Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  39

  Chris

  “Thanks, pal.” Chris paid the barista, stuffed his wallet back in his pocket, picked up the two coffees and then walked away from the cart.

  He took a sip of the coffee, then cursed. It felt like his mouth was losing a battle with liquid magma. As the pain receded, Chris shook his head and headed for James Miles’ office, where the promise of something even hotter than the coffee awaited. Miles had called Chris earlier in the day, telling him that the analysis was complete, that it had turned up some interesting results.

  Chris hoped so. He needed a break. Staying in D.C. had been a huge risk. He’d called in sick for the last few days, but if his bosses in Omaha asked Hopkins too many questions, his flimsy cover wouldn’t hold up for long. Hopefully his gamble had paid off.

  Once he reached the office, he didn’t even bother to knock. Chris had figured out the man didn’t even lock the door, making all the theatrics a waste of time. He watched Miles for a few moments, the profiler apparently too enthralled by whatever was on his computer to realize Chris was there. Chris didn’t have time to wait for Miles to notice him. After a few more minutes, he cleared his throat.

  Miles jumped slightly, then locked eyes on Chris, nodding approvingly at the coffees. “Sorry, didn’t hear you come in. Thanks for the coffee. I definitely need it.”

  Chris handed him a coffee and sat. Chris waited patiently while Miles took a few large gulps of coffee, apparently not bothered by its scalding temperature. The man really was an enigma. He was also a brilliant profiler, so Chris hoped he had worked some magic on his behalf.

  “How’s it looking, James?” Chris tapped the lid of his coffee cup, eager for some news. “Was it worth me staying on here?”

  “That’s for you to evaluate, but the query is complete.” Miles set his cup down, then handed Chris a manila folder. “I was able to find eleven crimes with a similar victim, perpetrator, and case profile. They’re not all murders, but most are murder, serious violence, or serious sexual assault.”

  Chris’s eyes widened. “Over what period of time?”

  “A decade.”

  “So what does this give me?” Chris flicked through the papers as he spoke. “I really need something big to break open this case.”

  “It means I can give you a small list of women who’ve probably had a run-in with the man you’re chasing.” Miles smiled. “Or as best as I can predict, anyway.”

  “More living victims?” Chris smiled. “Excellent. Speaking to them could help me narrow down the hunt. Thanks, James. If anything else comes up, I—”

  “Something else came up.” Miles’ voice was flat, as if he were reporting on the weather. “I have some potential suspects.”

  Chris dropped his coffee. The lid came off and the contents started spilling all over the floor. He cursed loudly and started to mop at it with a few napkins. As he did, Chris looked up at the profiler. “What do you mean, you have potential suspects? How? None of the murders has ever had a solid suspect attached to it.”

  “No, but there are several men who were either suspected or arrested for the more minor crimes who also fit the physical and psychological profile we’ve developed.” Miles shrugged, looking at the spill with disdain while making no move to help. “I started with seven possibilities, but when I line it up with previous kills and other known point-in-time locations of these men, it brings it to two.”

  “Who?” Chris’s voice was more aggressive than he intended. He wasn’t sure he could believe Miles had found his killer, but the hope was irresistible.

  “All the details are in your folder.” Miles paused and glanced at the manila folder while Chris cleaned the coffee. “Please treat those pages like gold. I’ve worked very hard to hide my activity, as you requested, so there’s no electronic record of my search.”

  “Understood.” Chris stood, having cleaned up the coffee as best he could. He gripped the folder, then held out his hand to Miles. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me. You’ve helped me prove something I’ve been working on for a long time now. You may have helped save lives.”

  “Of course.” Miles shook Chris’s hand briefly, softly. “I consider my debt paid in full. Please don’t contact me again. I never helped you.”

  Chris nodded. “We’re square. And I don’t have the slightest idea who you are.”

