by Jonas Saul
“Go on, what is it?”
“A woman was found on the edge of a Highway 400 ramp five kilometers north of us. It looks like she fell from a great height based on the condition of the body.”
The sarge looked from Hunter to Sarah, then back to the man in the suit who was reporting to him.
“Anything else?”
“I’m afraid so. Officers on site still sifting through yesterday’s crime scene at the barn where the pastor was found reported a plane flying in low. They described an aircraft quite similar to the Twin Otter.”
“So, how is that significant? It flew over the barn, then crashed. Your point?”
“As it flew over the barn, sir, someone jumped from the plane, or may have been thrown.”
Sarah’s heart slammed against her chest as she listened to them, knowing it was William Mason who’d landed near the barn. His wife was killed, too, tossed from the plane like nothing other than human garbage.
“Have we got an ID?” the sarge asked.
“Not yet, sir. But we will soon.”
“It’s William Mason,” Sarah muttered. She moved closer to the officer who was informing the sergeant. “Any reports of a coat hanger in or near the body?”
The man appeared quite uncomfortable, his hands fidgeting with his lower shirt.
“Well, sir,” he said, looking away from Sarah and staring at his sergeant. “It would appear this woman is onto something.”
“Spit it out,” the sergeant said in a firm voice.
“They said the body came down in the vicinity of the barn without any pants on. He was a bloody mess from the impact with the ground, but they did find a wire sticking out of his person.”
Sarah spun to face Hunter. The man had gone white.
“Out of his person?” the sarge repeated. “You mean his ass?”
The man nodded. “According to what was called into us minutes ago.”
The sarge turned back to Hunter and pointed at him. “Go home. Now. Make sure everything you’ve got is ready for Winston. You and Crawford are done until this case is closed.” The sarge turned to Sarah. “We’ll be in touch.”
Then he stormed off.
“Well, I guess that’s it for me,” Hunter muttered. “I’m out of a job, just like that.”
“No, you’re not.” Sarah ran a hand through her hair. It had been a wild ten minutes since they’d arrived at the airport. “Go home. DeOcampo and myself will meet you there.”
Hunter frowned. “At my house? Why? We can’t work this on our own.”
“You’re on the list of potential victims, no matter how you look at it. I have a plan. Give DeOcampo your home address. Have dinner ready. Take out pizza works fine, too. See you this evening.” She started away, then stopped and turned back. “Oh, and Hunter, stay alive until tonight.”
Sarah moved toward the exit, Parkman at her side.
She was glad Alex wasn’t with her today. Parkman would get into a scuffle like men often did and defend himself quite well. Alex would’ve hospitalized Crawford, and broke a few arms and legs of the men stopping the fight. Alex and Parkman were both protectors, but on different levels, both efficient, by different means.
Just like Sarah and Hunter.
Both solved crimes, but in their own way.
And now it was time to do it Sarah’s way.
Just like the letter stated.
Chapter 17
Donovan Hunter had gone to the police station first, gathered everything he had, and dropped it on Winston’s desk. He reminded himself that this wasn’t a failure. A case was being transferred from his hands because the murders in the past twenty-four hours were people he knew.
If the sarge was angry because Crawford tried to attack Sarah, then that was on Crawford for being such a fucking idiot. The guy had always been a loose cannon, and Hunter felt he got saddled with him because he was the only one who would put up with his shit.
On the way home, he grabbed several bottles of wine and a large bottle of whiskey, then got in before the sun went down.
He had time for a drink before DeOcampo and Sarah got there—and whoever else they brought with them.
Without any idea what Sarah was proposing, he could arbitrarily dictate that he wasn’t going to attempt any sort of investigation on his own. Lose his job over this, or be brought up on charges of obstruction or something similar? Never.
Sarah and her group could do whatever the hell they wanted, but not him. He was going to lock his door—in case someone really was coming after him—drink all night and sleep all day. His job was demanding and when did he ever get a week off, or two? He needed this break and was willing to embrace it positively, instead of getting angry that the sarge ordered him home.
