by C. A. Shives
And the thought made her sick.
Charlotte had long ago given up hope of rescue. Anyone who might have been dedicated enough to find her had certainly failed by now. Not that she expected anyone in her life to attempt to find her. Her husband loved her, but he would not rescue her. He would rely on the expertise of the police. He would not arm himself with a weapon and vow to find her at all costs. Thad was not the sort of man to live his life as if it were a movie script.
If she wanted her freedom and her life, she would have to escape on her own.
Charlotte turned her attention back to the thick coiled spring in the old mattress. For hours—maybe days—she had diligently bent the spring back and forth, hoping to feel it weaken. She had created a crease in it. And she hoped—she dared to hope—that she felt the first signs of her work getting easier. If it's easier to bend now, she hoped, then it may break soon.
But Charlotte knew better than to cling to hope for salvation. Instead, she went back to work on the cold metal. This time, her only savior would be herself.
~ ~ ~ ~
The musty odor of the police station assaulted Herne's nose when he walked through the doors. He held his back ramrod straight, his eyes forward, his step sure. He tried to hide behind his stiff posture.
But Tucker had known Herne since their youth.
"Dammit, Art," he snarled as Herne walked into his office. "You've been drinking."
"I had one drink last night," Herne said. One very large drink, he thought.
"Bullshit," Tucker said. "I can smell the whiskey seeping out of your pores."
"I don't have to explain myself to you," Herne said.
Tucker's eyes narrowed. "If Elizabeth thinks this case drove you to drinking again, she will blame herself. She'll never forgive herself."
Herne hung his head. "I know." It was his one shame from the entire evening. When he held the tumbler of whiskey in his hand, right before he raised the glass to his mouth, he had given Elizabeth a thought. He had considered the guilt and anguish she would feel. But then it was too late. The amber liquid had touched his lips, and he had been unable to resist the sweetness of its acrid taste.
But he had stopped after that one drink. A large drink. But still only one.
It was more strength than he had ever summoned in the past.
"Do you think you're going to find Charlotte in the bottom of a bottle?"
"Get off my back, Rex," Herne growled. "I'm here now and I want to work."
Tucker shook his head. "I have to go out. There's been an accident at Paver's Creek. Marvin Bender's kid fishtailed on the road and now half of Marvin's Dodge is in the water."
"Isn't that kid in his twenties?" Herne asked.
"Yeah. Old enough to know that joyriding on a hairpin turn like that is a dumbass thing to do. But the Benders aren't exactly known around town for their genius IQs," Tucker said. "If you need anything, ask Saxon or Miller. They're both around here somewhere."
Herne nodded and said nothing more as Tucker strode out of the room. The thud of his friend's feet against the hard floor told him that Rex was still pissed about Herne's previous night's activity. But Herne didn't care. He'd only answered to one person in his entire life—his wife—and she was dead.
He left Tucker's office and went in search of assistance. Saxon sat at her desk, her slender shoulders hunched over a file and her black hair spilling over her blue eyes. Although Herne felt no physical attraction to her, he understood why his best friend found his lieutenant so irresistible.
"Saxon," Herne called out.
She glanced up, her eyes guarded. She'd always been that way around him. Sometimes hostile. Sometimes indifferent. Rarely friendly. Never open.
"I'd like to see the file on Bobby Flynn," Herne said.
Saxon nodded. "The man who accused Hayes Construction of killing his daughter. I have it here on my desk. We checked into him since he's got a grudge against the company. We're not a complete podunk department. We do know how to investigate a crime."
She's prickly today, Herne thought. He remembered that Tucker had left the building without a word to Saxon. Herne wondered if they were having yet another disagreement.
"I know," Herne said, doing his best to placate her. "I just want to check a different angle."
She handed him the file without speaking another word and then pointedly turned her back to him. He suspected every man she encountered today would be a target of her anger and disgust.
Herne flipped through the file as he walked back to Tucker's office. When he got to a photo of Bobby Flynn—a standard police mug shot taken after Bobby had been arrested for trespassing at Hayes Construction—Herne stopped in his tracks.
