by T. L. Hines
Everything inside told her this was the case. It made such perfect sense. He’d escaped from some mental facility—probably somewhere in Nebraska, if not in this place called Bingham—then changed his identity. Slipped to Montana, a la the Unabomber, and hidden out for several years.
She had no way of proving that, but she thought she’d probably spent enough time searching on Google. She shut her iBook and went to the sink to refill her glass with more water. Outside the window above her sink, orange and yellow leaves cascaded to the ground. She watched them a few moments, trying to appreciate their beauty, but thoughts of Ron refused to leave her mind.
She had no way of confirming her theory, but did that matter? She’d met the chief of police, a nice enough guy with a name like a Nordic god. Odin, but not quite that. What was it? Odum, that was it. If she called and talked to him, let him know what she’d found, it might be worthwhile; if Ron was wanted somewhere else, she’d be doing a good deed. If it was a dead end, well, where was the harm?
As another golden leaf floated lazily to the ground, Rachel turned and went to the phone.
22
FREEING
As soon as Jude was outside, he made his feet slow down. He wasn’t going to do the kid in the basement any good by piquing Sohler’s suspicions; if Sohler smelled anything amiss, he’d most likely try to lead Jude away from his home.
Jude watched the man walk down the block and get into his pickup, its front now dented from the accident. Jude strolled to his car, using what he hoped seemed a casual pace, then opened the door and jumped in. Sohler was pulling out of his spot, so Jude jammed his key into the ignition and cranked it. He wheeled out into the street, following a half block behind.
He tracked the pickup as it headed north of town, toward the more isolated homes hidden in the surrounding forest. Of course that would be the case; a child kidnapper would want plenty of privacy, wouldn’t he? Jude thought briefly of phoning for help. Maybe he could call the police officers he’d met at the wreck. He couldn’t remember the name of the first one, but he did remember Chief Odum. Yeah, he could call Odum and explain everything.
He took his foot off the gas, letting Sohler get more of a lead. No, Odum was a bad move. Odum would ask how Jude knew about the abducted kid, and he was pretty sure the chief wouldn’t buy any story he might come up with, no matter how clever.
Still, he could call anonymously, couldn’t he? Call Chief Odum and tell him to check out the address of the home, that he was a neighbor who had heard screams or something. Wouldn’t that work?
Maybe. Except another thought lingered in the back of Jude’s mind: He didn’t know what was going to happen in Sohler’s house.
If Sohler killed his victims, he could pick tonight to do it. He could pick the minute he walked through the door, in fact. Maybe he even made it a ritual: he liked to go to the Red Lodge Cafe for the daily special before he killed the kids and dumped them in a ravine behind his house.
No. Jude would have to stop this man himself. He wasn’t sure how he was going to do it, but something deep inside told him he was going to try.
Up ahead, the pickup signaled and made a left turn into a sloping driveway, away from the mountains and toward Rock Creek. Jude slowed but drove past. He pulled to the side of the road a few hundred yards away and killed the engine, then got out of the car. Through a grove of aspens he saw the brake lights of Sohler’s pickup flashing. That meant the driveway was only an eighth of a mile at the most; he could jog to the house easily.
Jude considered his next move. He had no weapon. Maybe he could rummage around and find . . .
An idea flashed in his brain.
He jumped back in his car, started it, and spun gravel as he turned around and headed toward the gas station about a quarter mile back. He floored the accelerator, worried each passing second might be the last for some child. And wasn’t that strange, now that he thought about it? He knew Sohler’s name, but he didn’t know the name of the child in the basement. He had seen the face in the shadows, but he had never—well, maybe received was the best word for it—the name.
Jude careened into the gravel parking lot of the gas station, spraying rocks away from his tires as he braked to a stop by the pay phone. As soon as the car was in park, he was out the door and heading for the booth. He reached for the phone book, cursing as he realized he didn’t have to follow Sohler to get his address. He could have looked it up in the phone book, maybe even sneaked out of the Red Lodge Cafe ahead of Sohler and freed the child.
