face and chewed on the end of one of the earpieces. It was clearly a subconscious act; Bill could see that the plastic had been destroyed by countless similar moments. Finally, Ray Blanchard shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. For all I know, you’re some sort of serial killer. Why would you possibly need that information, anyway?”

  Bill hesitated, then decided to level with him. The clock was ticking, and it was imperative he make the man understand the urgency of the situation. “I assume you’re familiar with the I-90 Killer the authorities have been chasing for years?”

  Ray Blanchard nodded. “Of course. You’d have to be blind, deaf, and dead to live in these parts and not be familiar with that sick piece of garbage.”

  “Well, I’m more familiar with him than most—at least I am now.” Bill hurried through the whole story despite his impatience, leaving out nothing, beginning with the chance encounter last week in the rest stop, emphasizing the kidnapping of Carli, and finishing up with his deciphering the significance of the green letters barely visible on the repainted side of the I-90 Killer’s truck.

  “That explains it,” Blanchard said, snapping his fingers. “I was sure I had seen you somewhere before, I just couldn’t place where. I saw you on the TV news after you saved that young girl.”

  “That’s right, and it was that news coverage that resulted in the I-90 Killer piecing together enough information about me to target my daughter. I intend to get her back, and that bill of sale is how I’m going to do it.”

  Ray Blanchard placed his glasses back on his nose and peered into Bill’s eyes. “This is a matter for the police. Why aren’t they here requesting this information?”

  “Honestly, Mr. Blanchard, I haven’t informed them yet about what I deciphered regarding the guy’s truck. They are busy attacking the case from another angle, and I figured I would determine for myself whether this was a dead end before taking manpower away from other avenues of investigation.”

  The man hesitated, and Bill was sure he was going to send him packing, then he leaned back, rolled his office chair the three feet or so to the back wall, and opened the bottom drawer of a small, metal file cabinet. He riffled through papers for a few moments and Bill had to choke back the urge to scream at him to hurry.

  Finally he muttered, “Aha!” and lifted a single sheet of computer paper out of the cabinet, placing it face down on the desk between them. “This is the bill of sale I made up when I sold the truck, complete with the name and address of the vehicle’s purchaser.” He sat looking at Bill expectantly, his weathered right hand resting lightly on the paper.

  Bill waited and the man made no effort to show him the document. “May I have a look?”

  “Maybe. Depends what you’re going to do with it. You wouldn’t be planning to go after this man all by your lonesome, now, would you? I know if it was my daughter the I-90 Killer had taken, I’d be storming his front porch myself. Not that I’d blame you for doing that, but it’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

  Bill smiled uneasily. Valuable time was passing and all of this gamesmanship was wasting too much of it. He was tempted to simply rip the paper out from under the farmer’s hand and leave with it—that’s exactly what he would do if it became necessary; he certainly wasn’t leaving this office without the address of the man holding Carli—but he had come this far, so he decided to play along just a little longer and see where it led.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Me sticking my nose where it didn’t belong was what resulted in this whole mess in the first place. Once I have the man’s name and address, I’m going to bring that information straight to the lead investigator, FBI Special Agent Angela Canfield.”

  “How sure are you that the man who purchased my truck is the man you’re looking for?”

  “Well I can’t be one hundred percent certain. After all, maybe the man who bought your truck resold it or maybe it was stolen some time afterward by the killer, but it’s a solid lead and it’s something that absolutely must be followed up on, and the sooner the better.”

  “By the FBI.”

  “Absolutely. By the FBI.”

  Ray Blanchard waited a long moment, again sizing up Bill, giving him an appraising look. Then he stood and said, “Follow me.” He squeezed past Bill and out the office door, turning left and opening a bigger door that led into the massive warehouse connected to the loading dock Bill had seen when he first arrived. Standing in one corner was a copy machine. Blanchard fired it up and ran off a copy of the bill of sale for his old truck, which he then handed to Bill. “Good luck,” he said, “I’ll be praying for your daughter’s safety.”

  “Thank you, you may have just saved her life,” Bill answered with a confidence he wished he really felt. “I’ve really got to be going. Every second’s delay in finding her could mean the difference between life and death. Thanks again.” He hustled back into the store, turning in the open doorway and looking back. “By the way, Mr. Blanchard?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell all your friends to pray, too.”

  The store owner nodded, and Bill hustled through the market, weaving his way around customers, past the register at the front door, and into the heavy, humid air of the parking lot.

  ***

  As the girl’s father drove away, Ray Blanchard watched through his small office window, drumming his fingers on the desk in front of his computer keyboard. Then, frowning, he reached for the telephone on the edge of the desk.

  CHAPTER 45

  May 28, 3:05 p.m.

