Right Behind You

  “Desktop. Was on that little table in the corner. It’s already been sent to the tech geeks for analysis.”

  “Okay.”

  “What are you looking for?” Shelly asked, crossing through the kitchen to the family room.

  “Telly. I’m looking for Telly. Because so far, all of this . . .” Cal waved his hand around the space. “This is all about the mom. Her house. Her domain. Which I have nothing against. But if you’re a teenage boy . . .”

  “This isn’t his space.”

  “No. He might sit at the table to eat, hang out on the couch to watch TV. But none of this is him. And a family computer, no way he’s putting anything personal on that, not to mention most teens do all their posting using cell phones, not a desktop.”

  “Telly’s cell phone was found inside the abandoned truck—at least the cell listed on the Duvalls’ family plan. It’s possible he has a burner phone. Teenagers have gotten pretty savvy about using prepaid cells for all the activities they don’t want their parents to know about.”

  Cal looked at her. “Shooters talk, right? I’m no expert, but all these rampages. The killers posted messages online, filled journals with their rage. World failed them. World owes them. So where is that? Where’s some sign of the troubled foster kid’s . . . troubles?”

  Shelly got his point. The more she looked through the house, the more she also saw what Cal, being a male, had picked up immediately. This was a woman’s domain. Meaning when Telly needed to get away, escape . . .

  “Bedroom,” she said.

  Quincy had done the honors the first time around, walking the hallway, checking the rooms for bodies. Now Shelly moved through the narrow hall. First bedroom had been the Duvalls’, which left two more open doorways.

  Next room. Spartan. Dark paneled walls, twin bed, small wooden desk topped with a pile of paperbacks. She noted a charger, as if for an iPod or cell phone, but the device was missing.

  “Didn’t take his charger,” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure why it mattered.

  “No way to plug and play in the woods.” Cal was studying the books, which were about the only personal items in the room. Shelly glanced at the paperbacks. A Lee Child, Brad Taylor, and, of all things, Huck Finn. Maybe a reading assignment for school. Still nothing that ominous.

  “Room’s been photographed?” Cal asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Searched?”

  “Preliminary. We’ve been a bit . . . busy.”

  “May I?” He gestured to the space, and she nodded.

  She wasn’t sure what she thought the tracker would do first. Pull out drawers. Tap the walls. Rip up floorboards. Instead, Cal headed straight to the bed. He lay down on top, tucked his hands behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling.

  Imitating a seventeen-year-old boy, lost in his own thoughts. Thinking like his target.

  Getting into the spirit of the game, Shelly took a seat at the desk. Not much to look at. Walls were dark, the desk cramped, and she wasn’t even that big. But Telly would’ve sat here, slaving over schoolwork. His files didn’t show him to be a star student, but whether that was lack of effort or lack of ability she couldn’t say. So far, his crime spree felt plenty smart to her.

  She traced her fingers over the wood of the desk. Feeling the impressions and scars of so many written words over so many years, decades, generations. She pulled out the rickety desk drawer. Loose paper, sticky notes, a lot of pens. But no journal jumped out at her.

  Maybe he had posted something online. Kids these days seemed to live more on social media than in the real world to someone like her. Computer techs would figure it out sooner or later. Not to mention Shelly’s detectives were in the process of subpoenaing records from the Duvalls’ cellular phone provider. But thinking once again like Telly . . .

  She couldn’t picture him online. She didn’t know why. She just couldn’t. He was tactile, she thought. Telly didn’t want to just see the world. He wanted to feel it with his own hands. Hence his choice of reading materials, dog-eared paperbacks versus the e-readers everyone nowadays seemed to favor.

  “There’s something on the ceiling,” Cal said.

  Shelly sat up. The tracker had been so quiet, she’d forgotten about him. “What?”

  “Don’t know. Depending on how the light hits it, I can see a sheen. Looping. In a pattern. Maybe a drawing, doodles of some kind?”

  “Hang on.” Shelly returned to the desk drawer. The collection of pens. Sure enough. Neon colors. Except they felt unnaturally heavy in her hands, and were round and bulky at the end . . . Heavy from a battery, she determined, which powered a tiny little bulb at the base. Black light. The ink pens all contained a black light on one end.

  “Close the drapes,” she instructed Cal.

  Then she was off the chair, tending to the door, snapping off the light. Cal obeyed without saying a word. Then, when the room was a dull, gray space, light just seeping around the edges of the curtain . . .

  Shelly pushed the button on the ink pen. The black light came on, hitting Cal between the eyes. She angled it up to the ceiling and sure enough, writing. Letter by letter. Word by word.

  “‘Who.’” Cal identified the first word.

  “‘Am I?’” Shelly managed the second two.

  “‘Zero.’”

  “‘Hero.’”

  “‘Zero or hero,’” they got together.

  “‘Who am I?’” Shelly repeated. “‘Zero or hero.’” Then, beaming the light across the rest of the ceiling and around the wood-paneled walls, they encountered the same words over and over again. A seemingly endless litany: Who am I who am I who am I who am I? With an occasional interjection of: Zero or hero. But mostly just, Who am I who am I who am I?