Jude forced the regret out of his mind. He had a job to do right now, and he needed to concentrate on it. He flipped open the phone book and found the ‘S’ listings, then looked for Sohler, Kenneth.
He took a deep breath, then picked up the phone and dialed. A man’s voice answered on the second ring. ‘‘Hello?’’
Jude closed his eyes, then spoke slowly. ‘‘Mr. Sohler? Mr. Kenneth Sohler?’’
A pause on the line. ‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘This is, uh, Chief Mike Odum down at the Red Lodge Police Department. We have a bit of a problem we could use your help with.’’
‘‘A problem? What is it?’’
He took another deep breath. ‘‘If you could come down to the station, sir, we can talk about it here.’’
The line stayed quiet for a few moments before the voice spoke again. ‘‘Is this about . . . did you find . . . Janet?’’
Who was Janet? A girlfriend? A co-worker? Could it be a child he was holding captive? No, he wouldn’t be mentioning her to the chief of the Police Department. Still, it seemed Janet might be the right hook to lure him out of the house.
‘‘Yes, sir, I’m afraid it is about Janet.’’
He heard a long, drawn-out breath at the other end. ‘‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’’
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Sohler. We appreciate your help.’’ He hung up the phone. The phone’s handset was slippery with his sweat, and a dull roar rumbled in his ears, but he had done it.
Jude went back to his car and got in—he’d left it running in his rush to dial the phone—then killed the engine. Kenneth should be speeding by in just a few minutes. He hoped.
He waited two or three minutes but saw no pickup. Saw no car of any kind, for that matter. An icy block of dread began to settle in his stomach. What if he’d just hurried Sohler into killing the child? He hadn’t thought of that possibility after forming his plan, and now . . .
Jude looked at his watch, then slammed his car into gear. It wouldn’t take him more than a few minutes to get there.
When he passed the home, he saw the pickup still sitting in front of it. He chose a driveway farther down the highway and pulled into it. He killed his lights as he parked alongside the driveway, just inside the aspen grove. He put the keys in his pocket and slid out of the vehicle. It was twilight now; in just a few more minutes the whole valley would be dark.
Jude jogged through the trees toward the house. Warm yellow lights glowed inside the home now, although he couldn’t see anybody. At the edge of the trees he paused and considered. He had no choice; he needed to break into the house, because he knew something bad was happening.
He crept toward the front door, hoping Sohler didn’t have a dog that would start barking and warn of his presence. He bent over, crouching as he moved to the front door, then peeked in the window.
Sohler was coming toward the door.
Panic gripped Jude for a second, but he didn’t have much more than a second. It was dark out here, no outside lights on the home.
He jumped off the front steps and pressed himself into the corner between the steps and the home’s foundation. Coming from the brightly lit house, Sohler’s eyes wouldn’t be adjusted to the darkness. And who would look into the shadows by their front stairs as they left? Not Sohler, Jude hoped.
The door squeaked open even before he had totally settled into a crouched position. He made himself go stiff, and he held his breath as he heard the s
huffling of Sohler’s shoes just inches above his head. After a few terrifying moments of silence, Jude heard an unmistakable metal-on-metal slide he knew very well: the sound of a dead bolt engaging.
Even after Sohler walked down the front steps, Jude continued to hold his breath for a few seconds. Silence returned. Maybe Sohler was standing in front of him, unseen, waiting for Jude to move.
Then, the door of the pickup creaked open and shut again. The engine roared to life, and the lights came on.
The lights. Here was something else he hadn’t thought about. If Sohler happened to be looking at his front steps as he backed up and turned around, he’d see a man crouching at the front of his home. And if, like so many other folks in these parts, Sohler happened to be a hunter, he’d certainly have a gun mounted in that pickup.
Jude squeezed his eyes shut, as if closing them would blind Sohler to his presence. He felt the beams of the headlights streak across him, but the truck didn’t stop. He opened his eyes again. The truck finished turning and started down the driveway to the main road. Jude watched until the taillights disappeared in the trees and brush. A moment later he heard the truck accelerating in the distance.
