“Tully, it’s almost midnight now.” She ignored him and started unpacking her nightshirt and toiletries.
“All we had were those sandwiches and that was almost ten hours ago. You gotta take a look. Their room service menu is from Houlihan’s. When we were checking in I noticed the restaurant is connected to the lobby.”
He left the menu on her bed while he set his computer on her desk and started punching keys. Maybe adjoining rooms weren’t such a good idea. They had another long day ahead of them and she was wiped out.
“Alonzo sent me a satellite photo of the rest area.”
Maggie glanced over as it came up and filled his computer screen. The last miles of driving she had noticed the increased elevation on their SUV’s GPS as well as a glimpse of the limestone bluffs. Much of the landscape was covered with evergreens and hardwoods in full bloom.
When she didn’t respond, Tully picked up the menu from the corner of the bed and said, “Real food. Not truck stop burgers or deli sandwiches. They have sliders and something called chicken avocado eggrolls.”
“Okay, now you have my attention,” she joked while her eyes stayed on the computer screen.
Tully obviously had gotten his second wind. Of course he had—she was the one who had driven the last three hours. But now that they were here Tully was ready to get to work.
“Lopez believes these two teenagers did something to each other,” Maggie said. “He thinks it may have started out as a game and gotten out of hand.”
“And one of them cuts the other’s finger off?”
“He told me Manhattan, Kansas, is a university town. Said he’s seen stranger things.”
“Well, we both know that’s true. Kids are capable of doing stupid and cruel things to each other. That’s one of the reasons I’d like to lock Emma up in her room until she’s thirty.”
Tully’s daughter was a college freshman. Since she was fourteen, he’d raised her alone, with very little help from Emma’s mother.
“He thinks because Noah won’t talk that he must be guilty of something.”
“But you think his friend was killed by our guy?” Tully asked.
He tapped a couple of keys and zoomed the photo in on the rest area. Thick canopies of trees. Rock ledges. Acres and acres of both, surrounding the small brick building and parking lots.
“One kid missing,” Tully said. “Probably dead. But a survivor. We’ve seen what Jack can do—letting someone get away doesn’t quite fit his MO. Just doesn’t sound right.”
“How do we explain my cell phone number?”
“That part does sound like him. So what’s your gut instinct?”
Maggie thought about it. She rubbed at the exhaustion in her eyes. Unfortunately, it wasn’t difficult to get her cell phone number. It could be some prank not even related to Jack, their highway killer. But ever since Tully compared this killer’s obsession with her to that of Albert Stucky, her anxiety had been turned up a notch.
If she really thought about it, this guy had been keeping tabs on her for at least a month. He had physically stalked her back in the District. Now here they were halfway across the country, brought here by his directive. He was playing them, toying with them, showing off what he was capable of doing.
“It’s him,” Maggie finally said. “But I think he may have messed up this time.”
“How’s that?”
“Noah Waters can tell us what he looks like.”
THURSDAY, MARCH 21
CHAPTER 35
MANHATTAN, KANSAS
Noah tried not to meet the eyes of the woman sitting across from him in his parents’ living room. Detective Lopez had introduced her as Agent O’Dell with the FBI. Introduced her and then left.
Oh God … not the FBI!
Noah didn’t hear half of what the detective had said after that because the panic had begun thumping in his chest.
He had gotten very little sleep last night. Up in his old bedroom the windows rattled when there was no wind. At one point he swore he heard something—or someone—scratching at the glass. His bedroom was on the second floor with no tree close enough to scrape against his window or the house. And certainly not close enough to cast the shadows that had woken him.
That’s not true.
It wasn’t the shadows or the scratching that had woken him. It was Ethan’s screams.
“Detective Lopez told me what happened,” the agent was saying.
Noah almost laughed. His nerves were raw. His emotions played to extremes. But it was funny—how could the detective tell her anything when Noah had told him nothing? He glanced at the woman. Was she trying to trick him? He realized she was studying him. Would she be able to see what he couldn’t tell?
She was younger than his mother and reminded him of his English professor. He liked Ms. Gilbert. But what would she think of him if she found out what he’d done?
“We need your help,” the FBI agent said. “We need to find your friend Ethan.”
He shook his head. It wouldn’t do any good. But he didn’t say anything.
“Even if Ethan’s dead,” she added as if she could read his mind.
That got Noah’s attention and he stared at her, looking directly into her eyes for as long as he could stand it. Then he glanced away, let his eyes flick back and forth from her face to the new painting his mother had hung over their mantel. Horses, wild horses. His mother had decorated their home with sculptures and paintings, many of them—he only now noticed—of animals or birds fleeing.
“Detective Lopez seems to think you and Ethan were involved in a satanic ritual of some sort.”
This time Noah did laugh out loud, a nervous sputter that he quickly shut down. The madman who had attacked him and Ethan was definitely some kind of Satan.
“What are you willing to do?” Noah could still hear the man’s voice. He put his head down, chin to his chest. He resisted the urge to look behind him.