  Telly Ray Nash had been keeping a journal of sorts. All over the confines of his bedroom. A message of doubt and pressure and stress.

  Who am I?

  Zero or hero.

  Shelly really wished the kid had picked a better answer to that.

  Chapter 23

  QUINCY HAD SPOTTED SHELLY’S SUV parked outside the Duvalls’ house. He entered the home on his own, discovering Shelly standing in Telly Nash’s darkened bedroom and a shadowed form lying faceup on the kid’s bed. He reached instinctively for his ankle holster just as the pen in Shelly’s hand lit up.

  And the ceiling.

  The walls.

  Who am I who am I who am I who am I?

  Zero or hero.

  Who am I?

  The words covered the ceiling, the dark wood-paneled walls. Large script in places, but also crammed in unbelievably small print in the corners. Different days, Quincy thought. Different moods. But the same burning question. Over and over again.

  What had the probation officer Aly Sanchez said about her charge? That Telly was a kid on the edge.

  Here, under the illumination of black light, Quincy could practically feel a teenage boy’s relentless stress radiating off the walls of his bedroom.

  Who am I, indeed. Zero or hero. For Telly Ray Nash, that had already proven a tricky proposition.

  “Hypergraphia,” Quincy said quietly. Shelly whirled sharply, hand going to her holster. Quincy figured she hadn’t heard him come in. Now she exhaled heavily, lowering the glowing pen while the second person sat up on the bed.

  “I bet if we could find one of Telly’s school notebooks, we’d discover every square inch also covered in writings. Maybe even this same phrase. It’s a form of OCD. Some people have to wash their hands over and over to ease their anxiety. Telly must write.”

  “I didn’t see any notebooks.” The second person rose off the bed, dressed in outdoor gear, long pale hiking pants, green shirt, hiking boots. “Hi, I’m Cal Noonan. One of the trackers. I’m also head cheese maker of the factory, if you like cheese.”

  The man stuck out
his hand. Quincy shook it. “Pierce Quincy. Law enforcement consultant. Shelly brought me in as an expert in deviant minds.”

  “You a profiler?”

  “Guilty as charged.” Quincy kept his gaze on Shelly.

  She shook her head, knowing his first question without being asked. “BOLO is out, but still no sign of Sharlah.” She cleared her throat. “Quincy’s foster daughter, Sharlah,” she explained to Cal, “is Telly’s younger sister.”

  Cal stood between them, hands on his hips. “And now she’s missing? Of her own volition?”

  “Most likely.”

  “To meet her brother, you think?”

  “My daughter’s thirteen. What I’ve learned so far is that having a teenager makes it impossible to think.”

  Cal nodded. “At the moment, my job is to think like a seventeen-year-old boy—Telly Ray Nash. I’ll be the first to say, he’s getting the better of us.”

  “Shouldn’t you be out in the woods? Or does this mean you think he’ll circle back here?”

  “Kid’s got a four-wheeler. Puts his speed beyond my abilities. Right now, we’re waiting for a helicopter sighting, news from the hotline, or lucky break on the patrol front. While we’re waiting, I asked Shelly to bring me here. See what I might notice, given my own . . . unique perspective.” Cal regarded Quincy seriously. “Boy shot up two members of my search team. Don’t think for a moment I’m off this hunt.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s been a long day for a lot of people,” Cal stated, which said enough.

  “So what have you discovered?” Quincy asked. “Other than . . . this?”

  “Don’t these guys write?” Cal asked. “I don’t mean ink doodles all over their walls, but social media posts, private journals, hit lists?”

  “In theory, yes. Given what we’re seeing here, I would guess journal entries over social media posts.”

  “No diaries in the room,” Shelly reported.

  “He took the journals with him?” Cal asked.

  Quincy shrugged. “Possible. But . . .”

  “But what?” Shelly prodded.

  “Most mass shooters, they want their rage to be heard. Hence they make their letters, posts readily accessible. If he really did have a personal diary, he should’ve left it for others to find. Tucking away such writings would be different, but is it relevant? I’m not sure.” He turned to Shelly. “Any luck with the computer?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. But to be honest, the attack on the search team . . . It’s frayed us. On the one hand, I got officers pouring in from all over the state to help out. On the other hand . . .”

  “Makes it that much tougher to remain focused and on task,” Quincy filled in. Shelly nodded and Quincy could tell from the look on her face how much that admission cost her.

  “Coming here was smart,” he offered up. “When in doubt, regroup. And you’re right,” he said, including Cal in his pep talk. “No matter what’s going on, it all comes down to one thing, one person. Telly Ray Nash. The better we understand him, the better the chance of getting ahead. So what do we know so far?”

  “He’s a troubled teen,” Shelly supplied. “We just met the Duvalls’ oldest son, Henry.

  “According to him, his parents are great people, fully committed to helping a kid like Telly get his life in order. But that doesn’t change the fact that Telly comes from a violent past and is known for an explosive temper when under stress. And according to his bedroom walls, at least, he’s under a great deal of stress.”