Once his first glass of wine was poured, he walked the inside of his small two bedroom house, checking ingress points. All windows and doors were still locked and secure. There were no signs that Beverly had returned after their fight the other day, which was a good thing. She’d probably be on his back for drinking so early, then rile him up about taking time off work.
The peace and quiet of being single again might get addictive, he thought.
“I could get used to this,” he said to himself as he strode back to his bedroom.
He set the glass of wine on the dresser and opened the closet. At the back, he removed the shoeboxes filled with souvenirs and set them aside. Behind them sat his small gun safe, and beside that, a black safe with his extra cash, money he stored for a rainy day—not all evidence made it to the evidence lockers, and no one needed to know.
The gun safe was small, but large enough for two handguns. He only had one Glock in there, but because it wasn’t a registered weapon, he made sure to keep it locked away at the back of his closet.
If someone was coming for him, he needed to be ready and he didn’t want to kill whoever it was with his department-issued weapon, which so far he’d never fired in the field.
All afternoon, he’d thought about it and was now convinced Jamie Morgan was dead. She’d died that night. After what they did to her, she had to be dead. If not, why surface now? And why wait twenty years? Also, if she wasn’t dead, why weren’t they all arrested back then for what they did to her?
It had to be someone else killing in her honor. But who?
Or was it one of the four of them? There had only been him, William, Alden, and Brent Doyle. He became a cop, Alden a pastor, William a stockbroker turned skydiver, and Brent became a school teacher.
He’d called William to warn him, but kept getting his voicemail and now the man was dead.
Brent said he’d take precautions, but didn’t believe it had anything to do with that night so long ago. Hunter neglected to tell Brent about the coat hanger part, though, as it was still an active investigation.
And now William and Alden were dead.
Who was next? If Hunter had to guess, it would be Brent Doyle, leaving Hunter to the last, otherwise why send him the letter in the first place?
He entered the combination on the front of the safe, then flipped the top and opened it.
Inside, the soft velvet cushion that held the gun was empty.
There was no gun.
He slammed the lid closed and stared off into space a moment. Where the hell was the gun? Frantic, he thought about who would have access to it. No one knew his combination, therefore no one had access to the lockbox.
Unless Beverly had looked over his shoulder the countless times he’d taken it out to clean it. But why would his girlfriend steal his gun? Did she need protection?
What else did she take?
He grabbed the other case that held his cash. He had fifty thousand in cash stored in packs of five-thousand, all hundreds wrapped up in a waterproof, fireproof safe. One never knew when they needed a paid vacation—or needed to go underground for a few weeks or months.
The cash was missing from a drug dealer’s stash several years back. The guys they busted that night were so sto
ned they had no idea they were sitting on close to a million and a half in cash. Every cop there took fifty grand each and submitted the rest to the evidence locker. Some of the drug dealers were still serving time for that bust, and most of the money taken from the scene had been spent, but not Hunter’s stash.
His stomach dropped when he opened the second safe.
It was also empty. All his cash was gone.
“Motherfucker,” he shouted and jumped up off the floor. “I’ll find her, and I’ll fucking kill her.”
It had to be Beverly.
He raced from the room and out to the kitchen to grab his cell phone. “Where are you, you stupid fucking bitch?”
Hunter dialed Beverly’s closest girlfriend, Anna. A tough bitch who was so hard on her man, Hunter was sure she was a lesbian.
The line rang on the other end. He tightened his free hand into a fist and rested it against the wall, the knuckles pushing until it relieved the pressure in his grinding teeth.
“What’s up?” Anna asked, her tone suggesting he interrupted something important.
“You seen Beverly?”
“Why? You wanna get back with her?”
“Just tell me where she is.”
“I ain’t got to tell you shit, calling me up in here.”