  Chris left the office, returned to his car and drove back to the motel. He’d grab his things and check out, then start the long drive back to Nebraska. He couldn’t wait to start searching through the information Miles had given him. It was quite possible he’d just broken the case wide open.

  He’d already known there were kills that fit the mold in California, Florida, Illinois, Massachusetts and New York over the past decade. The problem had been accounting for gaps in the timeline, but it sounded like Miles had uncovered more crimes that fit the bill, as well as some other survivors Chris could talk to. Best of all, he had potential suspects. He was holding a folder that very possibly contained the name of the man who’d killed them all. The name of the man who’d killed Tamara. The stalker was now being stalked.

  Though he knew he was still a long way off from catching the serial killer, Chris had never been surer that he was on the right track. Once he was back in Omaha, he’d fill Hopkins in so they could get back to work. After they’d connected all the dots, Chris would need to decide when to inform his superiors about what he’d been doing. He could develop profiles and identify potential suspects, but without the resources of the Bureau there was no chance of catching the man.

  Chris wondered if the killer knew he was being hunted, or if he even cared.

  40

  Ashley

  The noises were confusing. She could hear heels on tiles, machines beeping, people talking and loudspeaker announcements. The cacophony of sound overwhelmed Ashley’s senses, making her feel like she was in some sort of black, hazy, exhausting dream. The noises sounded distant, as if she were underwater. She’d listen for a few moments before falling asleep again. Each time she woke, the process would repeat. She lived it for what felt like an eternity.

  Her vision was no help. A few times, she tried to blink but saw only black. It felt like there was a set of heavy weights sitting on top of each eyelid, locking them shut. She tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry she could only produce a strange, scratchy sound. The sum effect was that she felt drunk, insane, mute, deaf, and blind all at the same time.

  Finally, Ashley managed to flick her eyes open briefly. The light felt like a spear to her skull and she quickly closed her eyes again. After a few more attempts, she eventually managed to keep them open, squinting painfully. Ashley still didn’t know where she was, but the ceiling was white, and harsh fluorescent light beamed down on her. That narrowed down the options significantly. A hospital. Probably a hospital.

  As she lay there, she grew certain that she was in a hospital. It felt like reaching that conclusion had taken an eternity. The next challenge was figuring how she’d gotten there. She remembered waking in confusion. Heat. Smoke. Flames. Sirens. It had all combined into a sensory assault like no other, coalescing into the certainty she was going to die.

  “Ah, you’re awake, Miss Wheeler.” A nurse with a kind smile leaned over the bed and looked into Ashley’s eyes. “How do you feel?”

  Ashley tried to speak, but the same scratchy sound came out. She pointed a thumb toward her mouth. “Water?”

  “Of course.” The nurse smiled and reached for a cup next to the table. She handed it to Ashley and waited patiently as she sipped eagerly at the water.

  “Thanks.” The water was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Ashley swallowed a few more times, her mouth was still dry.

  The nurse placed one hand on Ashley’s forehead and the other on her hand. “You need to take it slowly. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

  Ashley’s brow furrowed. “I remember a fire, but I don’t remember escaping. How’d I get here?”

 
The nurse smiled. “Someone called 911. The firefighters got you out just in time. You’re very lucky. You have minor burns, smoke inhalation, and a nasty head wound. We think you fell over and hit it on something. We’ve dosed you up with painkillers, dressed your wounds and treated the smoke inhalation. You’re okay.”

  Tears began to streak down Ashley’s cheeks. The nurse sat with her for several minutes, not speaking, just holding Ashley’s hand. Ashley reached up and felt her face, careful not to dislodge the tubes feeding into her arm. Half her face was covered in gauze, and some of it in bandages. It seemed fitting, given that Ashley felt like she’d been smashed in the face by everything that had happened recently.

  When Ashley’s crying slowed from a torrent to a trickle, the nurse squeezed her hand. “It’ll be okay,” she said.

  Ashley turned her head to face the nurse, embarrassed. “I just want to curl into a ball and sleep for a few days.”