  BILL LOOKED AT THE information printed on his copy of the bill of sale and noted immediately the address of the truck’s purchaser, a man named Martin Krall. Krall lived in a small town called Mason, New York, located no more than thirty minutes away—or at least he had when he purchased the vehicle. Assuming this man, Martin Krall, was, in fact, the I-90 Killer, there was every possibility Carli was at this moment just a short, half-hour drive from here. He prayed she was still alive.

  And chances were good that this Martin Krall guy who bought the truck was the kidnapper—the pieces fit together perfectly. Blanchard had sold the vehicle roughly three-an
d-a-half years ago. It was currently late May, 2012 , and the first victim—at least the first one who had come to the attention of the police—was kidnapped and subsequently murdered just before Christmas, 2008 . Three and a half years ago.

  Bill had seen the I-90 Killer, clear as day, in the rest stop, while he used Allie as a human shield, then again, driving the box truck out of the parking lot there. Assuming he tried to keep to his routine as much as possible when snatching his victims—and one thing the criminal profilers all seemed to agree upon was that he was a creature of habit—that would mean Blanchard had sold the truck at virtually the exact time the kidnapping/murder spree had begun.

  Bill shivered. This was the guy. He could feel it.

  He felt badly about lying to Ray Blanchard and telling the man he would bring the bill of sale directly to the FBI, especially after the farmer had shown faith in him by giving him a copy of it in the first place. By all rights, Blanchard should have called the cops or the FBI right from his desk while Bill sat in his office. And he was probably right. The FBI should be more adept at dealing with a dangerous and unstable serial kidnapper/murderer than the owner of two floundering hardware stores living in a ratty apartment after the dissolution of a failed marriage.

  But time was running out and they didn’t have any leads on him after three-and-a-half years, so what good were they, really? Dammit, Carli was his child, and he was going to get her back. Period.

  He raced down the back roads to the nearer of his two hardware stores. He had some quick shopping to so before rescuing his child. Above his head, the clouds continued to roil, black and threatening, building to what was clearly going to be an impressive explosion.

  CHAPTER 46

  May 28, 3:08 p.m.

  WHEN THE CALL CAME in, Angela Canfield swore in frustration. Her team was busy scouring the home and property of the murdered bus driver, Leona Bengston, desperately searching for evidence without having any idea what that evidence might be. It was tedious work, repetitive and boring, almost like searching for a needle in a haystack, except without knowing it was a needle you were looking for until you found it.

  Without a single promising lead as to the Ferguson girl’s whereabouts, however, it was the most obvious option, Canfield thought. Go back to the beginning of the latest abduction and work the scene. Keep busy. Stay focused. Try to make a break. Given all she knew about the I-90 Killer and his history, she knew what she would find—nothing useful—but until something better came along, it made the most sense and was, therefore, what she would do.

  Then her cell phone rang. It was the duty officer at the FBI Field Office in Albany, telling her some farmer’s market proprietor in the local area had called with information regarding the search for the I-90 Killer and insisted on speaking to the agent in charge. By name. Special Agent Angela Canfield, he had asked for. He said it was important. It was about Bill Ferguson. She frowned and took the call.

  “This is Special Agent Canfield. To whom am I speaking, please?” She listened for a moment and then said, “No, I haven’t heard from Mr. Ferguson in hours. Why?”

  The man on the other end of the call spoke for a couple of minutes, and the frown on Agent Canfield’s face deepened into a scowl as she digested the information. “How long ago did he leave your store, Mr. Blanchard?” She looked at her watch. “Okay.”

  “He said he was going to take the information directly to you.” Blanchard told her. He said he had sat in his office for a couple of minutes, picking up the phone and putting it down again, trying to decide whether to check up on Ferguson’s story, before finally calling in what might be the biggest break ever in the I-90 Killer case.

  “All right,” Canfield said. “Thank you for your help. But time is absolutely critical. I need the name and address of the man you sold your truck to, and I need it now.” She glanced around at her team as she dug a small notepad and ballpoint pen out of her pocket. Everyone was engrossed in their work, and no one paid the slightest attention to her.

  “Okay, go,” Canfield said, holding her pen over the paper. She scribbled the name and address on the top of the page, then thanked Ray Blanchard in a distracted voice before disconnecting the call.

  Canfield hurried to her second-in-command, a young agent named Mike Miller. He was movie-star handsome, cool and collected, thorough—the perfect Hollywood vision of the ideal federal agent. When he got a little more experience under his belt, he was going to turn into a fine one, too, Angela thought. She pulled him aside. “I have a lead I need to follow up on. I won’t be gone long, but in the meantime, I’m leaving you in charge here. Keep working the scene, and let me know immediately if you find anything.”

  Miller nodded. “Sure, boss. What have we got?”