“Look, Anna, she took something of mine. I need it back.”
“Hey, man, whatever she took is hers now. You fucked up. Yous broke up, ain’t a couple no more.”
He wasn’t about to debate the merits of theft with a retired stripper named Anna who had the stage name, Stevie.
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“So, what, you want to hurt her again? Fuck you, big boy.”
To control his temper, he brought his fist back and smashed the wall twice.
“You okay?” Anna asked. “You sound angry, little pussy cop.”
“Beverly walked out on me last night. All I want to do is talk to her. You gonna help me or not?”
“Not, pig fucker.”
The line died.
“Fuck,” Hunter shouted as he reared back to throw his phone.
Where the control came from to tighten his grip on his phone and not release it when he swung his arm, he didn’t know, but his phone remained in his hand, undamaged.
The doorbell rang, making him jump.
His department-issued weapon was on the easy chair.
He ran for it, snatched it out of the holster and bolted for the door.
Through the peephole, he saw Sarah Roberts, Agent DeOcampo, and some skinny blonde kid.
“Fuck,” he whispered, then slipped the gun in the back of his pants and opened the door.
“You okay in here?” Sarah asked, peeking around the edge of the door as the blonde kid angled himself sideways and bent his knees like he was about to pounce on something.
Hunter nodded, his jaw tight in anger. Anna knew something and was just winding him up. He gave Bev a life outside the strip club and now he couldn’t go after her for the fifty grand. How could he even call that in? There would never be an investigation into the theft of money that had been stolen in the first place. And if it ever came out where that money came from, there were about fourteen other cops on the force who would want him dead.
So, yeah, there’s that, he thought. No wonder that bitch stole my gun, too.
“We heard you shout,” DeOcampo said. “No issue in here?”
“No, I’m just trying to find my ex-girlfriend and her friends won’t tell me where she is.”
“Why are you trying to find her?” DeOcampo asked.
He had no answer at the moment. What could he possibly tell them? That she fucked him over, and that he might have deserved it. What should he have expected from a stripper?
Hunter turned to the blonde kid as the youngster eased back into a regular standing position.
“Who’s this?”
Sarah touched the boy’s arm. “This is Alex. He’s harmless and doesn’t speak much.”
“Why’s he here?”
“Because he’s with me. Aaron’s at home with our daughter, and Parkman had other places to be. So, this is Alex’s night off and I wasn’t coming alone.”
“He looks a little young to be involved with a murder case. You sure he’s cool?”
“Alex has seen a lot and been through a lot.” Sarah smiled and released the boy’s arm. “He’s in his mid twenties. Think of him as my bodyguard.”
“Him?” Hunter almost laughed. “He’s skinny and … and, small.”
“Deceiving, isn’t it?”
Alex just stared at Hunter, his expression blank. The guy looked positively dead inside. Or was that a lack of feeling? Like the kind of madman that could destroy someone without blinking, then go eat a burrito.
“Is creeping people out his specialty?”
“I hope and pray you never need to see what his specialty is.” Sarah moved into the living room. “Now, Hunter.” She snapped her fingers several times. “Let’s put more focus on the issues and less on Alex. What’s going on with your ex-girlfriend? Why the mad urgency to locate her?”
An idea hit him like a tsunami. “The way I see it,” he muttered as he stepped into the living room beside Sarah, “is whoever is killing the men from that night at the barn has killed their women, too. Pastor Blair and his wife are dead. William Mason and Julie are dead.”
“So, you think your ex-girlfriend’s life is in danger?” DeOcampo asked.
Hunter turned to her and nodded. “I’d at least like to warn her.”
That skinny boy had moved to the bay window and was peeking out through the curtains.
“What’s he doing now?” Hunter asked.
“Whatever he wants,” Sarah said. “Don’t worry about him.” She dropped onto the sofa. “Tell me something, Detective Hunter.”
He nodded at her and took a seat in the chair by the kitchen alcove.
