by L T Ryan
"Do we know anything about him?"
"Only that he goes by The Shepherd. Other than that, I couldn't locate a name or picture to ID him."
"When did Kyla go missing?"
"All Ben knows is that he tried to serve the custodial papers. He said he couldn’t get through to see his ex, Dorothy Green, but that he had seen Kyla. When he tried to get her attention by calling to her, he was escorted from the property. He went back the next day with a police escort, only to find that she was missing."
"Then the clock is ticking. When do I leave?"
"Your flight is in three hours. I just sent you everything I have in a secure email. Included is a picture of Kyla that Ben got from the sheriff. This is Kyla." Tracy tapped his phone and turned it to Hatch.
She looked at the image. A girl in pigtails, a white dress, and light brown hair with sun-bleached ends. She was smiling and one tooth was missing. Hatch looked at the little girl and immediately thought of Daphne, her own niece.
She returned the phone to Tracy and slid the ID back into the envelope. She looked at her reporter identification and thought of the brave reporter from Juarez. Hatch slid it inside and drained the rest of her coffee.
"I better get going."
"Remember Hatch, this is just an intel op. If you get something helpful, I want you just to forward it to the investigating agency. I want to stay off the radar in this one but help in any way that I can. No shitstorms."
"I understand, and I'll do what I can to find your niece."
A breeze blew in from the east, carrying the briny saltiness of the nearby ocean on it as Hatch walked out of the diner. With her old name and new identity tucked under her arm, she was off to find the niece Jordan Tracy never knew he had.
Five
Savage sat at his desk and watched the monitor relaying surveillance footage from inside the interrogation room where the shooter sat, still wearing his white clothes. His hands and ankles were shackled to a bolt in the floor.
Since arriving at the Hawk's Landing Sheriff’s Office, the shooter had said nothing. Not a word while they took his fingerprints using the AFIS machine, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System used worldwide.
Long gone were the days since Savage had to ink roll people’s hands and wait several weeks or months for an identity. Now those answers came in a matter of minutes, but it was lagging a bit, and so Savage had their shooter placed in the interrogation room while they waited.
The room comprised two chairs set on opposite sides of a square table. The shooter sat half facing the camera system in the upper right corner and away from the door. He didn’t move. He didn't look towards the camera, but stared straight ahead at the wall in front of him, his body rigid.
He had both hands stretched out, evenly spacing the links between them. His right index finger tapped against the metal table. At first, Savage thought the tapping was an autonomic response, the brain recapturing that moment when he pulled the trigger six times into the torso of seventy-two-year-old Glenn Miller. Savage knew how many times he had replayed his own shootings, including the one that forced him to find refuge here in the mountains of La Plata County.
The brain, under traumatic stress, tried to replay, recalculate, and understand those scenarios. Some were stuck in a perpetual loop that disabled a person entirely. Savage had experienced his fair share of posttraumatic stress disorder. At first, he thought this was the reaction he was seeing, the tapping of the trigger finger, the remembrance of the six shots, the replay of why and how and where. But then, as he stared at the porcelain man, Savage noticed the bottom right screen where the time ticked by on the recorder. The boy’s finger taps were in sync with the second hand of Savage's wristwatch.
The killer waited, counting the seconds. The door to Savage’s office swung open. The loose hinge made it creak loudly and startled Savage. Sinclair stood there with several sheets of paper in her hand, holding them up high.
"You won't believe this. I swore I recognized him when we put the cuffs on him, but it just didn’t make sense. I couldn’t remember where I knew him. His name didn't come to me."
"let’s hope this guessing game isn't going to take much longer," Savage said, eagerly staring at the white sheets in her hand.
"That’s Billy Graver," Sinclair said, as if the name was supposed to mean something to Savage.
He shrugged. "Who’s Billy Graver?"
"You’ve never heard the story of the Gravers? You've never heard... I think Lifetime did one of those movies of the week on it."
Savage shook his head. "I was a city cop. I didn't watch Lifetime movies."
"I was older than Billy. This goes back ten years, but I believe he was twelve at the time. Hawk's Landing being so small, I knew him in passing. I remember him as being a bit odd. Sometimes he would talk to himself, always mumbling whatever word occupied his mind, repeating it over and over again. The papers said he was a genius. Awareness about the Autism spectrum hadn't made its way out here to Hawk's Landing. We hadn't seen much of it, so we just thought he was, you know, crazy. Maybe he was abused and all, but his family had money. And he had a sister, a year younger."
"What happened to him?"
"Them." Sinclair's face grew darker. "They'd apparently gone for a walk. They took the same path every day, rain or shine. All part of Billy's routine, and his sister often accompanied him. Just before a really bad blizzard hit, they went out and didn't return.
"I remember the searches, joining them twice. The snow made it tough. On day five, the sheriff at the time shifted the efforts from rescue to recovery."
"How long until Billy and his sister were found?"
"Billy was found about a week later. A park ranger located him in a cave. Starved and near dead. Billy was covered in his sister's blood."
"What happened to her?" Savage asked.
"Amanda Graver's body was never found."