  “This is a really expensive hotel, I’m afraid.” The nurse smiled warmly. “We’ll find you a cheaper one, but before that we need to do some more tests.”

  “Okay, I—”

  “Plus, the police wanted us to call them as soon as you stirred. I’ll let them know you’re awake, if that’s okay?”

  Ashley wasn’t in a hurry to speak with them, but she wanted to get it over with. She nodded at the nurse, who smiled once more as she left the room to collect the police. Once Ashley was alone again, she did her best to compose herself. She didn’t mind the nurse witnessing her emotions, but the police were a different matter.

  A few hours later, the detectives who’d questioned her about Jana’s disappearance entered the room and approached the bed. Ashley suddenly wondered if the two things were related.

  The younger detective staying back while the older one came closer and offered a sympathetic smile. “Ms Wheeler.”

  “Hello.” Ashley didn’t take her eyes off him. “Can you tell me what happened?” She was sure he knew something.

  “We’re almost certain the fire was deliberately lit.” The older detective sat in the chair beside the bed with an exaggerated sigh. “It spread very quickly. We think some sort of accelerant was used. We should have a better idea in a day or so, when the experts tell us what happened.”

  Ashley felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Her heart was pounding. She’d preferred the feeling of helpless confusion to the complete certainty that had just hit her. “It’s Laverri. It’s the mob. They’re getting back at me. First it was my boss, next it was my house.”

  The older detective shook his head. “We’ve no evidence of that. We know about your history and will be treating this matter seriously, but we’re just not sure.”

  Ashley sat up in bed, a struggle with the drugs still in her system making her woozy. “I am.”

  “As a precaution, we’ve posted a uniformed officer to guard you in hospital and after you leave. It should be enough to ward off anyone who means you harm.” The older detective paused, as if checking off a list in his head. “We can also have a social worker help you find you a new home, if you like.”

  Ashley stared at him. It was like he was mouthing the words; he didn’t really seem to care about what he was saying. She knew it was the mob punishing her for being a witness. She’d been targeted for helping the cops, and now she was in danger. So was Lucy. Ashley had made a few gains, but the stability she’d gained recently was feeling shaky. She lay back down on the bed and turned her head. Eventually the detectives left.

  There was only one person she could turn to for help. Most importantly, that person was close to Lucy. She reached for the hospital telephone, dialed the number from memory, and waited as it rang.

  “Manny?”

  “Who am I speaking to?” The voice of Special Agent Manuel Rodriguez was the most welcome sound she could imagine hearing right now.

  “It’s Ashley Wheeler,” she sobbed. “I’ve been attacked. I need your help. I need you to check on Lucy.”

  41

  Duncan

  Duncan smiled as he flicked through Ashley Wheeler’s photo album, thrilled to be sharing the intimate parts of her childhood. But the smile turned into a scowl as he pushed deeper into the album. He could tell she’d been pretty and popular at school and when she went to college, but that’s where things had gone haywire. The shots showed her partying, hanging off men. They confirmed all his theories about her.

  Then his eyes locked onto a photo he hadn’t expected to see.

  “Bitch.”

  He stared at the photo for almost a minute, but it felt like much longer. In it, Ashley was hanging off a man about her age, who was dressed like a bit of a loser and smiling like a cat that’d just caught a mouse. Duncan ground his teeth as he tried to imagine what the boy had been feeling. Pride? Pleasure? Fear? Disbelief? All of those, probably. He snarled as he pulled back the protective plastic that covered the photo, pulled out the shot, and stuffed it into his pocket. He'd keep it close.

  He snapped the photo album shut firmly, breaking its spell. He clenched his teeth and looked at the roof of the trailer, sucking in and easing out a few deep breaths. He couldn't let himself get caught up in one item this much, given the treasure trove he’d uncovered at her house. He was still searching through it all. There was no password on her laptop or phone, so he had access to more information than he ever expected.