The man in the photograph was the same one he had questioned at Harold's Tavern immediately after Gabe Vanderbilt’s murder. The same man who had a bar fight with Gabe.
He fits the profile, Herne thought. He's large. And he's got a motive.
Bobby Flynn had just moved to the top of Herne's list of suspects.
~ ~ ~ ~
Bobby hadn't bothered to rebuild his home after it collapsed and killed his daughter. Herne understood this. After Maggie had died in their house fire, Herne had left the property and never looked back. He’d hired a real estate agent to handle the entire sale. As far as he knew, the new owners had purchased an empty lot with a large patch of charred ground.
There was only one set of rental houses in Hurricane, known as Hampton Shores. The development’s name bespoke of elegance and seaside wealth. But in reality, the rancher style homes sported moldy vinyl siding and patched roofs that withered beneath age and neglect. The houses sat in rows off the side of Route 10, and the only nearby water was the local sewage plant. The two bedroom, one bath homes could be rented by the month, and if you wanted one with a basement it cost an additional fifty bucks in rent.
As Herne pulled into the parking lot, he noticed the missing shingles on the roof, the peeling paint on the shutters, and the potholes in the asphalt. Hampton Shores was not a place where young families dreamed of a new life. It was a place where dreams died.
Bobby answered Herne's knock wearing only a pair of blue jeans, his massive shoulders filling the doorway.
"You must lift weights," Herne said without preamble.
"I got into the habit as a prison guard," Bobby said. "You gotta be big if you work with cons."
Neither man spoke again. There was no need to acknowledge their previous meeting at Harold's Tavern. Both men remembered it, and both men knew the other one remembered it. Herne felt Bobby watching him. Assessing him.
Finally, Bobby broke the silence. "I guess you're here about the murders at Hayes Construction," Bobby said. "I read about it in the newspaper."
"I'd like to talk to you about it," Herne said.
"I figured you'd be around again eventually," Bobby said. "I guess I did have a reason for wanting those fellows dead, considering they killed my little girl. Look, I’m not a killer, but if I ever meet the man who committed these murders, I might think about shaking his hand. Since you seem to be the one out to catch him, you’ll understand why I don’t invite you inside."
Herne didn't need to see inside of Bobby’s home. He’d already spent too many years inside houses like this. Getting calls about a domestic disturbance or drug bust, and walking into a scene with a battered wife or a burned kid or a teen who had overdosed. He knew the inside would be small and just as he expected: stained carpet, yard sale furniture, chipped walls.
Bobby leaned against his door jam. Herne heard the padding of dog paws across the vinyl floor of the foyer, and then he saw Bobby’s Doberman push her snout out the door. Bobby said, “Back,” and the dog retreated.
“Good dog,” Herne said. Then he stopped wasting time with social niceties. "You told me your name was Robert. But people around here seem to call you Bobby.”
“My name is Robert,” Bobby replied. “That’s how I’m known at the prison to the other guards and my boss. That’s what my
ex-wife calls me. Only locals call me Bobby. You’re not a local.”
“You had a reason for wanting those men dead. You've threatened them in the past. Did you kill them?"
Bobby shook his head. "Look, man, I'm not going to lie to you. I'm happy those fuckers are rotting in the ground. As far as I'm concerned, they got what they deserved. The killer did me a favor. But I didn't do it, even though I wanted revenge. I just think the good Lord decided to dispense his own brand of justice."
Herne looked into Bobby's eyes. He understood this, of course, though Bobby had no way of knowing. No way of understanding the deep need for retribution that still ate at Herne’s guts every day. When Herne's wife had been killed—an act of revenge by someone who still remained unidentified—his world had crumbled. Immediately following Maggie's death, Herne had turned to drugs and booze and anything else that could push the memories and guilt from his mind. But the black urge for revenge had never, ever left his heart. Even now, years later, he burned with the desire to find Maggie's killers and bring them to justice with his own hand.