  “Probably nothing,” Canfield lied, shrugging and shaking her head, “but I can’t just assume that.”

  “I understand. Who are you taking with you?”

  “Nobody. I don’t want to pull another agent off this search.”

  Miller looked at her dubiously. She should have been teaming up with another agent, but Canfield knew he wouldn’t push the matter, and he didn’t. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. She smiled reassuringly and clapped him on the shoulder before turning and hurrying away.

  The moment she had her back to Miller, the smile vanished, and on the way to her bureau car, Canfield swore under her breath again. Things were already bad and had just gotten immeasurably worse. Bill Ferguson had no idea what he was getting into. And he had a head start on her.

  CHAPTER 47

  May 28, 3:50 p.m.

  CARLI EASED HER GOOD eye open slowly, hesitantly, waiting for the sledgehammer of migraine pain to strike. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, but recalled vividly the intense headache that had threatened to overwhelm her earlier. Sleep had been fitful, an on-and-off dozing filled with bizarre and frightening dream sequences and the occasional hazy interludes of vague semi-consciousness.

  In those moments, Carli was aware on some basic level that the pain of her headache continued to lurk around the fringes of her consciousness, poised to attack. Now, though, her entire body remained motionless except for her eyelids—or rather, her left eyelid, as the right remained crusted shut by dried blood. Her eye slid open as she cringed inwardly in fear of the crushing pain. Five seconds passed. Ten. Nothing happened. There was none of the dizziness or nausea that normally accompanied the onset of migraines that she had experienced, full-force, in the past.

  There was pain, of course there was, but Carli felt confident now that it was a different sort of pain than before. What was currently banging around inside her head felt less like, “migraine,” and more like, “close call with a steak knife-wielding psychopath.”

  The important thing was that, with just a normal headache, she might actually stand a chance against the creepy loser when he returned. Thank God the lunatic hadn’t come back and tried to rape her while she was feeling so sick. He probably would have finished her off just because she was so unresponsive.

  Of course, the sicko had his own problems to worry about, she thought, smiling to herself grimly. The memory of last night’s frightening confrontation came flooding back—the feeling of the steak knife slicing the man’s arm down to the bone, the savage satisfaction she felt from hearing his cry of pain and seeing his blood fly. She had come so close to escaping. If he hadn’t been so quick on his feet, maybe she would be free right now instead of chained to this bed with a bloody head and pissed-in pants that stunk to high heaven.

  She pulled her right hand, testing the handcuff, and wasn’t surprised to hear the clanking of the metal bracelet pulling against the heavy, iron bed frame. Immediately, the pain flared in her wrist. Now, not only did it hurt from pulling against the cuffs, but there was a fresh wave of agony from where her captor had squeezed her bones together so tightly, forcing her to drop the knife, which had led directly to her recapture.

  She tilted her head back and squinted through her one useab
le eye to look at that hand. It was bruised all over, featuring various shades of green, purple, and brown. Much of the damage had been caused by the fight last night, but the majority was simply a result of her nearly obsessive scraping of the handcuffs against the cement wall yesterday, hoping over and over that this would be the time she would somehow pull against the bed frame and break free of her bonds.

  Carli had once read a statement while doing some research for a school essay that defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different result. If that was the case, she thought to herself, she must have just about achieved clinical insanity by now. She pulled her wrist, listened to the clank of bracelet against metal, and whistled through her teeth from the accompanying pain as a half choked-off sob escaped her clenched jaw.

  The basement seemed dim and washed-out; the light filtering through the dirty window was much more diffuse than when she had awoken earlier. Carli thought it must be nearly dusk again, meaning she had slept through most of an entire day. Was that possible? Perhaps her head injury was worse than she thought. Maybe she had a concussion, and that was why she still felt groggy.

  Still, she was surprised that she hadn’t noticed the passing of time. And what about her captor? Would he really have left her alone for most of a day? Based on his actions up until the knife fight, Carli would have to say, no, he wouldn’t.

  So maybe she had injured him worse last night than she realized. Maybe, after he clubbed her on the head and dragged her back down to this makeshift basement dungeon, he had staggered back upstairs and collapsed from loss of blood. Maybe he was stretched out on the filthy kitchen floor, face-down in a pool of his own blood, dying, or perhaps even already dead.

  Carli felt a surge of that same savage, manic glee she had experienced a few minutes ago when she recalled slicing him open, but then, just as quickly, the feeling faded, replaced by a truly terrifying thought. What if the perverted bastard really was dead? What then? Did he have any co-conspirators who might come around investigating when they didn’t hear from him in the next day or so? Or would she simply lie here chained to a bed and slowly starve to death, to be found at some unknown future date by a cop investigating the ungodly smell emanating from the ramshackle home?