Don’t think about it. Stop thinking about it. I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.
Too late. He could smell urine and vomit and blood. The scent so strong that he pulled up his hands to look and make sure they didn’t still have bloodstains. Without warning he could hear bones snap, flesh being cut. Suddenly he was nauseated. He could already taste bile.
“One bite and I’ll let you go.”
Noah started gagging. His eyes shot up to the FBI woman’s as he bolted for the closest bathroom.
CHAPTER 36
Maggie waited patiently. From where she sat she could hear Noah vomiting in the bathroom. She hadn’t even started her interview. The teenager was obviously experiencing post-traumatic shock.
What Detective Lopez had labeled as guilt ran much deeper and was much more disturbing. He thought it was Noah’s guilt that caused this erratic and uncooperative behavior. Maggie was quickly beginning to question whether it wasn’t what Noah had done, but what he had seen.
He seemed surprised to find her where he had left her when he came out of the bathroom. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks. However, he took his seat on the sofa across from her.
She had convinced Tully to let her interview the boy alone. Whatever he had been through deserved a softer approach than Detective Lopez’s. But time wasn’t on their side. It was over forty-eight hours. If there was the slightest chance that Ethan was still alive, he was losing blood. The window of opportunity was rapidly closing. If Jack had attacked these two teenagers two nights ago then he could still be in the area. But wouldn’t be for long.
“Noah, let me tell you about a case I’m working on.”
His eyes met hers and stayed put this time. She thought she saw relief in his face but the distrust hadn’t been dislodged.
“My partner and I have been tracking a serial killer.”
He looked surprised and worried. She could see that he hadn’t considered the madman who had attacked him could be a serial killer.
“We know he gets his victims from truck stops and interstate r
est areas.”
Again she paused, giving him time to take it all in. She kept her tone gentle and conversational while she examined his face and his mannerisms and his posture. His hands were in his lap. Earlier they had flexed almost constantly. Now one was a tight fist held inside the other’s palm.
“We think he takes advantage of them. Plays on his victims’ vulnerabilities. Perhaps the person’s car has stalled. Maybe they’ve run out of gas and are stranded for one reason or another. These are places where travelers let down their guard. They’re tired. Sometimes they’ve been on the road for hours, maybe days. It’s late at night. All they want to do is use the restroom, get a soda, something to snack on before they get back on the road again. That’s probably why you and Ethan stopped, right?”
He nodded. “Ethan had to pee.” His eyes darted away for a second or two. “We were almost home.”
“You were coming home from college? Spring break.”
Another nod.
“Where do you go to school?”
“University of Missouri.”
“Mizzou Tigers.”
He looked surprised but pleased. It was the first genuine feeling he allowed her to see.
“That’s right.”
“I love college football,” Maggie said. “Do you play?”
“Naw.”
“You didn’t want to go to K-State?”
“Didn’t want to stay at home.”
The statement delivered, Maggie thought, exactly like a regular teenager.
“This killer,” he said, without prompting. “How many people has he killed?”
“We’ve found five,” Maggie said, continuing to keep her tone gentle. She had him talking. “We know there are more.”
His eyes flashed. He seemed surprised by the number. His brow furrowed as though he was trying to remember, or maybe trying not to remember. Detective Lopez had told them that Noah had been found wearing only his underwear and had been covered with blood. Most of it not his own.
Then in a whisper that Maggie could barely hear, Noah asked, “What did he do to them?”
She hesitated but only for a second or two before she said, “Probably the same things he did to Ethan.”
CHAPTER 37
VIRGINIA
Gwen hated being back at the prison. This time AD Kunze tried to abbreviate the full-body search that Warden Demarcus ordered. Demarcus knew he had something they wanted or they wouldn’t be back here this soon. He had the upper hand and he was going to use it to his full extent. For his effort, Kunze ended up getting groped as well.
This time, however, Gwen had worn sensible shoes and her control-top pantyhose again, along with what she called her best “old lady” bra. Still, the guard managed to grope and paw, not even pretending that any of it was accidental.
As soon as Otis sat down across from her—even as the guard finished clasping his shackles to the floor—Gwen noticed the bruise on Otis’s face. It looked fresh and swollen, deep purple, the size of a golf ball above his left temple. Maybe larger because part of it blended into his sideburn.
She waited for the guard to leave.
“How did you get that bruise?”
“Oh this?” Otis smiled, uncharacteristically wide and toothy, his signal that he wasn’t going to tell. His fingertips brushed over the area. “That’s just a love tap.”
She saw his eyes dart over to the wall of tinted glass that kept Kunze and Demarcus invisible as they sat and watched and listened.
Had Demarcus struck a prisoner? No, he probably wouldn’t have done it himself. Just like his full-body searches, he would have had one of his men do it. But why? She tried to remember what Otis may have said the last time. Of course, it might not have been related to her visit. It could have been something else. Some other disciplinary action that had been well deserved.
“I hoped you’d come back,” Otis said.