"Did Billy ever speak about it?"
"Not a word."
"Was he ever implicated?"
"No evidence besides his sister's blood. Without an ability to communicate, Billy was sent to a full-time care facility outside of Denver."
Savage looked at the monitor and the porcelain man tapping rhythmically. "Well, let’s see if he’ll talk today."
The Sheriff entered the interview room and approached the table where the twenty-two-year-old who looked more like a boy than a man sat. He was seemingly oblivious to the chaos of the morning's events and that of his current situation. Savage set the bag of chips and can of Sprite within arm's reach of Graver, who remained seated with the same rigid posture he had held since first entering the room. His eyes remained transfixed on the wall ahead of him, and his right index finger maintained its rhythmic tapping.
"I’m going to call you Billy because that’s what Becky back there said she knew you by when you used to live here. If you'd prefer me to call you something else, please let me know. My name is Dalton Savage. I'm the sheriff here in Hawk's Landing, and I know you've been through a traumatic event. I'd like to talk to you about it, but I have to advise you of your rights, and make sure you understand those rights before we have a conversation."
The tapping continued. Graver's face remained placid, with no reaction. Savage continued. "All right, Billy. Well, I’m going to look for some sign of acknowledgment that you’d like to talk to me when I’m finished."
Graver met Savage's words with complete and utter silence.
"William Graver, you are under arrest and in custody for the shooting death of Glenn Miller. I would like to talk to you about the circumstances of that shooting. This is being recorded by the audio and video surveillance up there in the corner. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you by the state. And you have the right to not answer any of the questions I ask you. What I do have to know, right now is, do you understand yo
ur rights as I’ve advised them?"
The tapping continued. Billy’s eyes never shifted right or left.
"Billy Graver, do you agree to speak with me?" Tap, tap, tap. "How can I help you? How can I find out if anything that happened in the store had to do with your sister Amanda’s disappearance, if you don’t talk to me?"
The tapping stopped. Graver's eyes shifted off the wall and met Savage's, as if waking up from a dream. Looking frantically around, his mouth opened to speak when the door buzzed and a short man wearing an expensive suit that bulged at the midriff barged in with Becky Sinclair hot on his tail.
"Mr. Graver is my client. His parents saw their son on the news. I'm the Graver family's legal counsel and will be representing William. At this point in time, my client will not be speaking to you. I will arrange to make myself available to you at a future time. Bail has already been posted with the court." The attorney handed the bond receipt to Savage. "I will be taking Mr. Graver with me now."
The attorney then clicked twice with what appeared to be a dog clicker. The frantic eyes of Billy Graver settled again, and the rhythmic tapping resumed. Two more clicks and Billy stood beside the short man, towering over him by at least six inches. Billy was pencil thin and the attorney portly, like an Abbott and Costello pairing without the humor. Savage looked on as Billy left the Hawk's Landing Sheriff’s Office interrogation room, and the tapping of Billy’s right index finger resumed alongside his pant leg, keeping time with the seconds.
Savage went to his office and sat for a moment, then he picked up the phone to call one of the witnesses from the Miller shooting.
"Screw you! I told you not to call me!"
"Miss Mann? It's Sheriff Savage. If I've called at a bad time, then—"
"Oh, sorry. I thought this was my ex-husband. He’s always changing his number. Can't get himself together."
"Is it a problem I can help with?"
"Nothing criminal. Unless you count being a deadbeat." She sighed and caught her breath. "What can I help you with, Sheriff?"
"I know you've had a rough day, but I wanted to follow up. Even though you've been interviewed already, I was hoping to make sure we didn’t miss anything. The brain can take time to pick up bits and pieces. Details that were overwhelmed by the freshness of events."
"Anything to help."
"Why don't you start by walking me through everything?"
"I was late for an interview. But it was okay, because when I arrived, the baker was distracted by a conversation with Glenn Miller. I was a bit distracted myself. My ex had called. Then the shooter bumped into me."
"And then what happened?" Savage could hear Mann's breathing change and wanted to keep her moving forward.
"He pulled a gun and started shooting."
"Did he say anything before he started?"
"No—Wait. Yes." There was a burst of energy from Mann. ”He was mumbling something.”
"Do you remember what he said?"
"I think he was saying, protect him. But I can't be sure. It was tough to hear him over Miller's conversation."
"Did it sound like he was saying it to Miller?"
"No, I don't think so. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. He kept saying the words like a record on repeat."
Savage thought of the metronomic fashion in which Billy had tapped his pant leg when leaving and tapped the table to the rhythm of the second hand of a clock. Even his voice and the repetitious words were in synchronistic harmony with some internal clock.
"Did that help?" There was a desperateness to Mann's question.
"Yes." Savage then advised Mann that Deputy Sinclair would be by to get a written statement.
Savage ended the call and looked at the crime scene photos scattered across his desk. The 8x10 glossies bore the evidence of the violence that occurred in the grocery that morning. Six holes in the center of Miller's unsuspecting back put there by Billy Graver, the boy in white.