DeOcampo sat, too.
Why were they here? He didn’t need this right now. How was he supposed to find Bev and his money with Sarah and her weird bodyguard tagging along?
“How many of you took turns on Jamie Morgan in the barn that night? We need more answers to figure out this mess. Somewhere, somehow, you’re the key.”
Alex moved by the curtain, catching Hunter’s gaze. When their eyes met, he didn’t like what he saw in Alex’s expression. It was something more than hatred, closer to disgust, mixed with something like anger. But it wasn’t like the young man was mad—it was something else.
Then he realized where he’d seen that look before. In the eyes of a mafia boss when he was getting arrested. Alex had the look of danger, like the person who possessed it could hurt you in ways undiscovered by humanity heretofore.
His gaze shifted back to Sarah quickly. “Four of us,” he said too fast. “Why?”
“Who? We need names.”
DeOcampo moved her arms in a flurry. Hunter glanced at her, avoiding looking at the small kid by the window. The FBI agent had pulled out a notepad, and now clasped a pen in her hand.
He focused back on Sarah. “You already know two of them—Blair and Mason—both dead.”
“And the other two?”
“A man named Brent Doyle, and myself.”
Sarah leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands together as DeOcampo wrote something down.
“That lowers the suspect field to three, possibly,” Sarah said. “There may be four, but I’d go with three.”
Hunter blinked, caught the eye of the man at the window—Alex—and refocused on Sarah. “Three suspects?” Hunter asked, reeling at how the hell she came up with that number.
“The suspects are either you, that guy Doyle, or it’s Jamie Morgan, alive and well. The fourth option is someone knows what happened that night to Jamie and is taking revenge in her honor. Although, that’s highly unlikely.”
“Me? A suspect?” Hunter fought the urge to jump from his chair and order them all out of his house, but something abou
t that guy Alex bothered him too much to do any sort of jumping around. “I’m not doing shit.”
“Well,” DeOcampo said. “I for one am inclined to believe that.”
“A bit harsh, Mrs. FBI.”
“I wasn’t referring to your performance as a detective, or as a man. I was talking about your ability to orchestrate these murders while working the case. The time we’ve spent with you alone disqualifies you as a suspect.”
Sarah eyed him sideways. “Well, unless you’re working with someone.”
“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you? You’d know if I was. You’ve got connections on the other side.”
“Not necessarily true, but fair enough. So, it’s Brent Doyle or Jamie Morgan. Have you called to talk to Doyle?”
Hunter nodded. “Yes, I called him. He doesn’t seem to believe there’s any real threat.”
“Do you know if he watches any movies?” Sarah asked.
“Movies? What the hell does that have to do with this?”
“The stuff Hollywood puts out. Does he watch them?”
“How should I know? I haven’t seen Doyle in quite some time.”
“Well, it’s just that’s what gets people killed in the movies all the time. Not thinking there’s a threat when there actually is one. Someone is using a coat hanger on their victims, something you admitted was used on Jamie. That alone ties these murders to that fateful night in the barn. So far, two of the people involved in hurting Jamie are dead. And, they were delivered to that specific abandoned barn.” She shrugged, an innocent look on her face. “The killer will be here next, or visiting Doyle.”
The room descended into silence for several moments while everyone processed their own thoughts.
Hunter snuck a glance at Alex, but the boy was staring out through the curtains.
“What else happened that night?” Sarah asked.
“What do you mean?” Hunter would never tell her the rest. There was no one on earth who knew the rest. Only the boys who were there—men now—knew all of it. Hunter would go to his grave with the full knowledge of that horrible night.
“Something else happened.”
“It was a long time ago, Sarah.” Hunter paused to breathe, to calm his racing heart. Sweat had beaded up on his forehead, and from the corner of his eye he could tell that that Alex fucker was staring at him again. “How can I be expected to remember it like it was yesterday? I gave you the highlights, the stuff I remember.”