  The early results were promising, though. The fact that she’d been in witness protection was probably the biggest surprise. The authorities had changed her name, and done everything they could to eradicate all signs of her online. That explained why Duncan’s internet searches had turned up so little, a first in his experience. She’d been the witness to a mob case and until very recently had been completely off the grid. He now understood the case and her role in it, which gave him further clues about how to dismantle her.

  Her lack of online presence was offset by the diary she kept, which he'd managed to swipe. It had helped him learn more about Ashley, including her family. Duncan found out that she’d been married and then divorced. The daughter – Lucy – was the product of that relationship and the subject of a custody battle. It amused him that they still shared a surname, assigned by the authorities as part of witness protection, no doubt.

  What he’d learned, most of all, was how fucked in the head she was. He’d found that she was devoted to her daughter, above all else, and had done some reckless things because of that devotion. Most of all, he’d learned how unstable her mental state was, and how much work she’d put into fixing it over the past few months. This didn’t change his course of action, but it did change some things.

  Duncan knew he shouldn’t do it. There’d been too many close calls lately – freezing in the store, almost being caught snooping near Ashley’s house, hovering too long in her bedroom – and if he lost his composure, he was far more likely to make a mistake. But he couldn't help it. This woman was different. He didn’t just want to take away the parts of her life that made it worth living, he wanted to become part of her story.

  He wanted to be more than just the destroyer. He wanted her to need him.

  The temptation was impossible to resist. He picked up the phone, found the number and dialed. With each ring his breath quickened and his heart beat faster. Finally, the phone stopped ringing and Duncan could hear muffled sounds from the other end.

  Finally, a little girl spoke. “Hello. This’s Lucy Wheeler speaking. How can I help you?”

  “I—"

  A lump caught in Duncan’s throat. He’d gone blank. There was so much he wanted to say to this little spawn of evil, it seemed to assault his brain all at once. His face twisted into a snarl and he breathed heavily. For several seconds they shared an impasse, then the spell was broken. Another voice could be heard in the background. A man’s voice. Tom Wheeler’s voice, he assumed. The fool she’d sucked in.

  “Daddy, they're not talking to me.” The angst in Lucy Wheeler’s voice was clear. Palpable.
“What do I do?”

  “Give the phone to me, honey.” The man’s voice was deep and laced with concern, becoming louder as he picked up the phone. “Who’s this?”

  Duncan snarled. If he’d been overwhelmed by speaking to the little girl, the second this man – this foolish imposter – picked up the phone, Duncan was blessed with singular clarity. He still didn’t speak, but his teeth and lips clenched together, his breaths coming in forceful bursts. Duncan heard a sigh from the other end. Tom Wheeler kept speaking, but the words all blended into one as Duncan struggled to contain his anger. He tried to force it down, but like an untamable beast, it refused to be curtailed.

  There was a sigh on the other end. “Look pal, if this is some sort of sick joke, it needs to stop. Don’t call here again.”

  The line went dead. Duncan was breathing hard, as if he’d just gone for a brisk jog. He placed the phone down slowly on the table next to him, closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. It didn't work. His eyes shot open and he tossed the phone against the wall, smashing it into several pieces. He hadn’t known much about Ashley Wheeler before, but now he knew all he needed to. She’d devastated him a decade ago, then gone on to get everything she ever wanted.

  Now he was going to take it all away.

  42

  Chris

  “I think it was worth calling in sick for all of this.” Chris spread papers out over his desk and smiled at Hopkins.

  “You sounded excited over the phone, that’s for sure.” Hopkins laughed, closed the door to Chris’s office, then sat down opposite him. “What’d you find?”

  “The Holy Grail.” Chris tapped one pile of documents with his index finger. “This is the entire suspected chronology of our killer, from the first crime to the knife he put into my partner and everything in between. On top of that, we’ve got more potential survivors and a bunch of other leads to chase.”