He let out a long, deep breath and wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. The crisp autumn evenings in Red Lodge dipped into the forties regularly, but Jude was sweating as if it were the middle of July. His hand shook as he pulled it away, and his thighs were starting to cramp. Too much adrenaline in his system again.
Jude stood, made his way back up the concrete steps, and peered inside. Lights were on, although he was pretty sure no other threats were in the home. Pretty sure.
He squeaked open the screen door, then tried the main door. Locked. Of course; he’d heard Sohler sliding the dead bolt into place. He surveyed his surroundings again as he took off his jacket and wrapped it around his right elbow, then put the padded elbow quickly through one of the door’s glass panes. The glass shattered easily and sprayed to the floor.
He stood still for a few moments, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. None came, so he unwrapped his arm and put on his coat again, then reached inside and felt for the dead bolt. It turned smoothly, unlocking with a soft click.
After a deep breath he pulled the door open and walked inside, still trying to move slowly and silently, even though he wasn’t sure why. He still felt as if he were being watched by a predator of some kind, a predator waiting for the right instant to pounce.
At the end of the hallway, as he thought, Jude came to a living room. A small couch sat in the center, with a TV—dark and silent— against the far wall. He stopped and scanned the room, checking all the places he felt a person could reasonably hide. Though the home looked clean, at least in the hazy darkness, he could smell the dank sweat of decades seeping out of the walls.
A quick click and hum startled him before he realized it was the sound of a refrigerator’s compressor. Exhaling slowly, he turned the next corner and recognized the room where he stood. It was the kitchen, exactly as he’d seen it in his vision.
He couldn’t let himself stop and think about how all this was so surreal, so . . . impossible. The kitchen was real, and that meant the vision was real, which meant a child was locked behind the door just fifteen feet away.
As he hurried into the kitchen, he tripped on the uneven floor between the hallway’s wood flooring and the kitchen’s linoleum. He almost fell but righted himself; in his clumsiness, however, he knocked over a metal bucket. Its tinny clang reverberated throughout the house. So much for a career as a cat burglar.
And then, a thump.
A thump just like he’d heard in his vision. Behind the basement door.
Followed by another thump.
Jude stayed frozen in mid-step a moment longer, then rushed to the basement door and stretched out his hand for the knob.
Thump.
The knob turned easily, letting him pull the door toward him. The door wasn’t nearly as silent; its hinges gave a painful squeak as if unwilling to reveal the secrets behind it. The smell of earth and something else—a smell he recognized but couldn’t quite place—filtered out of the open door. He put his hand into the inky darkness, feeling for a light switch.
Another thump, very near now, just ahead of him in the darkness.
His hand found a switch, and a dull light of mustard yellow gasped to life above his head.
Jude looked down the narrow staircase to the basement, then took a few steps down.
Another thump, this one right next to his head.
He recoiled, felt his foot slipping on the next step before he caught himself and avoided a long tumble down the stairs. He turned his head to the left and squinted to see in the darkness.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw the bars of a crudely made cage, sitting in what must have once been a first-floor pantry. Jude scanned the area, noting where the two-by-four framing had been ripped out. Yes, there had once been a wall here, but now it was open, giving access to the space from the basement.
As he peered into the darkness, eyes stared back at him: the eyes of a young boy, hunched inside the cage. The boy struggled to keep his eyes open in the dull light. Dirt caked his hair and face. How old? Five? Six? About Nathan’s age, Jude guessed. As he watched, the boy threw his head backward, hitting a bar on the cage and creating a loud metallic thump that made the bars of the cage shake almost as much as Jude’s innards.
The sound he’d been hearing.
Jude looked into the boy’s wide bloodshot eyes and thought again of his own son. Tears filled his own eyes and he said softly, ‘‘Hi, I’m Ron.’’ Then: ‘‘No, I mean, I’m Jude.’’ Somehow it seemed he needed to whisper.