He was watching her. His lopsided grin firmly in place. He was sitting back with his arms crossed—that is, crossed in an awkward manner because of the shackle and short length of chain. Again, he reminded her of an overgrown teenager, uncomfortable and not knowing what to do with his hands.
Then without waiting for her to speak, he said, “You found something.” A statement, not a question.
“Yes.” It was silly to say anything else.
“And now you believe me.” His tongue flicked over his lips. He was pleased.
“Yes.”
His face lit up like a little boy’s on Christmas morning. Obviously pleased, so much so that even the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes smiled.
“I’m hoping,” she continued slowly, deliberately, “that you’ll share with me more of what Jack told you.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, then paused, head now tilted, watching her, gauging her body language. He still didn’t trust her. “Why would I wanna do that?”
She wondered the same thing. Why would he want to share? If he had wanted a deal to reduce his sentence or one that gave him any perks, he would have brought it up last month when he shared the first information about the victim in the culvert with the orange socks.
Gwen suspected Otis had shared Jack’s stories with her and with the news reporter last month simply because he enjoyed the attention. Even he had pronounced himself a “powermaniac.” She knew that arsonists—especially serial arsonists like Otis—set fires not just because of the power they felt through destruction but also the power they gained from the attention. But now he was looking at her expectantly, like there was something tangible he wanted from her.
“Depending on what else you offer,” she said, “I would certainly consider personally testifying to your parole board about how you’ve helped us.”
She had absolutely no authority to make that offer and she imagined Kunze jumping out of his chair and screaming at her through the soundproof wall. Whatever the repercussions, she saw immediately that the payoff would be worth it.
There was something that swept across Otis’s face, an emotion so strong he couldn’t hide it behind one of his silly grins. Gwen recognized that they were his coping mechanism, an internal leveler that he used even when they didn’t match his words or moods. But in the seconds that followed Gwen’s offer, Otis slipped. His eyes flashed disbelief. The smile waned—but just for a couple of seconds, at most. And in that brief momentary lapse, Gwen saw that Otis P. Dodd was surprised—maybe “flabbergasted” was a better word—that someone like her would sincerely offer to speak on his behalf.
“You’d do that?” The smile returned, along with the poke of the tongue.
Finally he sat up and leaned forward, but only slightly. Trust was such a delicate thing, so fragile, not easily earned and harder to repair.
“If you provide us with more information that helps us find Jack, yes, I would do that.”
“Find Jack?”
He slipped back in his seat. He hadn’t seen that one coming and he shook his head as if she had sucker-punched him.
So much for trust. She had shattered it before she could claim it.
“Perhaps you can help me understand him. You know, learn about him and why he does what he does.”
Would he notice how much she was backtracking? If they wanted someone who was good at sucking up to criminals they should have hired a hostage negotiator. She never pretended to understand how to relate to the criminal mind even as she studied it and hoped to dissect it.
“Maybe I will tell you about Jack just because I like your company. And I think you’re pretty.”
Her turn—she had not seen that one coming. It was definitely becoming a battle of wits. And Otis was certainly not a dim one.
“You like older women?” She produced a laugh to make it sound like she thought he was putting her on.
“Why now, you can’t be a day past what’s old enough for me.”
It sounded sweet and charming and only reinforced her image of him as a teenage boy. Even Otis’s neck flushed red.
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“Tell me about meeting Jack. You said you spent an evening drinking with him. It sounds like you had an opportunity to get to know him.”
Otis leaned forward. Was he finally ready to confide in her?
“Funny thing about Jack. Just when you might think you’re getting to know him and what not, you sorta realize you don’t know Jack. I think there ain’t nobody that knows Jack.”
“But he told you things.”
“Yep, that’s right. He told me a whole bunch of stuff.”
“Why do you suppose he did that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Otis said, but he wasn’t rattled or defensive. He leaned back and did his search of the ceiling, like he’d find the answers there. “I supposed he saw that me and him have something in common, you know. Both of us kinda got messed up when we were kids.”
“He talked to you about when he was a boy?”
“No, he doesn’t really like to talk about it. I could just tell. Like there was something there. But Jack could see that me and him, we ain’t like normal people.”
“What’s normal? Does anyone know?”
Otis laughed, a genuine chuckle this time. Gwen should have been pleased that she’d made him laugh. Then he squinted at her as if he were trying to determine if she was serious, or if she was playing him.
“Whatever it is, I’m not sure I can get back to normal,” he said.
She met his eyes and knew there was nothing dimwitted about this man. He was too good at throwing out simple remarks that cut deeper.
Gwen shrugged, trying to encourage him to continue. She could see that he wanted to.
“And Jack?”
“Oh, he’s not normal.” He laughed again. But this time it didn’t sound genuine or joyful. It sounded nervous and forced.
“So what makes him kill?”
He shrugged with both shoulders, practically bringing them up to his huge earlobes, an exaggerated gesture. Gwen realized Otis knew much more than he was willing to share.