Not just justice. Judgment.
But he couldn't let his empathy for a suspect interfere with his investigation. It was possible—maybe even probable—that Bobby knew Charlotte's whereabouts. And it was possible—just barely—that she was still alive. If Bobby was involved, Herne needed to know.
"Do you have an alibi for Sunday afternoon or Wednesday morning?"
"I don't spend much time with people these days," Bobby said. "I live on my state pension right now. I don't go out much, except to the bar to shoot some pool. I was alone at those times. I double-checked, since I knew you'd be asking. I was here. By myself."
"You’ve got no family? No close friends?"
"I've got no one," Bobby said. "My daughter was my only family. My ex-wife ran off shortly after she was born. Haven't heard from that woman in years. My parents are dead and I don't have any brothers or sisters. I'm alone. All I have is Scout." Bobby waved a hand at the Doberman that sat, alert and aware, behind him.
Herne nodded and turned to leave. As he reached the bottom of the porch, he faced Bobby again.
"I know what it's like to be alone. And I know what it's like to want vengeance. It can eat at a man's soul until he's drowning in anger and pain. I'm sorry your daughter was killed. But if it turns out that you're responsible for kidnapping Charlotte Allen and killing the men at Hayes Construction, I won't hesitate to end everything for you. Do you understand?
He didn't wait for a response. He just turned his back on Bobby and left.
~ ~ ~ ~
Herne paced the floor of the police station, the rubber soles of his black boots almost silent against the hard floor. It was Saturday afternoon, and everyone in the department was gearing up for the weekend. Coffee—the fuel of every cop—brewed in the kitchen area and filled the station with its rich, leathery scent. Sheila, the dispatcher, would soon be fielding calls about unruly teenagers and loud parties. Saxon was on the street, already alert for drivers who had consumed a few too many happy hour beverages. And Johnson sat at his desk in the station, completing paperwork and waiting to be called out on a domestic disturbance incident or bar fight.
Elizabeth filled his mind. She had asked him to find Charlotte. Had put her faith in him and his abilities. Knowing that it might destroy him. Knowing that he might discover truths better left hidden. She had requested his help. And so far, he had let her down.
And Herne did not want to fail Elizabeth.
Jeffrey McNeil walked through the door of the station with Tucker directly behind him. Tucker glanced at Herne and gave him just the barest of nods. Herne followed the duo into the chief’s office.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Herne pounced.
"Have you ever heard of a drug called sodium thiopental?"
McNeil nodded. He sat in the small chair on the opposite side of Tucker's desk while Herne stood over him. His head was bowed and Herne could see the small bald spot forming on the top of his head. He twisted his thick fingers in his lap, a nervous action that belied his broad, masculine frame.
No matter how much time someone spends at the gym, Herne thought, it doesn't make him a man.
"I've heard of it, of course," McNeil said. "Some hospitals still use it for certain surgeries or on certain patients."
"Do you have access to it?"
McNeil gulped, and Herne watched as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down. His eyes darted back and forth between the two men who questioned him, never resting for long in one spot. "I'm sure I have at some point. I'm still doing my clinical rotations, so I'm at a different hospital every eight weeks. I'd imagine some of those hospitals have it in stock, but I don't know which ones."
Tucker leaned his lean frame forward. "You probably know we've had a string of murders lately," he said. "And the killer has used sodium thiopental to subdue his victims before slicing them open."
McNeil's blue eyes widened. "But I didn't have anything to do with that," he protested. "I don't have any reason to kill those men."
"You invested in Hayes Construction and you lost money," Tucker said. "Maybe you've got a bone to pick with them."
McNeil held up his hands in protest, the florescent light glinting off his gold wedding band. "No, no," he said. "It was just an investment. I understand the game. You win some, you lose some."
Herne bent down until his nose almost met Jeffery's. "And let's not forget Charlotte."
Shame flew across Jeffrey's face, and he glanced at Tucker.