The boy flinched, as if he’d been bitten. ‘‘It’s okay,’’ Jude continued. ‘‘I’m gonna . . . I’m gonna get you out of here.’’ He knew he was on the verge of sobbing, yet he didn’t want to scare the boy.
Blank eyes stared at him a few more seconds, then the boy slammed his head against the bars again.
Jude found a door in the cage, fastened by a makeshift sliding bar. A dead bolt. Of course. He put his hand on the bolt and tried to slide it, but it was stuck. The boy, meanwhile, moved toward the far end of the cage, apparently trying to get as far away as possible. Jude heard a low whimper coming from the boy, a whimper that pierced his heart more than anything he’d seen.
Jude used both hands to pull at the dead bolt, forcing it to slide by sheer will. The door to the cage swung open slightly before Jude grabbed it and pulled.
He put his hands out toward the boy. ‘‘Come on,’’ he coaxed. ‘‘I’m not gonna hurt you.’’ The boy cringed, then clanged his head against the cage bar several times in rapid succession: thump thump thump thump thump. Jude decided to try a different approach. He left the door to the cage open and backed up the stairs. The boy watched him but didn’t move. ‘‘It’s okay,’’ Jude said. ‘‘Come on out.’’
The boy crawled across the small cage and put his hand out on the closest stair, his eyes never leaving Jude. Jude smiled and nodded, coaxing the boy onto the stairs. When the boy was totally out of the cage, Jude stepped down one stair and stopped. The boy didn’t move away, so he quickly descended the next few stairs, holding out his hands, until he had the boy in his arms.
He picked up the boy, amazed at how light he was, turned around, and went to the main floor again. Then he moved across the kitchen to the living room, carrying the boy like a fragile vase.
That was when he heard a young girl’s voice calling.
23
MISUNDERSTANDING
At the Red Lodge Police Station, Chief Mike Odum was confused, annoyed, and going on angry. He had questions mounting up, with no corresponding answers.
One of these questions was standing in front of him—a man named Ken Sohler, claiming Odum himself had called no more than fifteen minutes before. Problem one? Odum hadn’t called. He knew that answer. Problem two? This Sohler guy seemed . . . not quite right.
Something had Sohler on a rampage—he blathered on about a Janet without making much sense—but Odum also detected a wild, vacant look in the man’s eyes. Lies hid behind those bloodshot irises, and he guessed Sohler would do whatever he could to keep the lies tucked away.
Odum sighed as he shifted back in his chair. He wasn’t even supposed to be here this late, but he’d been catching up on work.
He looked at Sohler across the desk. ‘‘So what we do know, Mr. Sohler, is this: someone called your home, claiming to be me, and asked you to come right down to the police station.’’
‘‘You said you had Janet.’’
Janet. Right. ‘‘Okay, Mr. Sohler. It wasn’t me. But let’s start with this: who is Janet?’’
Sohler looked at him, his eyes blank. ‘‘My wife.’’
‘‘Good, that’s something to go on. Now, where is your wife?’’
‘‘I thought you were going to tell me.’’
‘‘You lost me.’’
‘‘Three years she’s been gone. And when you called and said you found her—’’
‘‘We’ve been down this road a couple times, Mr. Sohler. No one from this office called you.’’
‘‘So you say.’’
Odum nodded his head as he began to understand why Sohler was on edge. His wife had disappeared, and that simple fact had been poisoning his mind since. Odum had seen this kind of thing before. ‘‘Okay, Mr. Sohler. What troubles me is this: someone obviously wanted you out of the house. Do you have any valuables hidden in your home? Anything someone might want to steal?’’
A pause. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘Nothing, huh?’’
Sohler’s eyes looked to the floor. ‘‘Nope.’’
‘‘Live by yourself, Mr. Sohler?’’
‘‘No. Uh, I mean, since my wife . . . you know.’’
‘‘No one else around?’’
Sohler stared into space and said nothing. Odum smiled to himself. Love to play poker with this guy; he’d have all the man’s money in twenty minutes.