Protect him. Savage wasn't sure what it meant, but he wouldn't rest until he did. What was the connection between the disappearance of Amanda Graver and the death of Glenn Miller? For Savage, it was an itch he couldn't quite scratch.
Six
Hatch made good time after her meeting with Tracy in downtown San Diego to Cruise's apartment in Coronado, overlooking the bay. He hung from a pull up bar set up on the back deck where he liked to get his workouts in while absorbing the California sunshine.
"Your physical therapist would kill you if he saw you on that bar."
Cruise paused his pullup at the top. His chest pressed against the bar as he turned his head to greet Hatch. "I won't tell if you don't. Plus, how am I ever going to be operational again if I'm only going three times a week?"
"You land on that leg wrong and you'll be looking at a much longer recovery."
Cruise held the position a second longer. His broad shoulders pulled back. Thick muscles contracted, forming a valley of tanned flesh for the sweat to trickle down. Dropping to the floor, he landed on his good leg while keeping his right up. Before putting any weight on his injured leg, Cruise performed a one-legged bow, then looked at her with expectant eyes, the cobalt blue boring deep into hers.
"Are you going to make me beg? What's the op?" Cruise asked.
"It's a personal favor for Jordan."
"A personal favor?"
"His niece went missing yesterday."
"Niece? He’s never mentioned a niece."
"That’s because he didn't know she existed until his brother called him last night."
"So what does he want you to do?"
"Poke around, put my eyes on, see if the investigation is moving in the right direction. And help it along if it isn't."
"How does he expect you to do that?"
"Investigative reporter at your service." Holding up the ID badge, she offered a wink and half smile.
Cruise returned neither. "I don't like this. Maybe I should go with you."
"I don't need a babysitter. And this isn't a tac op."
"It's always better to have more eyes on any operation. Regardless of whether it's tactical or not."
"Usually. But not in this case."
"Why's that?"
"Small towns have a lot of eyes and bigger mouths. Easier to avoid both if there's only one person." Hatch looked beneath Cruise's tough exterior and saw the disappointment in his eyes. "This is just intel and investigation. Missing persons cases are bread and butter, basics of any investigator. I should be in and out in a day or two."
"I've seen what can happen with you in a day or two."
"Jordan wants to keep this thing on the down-low on his end as well. This one's off the books. Harder to explain if both of us go off the rez." That seemed to satiate the worry in Cruise, at least for the moment. "Look, I think Jordan just wants to do his part, and help his brother."
"He's never spoken of his brother either."
"Too much history there. I'll let him fill you in if he wants."
Hatch moved to the bedroom and opened the middle drawer where she kept her stuff. She didn't own much, and she hadn't tried to accumulate many new clothes since arriving back in Cruise's life. She still wasn't sure where their relationship stood.
Looking at the bed they had shared that morning, she knew he was smart enough to know that keeping only a duffel bag's worth of stuff in his place meant she hadn't settled in. Maybe it was because she hadn't found the nerve to confront her past, so it was slowing how she was able to move toward the future.
In the nearly two months since Cruise had sustained a deep puncture in his quadricep and a fractured femur, he’d been left sour and frustrated. He'd pushed himself in physical therapy in the hopes of returning to the team sooner rather than later. Hatch knew that as he watched her pack and prepare to go somewhere without him, the invisible divide between them continued to build.
She tried to soften the mood. "Most of these missing person cases turn up. The mom's involved in some cultish religious group. The gi
rl is twelve. Maybe she got wise to it and bolted. The highest percentage of missing persons are runaways."
"And what if this isn’t? What's the other percentage?" Cruise asked, using the dresser for a crutch.
"Then it’s worse. That’s why I have to get there quickly. On the off chance it's something more, every minute that passes is critical if Kyla’s been abducted. I shouldn't be gone long. I plan to be back in time for Taylor's service at the end of the week."
The mention of Taylor sealed Cruise's lips. The crash that had taken Cruise’s mobility was the same one that took the life of his teammate. Tracy may have been the commander of the op, but it was Cruise leading the team on the ground. There was no heavier burden than being responsible for a fellow operator's death, regardless of circumstance and situation.
"When are you off?" Cruise asked.
"My flight leaves in two hours."
Cruise moved in close. Placing his hands on her hips, he pulled her closer, his warm body damp with sweat pressing hard against hers. "Then what you're saying is we've got just enough time?" He flashed a wink.
"Looks like you'll have to do a few more pullups to burn off that energy." Offering a kiss instead. "I should get going."
"Raincheck." Cruise offered an exaggerated pouty frown as he released his grip on her hipline. And don't hesitate to call if you need something. I'll be there in a heartbeat."
Just then, Hatch's cell phone vibrated on the dresser near the envelope containing her new credentials. She looked at the caller ID. Dalton Savage.
Her stomach churned, and she felt her face redden. Cruise looked down at the phone as Hatch sent the call to voicemail.
"Looks like your past is catching up with you."
"Then I guess I'll have to keep moving forward."
Hatch stuffed enough clothing to last three or four days into her duffel and zipped it up. Cruise stopped her at the door to their bedroom, grabbed her and kissed her.
"I'll be here when you come back. So make sure you do."