"Charlotte?" Tucker asked, his brow knitted. "Did you know Charlotte, too?"
Herne said nothing, and the silence hung in the room. Finally, McNeil spoke.
"Yes. She was my girlfriend."
"I see." Tucker tapped his thin fingers on the top of his desk. "And you're married. So you got rid of her. Was she threatening to tell your wife? Was she going to ruin your marriage?"
McNeil shook his head and started to protest, but Herne spoke first. "You're in too deep now, Jeffrey. Your affair is going to get exposed. And we're going to find out all your dirty little secrets."
There was a pause as McNeil opened his mouth, but he didn’t utter a sound. He just swallowed and gaped, like a fish struggling for breath. His lips moved without speaking a word. Then he stopped and just sat, his back ramrod straight, his eyes forward and unseeing. His breathing deepened until it reached a long, slow rhythm. Then he spoke. "I think I need a lawyer."
"Why?" Tucker asked. "Do you have something to hide?"
When McNeil looked at them, his eyes were mournful. "Don't we all have parts of our lives that we'd prefer remained behind closed doors?" he asked. "Perhaps, if I have a lawyer, I can keep most of my secrets to myself."
"We'll see about that," Tucker said. But Herne heard the despair in his voice. A lawyer—even a bad one—would slow down any investigating they did into McNeil's life. If McNeil was involved in these crimes at all, a lawyer could prevent them from ever finding Charlotte. Alive or dead.
Herne opened the door to leave. If McNeil planned to stay mute until he met with a lawyer, then there was nothing more for him to do. But as he stood in the doorway of Tucker’s office, he turned and looked at the man one more time.
"If I find out you know something about Charlotte's whereabouts," he growled, "I'll fucking beat the information out of you."
The entire department fell silent—even Johnson's shuffle of paperwork stopped—as Herne left the building.
CHAPTER 20
NOVEMBER 10 - SATURDAY EVENING
Trout sat with his head in his hands. He could see the darkness of night through his car window. Could almost count the stars in the clear sky. But he was too deep in the worry and fear that enveloped him to notice their beauty.
They're getting close, he thought.
He knew it. He could feel it. He had seen the look in Artemis Herne's eyes when Lori Sims interviewed him on the evening news. It was the look of a bulldog with a rag in i
ts mouth. A rag it intended to shake until it was shredded.
Herne won't stop until he gets me, Trout thought. And he's going to get me soon. I know it.
He could almost sense Herne closing in on him like a shark circling its prey. Time felt short. And he had more work to do.
How will I finish the job with Herne so close to me? he thought.
He stared out the window, his eyes unseeing, as possibilities ran through his mind. He couldn't stop now. Couldn't put his work on hold. He had to finish soon, because Charlotte was going to be his last one. His grand finale. And she wouldn't last much longer. Hell, he wouldn't be able to stop himself around her much longer. Even now it had become difficult to administer her punishments without taking her. Even now he ached to give her that final humiliation.
No, putting his plans on hold was not an option.
Frustration wormed its way through his heart, and he slammed his thick fists against his steering wheel.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone pull their truck into the Shady Hill Diner parking lot. And a thought struck him. The beginning of an idea. It was possible, just possible, that he might be able to throw Herne off his trail. Perhaps he could trick the bulldog into following a different scent.
Maybe. Just maybe.
~ ~ ~ ~
The air was thick with tension. Herne twirled a strand of spaghetti around his fork, barely noticing the droplets of marinara sauce that splashed on his shirt. Elizabeth sat across from him, a glass of red wine in her hand. She held it gingerly with her slender fingers, as if frightened the delicate glass would shatter in her grasp.
"Well, this is a hell of a lively meal," Tucker growled.
Herne said nothing. It was not the first time tension had been the centerpiece of his meals with his friends. During the early years—when he'd still been drinking—he'd felt their disapproval every time he chased a bite of Elizabeth's spaghetti with a sip of whiskey.
But this was the first time Elizabeth sat with her arms crossed and her full lips pressed into a thin line.