  Quincy nodded. “In other words, Telly’s birth parents might have deserved what happened to them. But the Duvalls . . .”

  “We haven’t found anyone with a bad word to say about them,” Shelly provided. “Whatever triggered this morning’s violence—”

  “Probably has more to do with Telly than the Duvalls.”

  Shelly nodded. “Though just to make things interesting, we have a witness who reported seeing Telly Ray Nash in the EZ Gas two weeks ago, with a young male who matches Henry Duvall’s description.”

  Quincy arched a brow.

  “To be fair, the description probably matches a third of the young men out there. But yeah, I think I’ll have a detective follow up with Henry’s whereabouts two weeks ago.”

  “Do we know of a reason Henry might want to harm his parents?”

  “None at all. Then again, the list of things we don’t know right now is definitely longer than the list of things we do. Henry also claims his parents have no close friends or associates. Their love for each other was enough for them.”

  Quincy didn’t respond to the sheriff’s dry tone. Frankly, the same could be said of Rainie and him, though such a statement would definitely make Rainie roll her eyes. And yet their social circle remained limited. Most nights, they stayed home with each other, and, of course, Sharlah.

  Cal spoke up. “Boy’s a thinker. Explosive temper always implies impulsive to me, but I don’t know. From what I saw this morning, he’s plenty smart. Following the drainage ditch from the EZ Gas was a good move on his part. Then in the third house, taking the time to change his appearance—”

  “Excuse me?” Quincy interrupted.

  “Kid changed his shirt, grabbed a baseball cap, even smeared some shoe polish on his face. To alter his appearance is my guess. Then, of course, he stole the four-wheeler. If he’s doing all of this while in a fit of temper, he’s the cleverest hothead I’ve ever met.”

  Quincy frowned. He didn’t like what he was hearing. He turned to Shelly. “According to Aly Sanchez, Telly’s previous episodes of violence were explosive. He snapped, so to speak, and, afterward, didn’t even seem to remember what he’d done. But if he’s now taking steps to alter his appearance, plus stealing vehicles to help evade law enforcement . . . Mr. Noonan has a point: We’re well beyond explosive rage and impulsive acts. Telly knows what he’s doing. This isn’t some red haze of battle he’s going to snap back out of.”

  Shelly didn’t say anything, because what was there to say to that?

  Quincy looked around the room again. Following Shelly and the tracker’s example, he did his best to put himself in the mind-set of a troubled teenager. One whose early home life had been steeped in violence. But he’d had his sister—even bonded with his sister according to what Rainie had learned. It might sound simple to outsiders, but that kind of early relationship made a big difference. In fact, it should’ve helped set the stage for Telly to bond again, say, to the Duvalls, who were apparently serious about offering a home.

  Instead, he’d killed them, too. Two very different home environments, if reports were to be believed. But both ended with the exact same results.

  Quincy didn’t like the logical conclusion to that thought. Especially not for Sharlah.

  “We need to find him,” Quincy murmured, more to himself than to Shelly and Cal. “Telly might’ve started from a place of impulsive anger—shooting his foster parents due to some perceived threat, then moving on to the EZ Gas out of blind rage. But he’s not explosive anymore. Odds are, he now has some kind of plan. And he won’t stop until it’s done.”

  “What’s his plan?” Shelly asked.

  “That’s what we need to figure out next.”

  —

  THEY SPLIT UP. Cal wanted to inspect the garage for signs of missing gear. Given Frank Duvall’s reputation as an outdoorsman, he probably had at least a tent, sleeping bag, other basic supplies. The absence of which would mean Telly was better equipped than they’d previously thought.

  Shelly moved into the family room to check in with operations.

  Which left Quincy alone in Telly’s room. He thought of Cal lying on the kid’s bed and realized it wasn’t a bad approach. Think like your target; that’s what Cal had said. Which is exactly what a profiler did.

  Quincy didn’t take the bed. He sat at the d
esk instead. For a bit, he picked up the paperbacks, thumbed the worn edges. Military thrillers. Books with clear right and wrong where the good guys always won in the end. Zero or hero. A part of Telly clearly wanted to be the hero. The brother who’d saved his sister. The troubled teen who, according to his PO, was trying to do better. What was it Aly had said? Telly trying was a good kid. Telly trying was his own kind of hero.

  So what had pushed him over the edge?

  The Duvalls were described as mentoring foster parents. But no doubt that also meant they had rules for Telly to follow, expectations to be met. Had he gotten into another altercation at summer school? Been caught in a lie? Taken up drinking or drugs?

  Quincy began to methodically open up drawers. The desk. Bedside table. Old wooden bureau. He and Rainie had had to take a class on kids and drugs as part of their fostering training. They’d laughed—two experts in criminal minds being forced to take a drug abuse awareness class. But in fact, the whole hour had been enlightening. As profilers, they didn’t work drug cases. And no, they hadn’t thought of hiding rolling papers in the pages of books, or stashing needle tips inside barrels of pens, or tucking baggies of powder behind speaker foam. And teenagers always had electronics in their hands. Making the devices a great way to transport drugs without anyone being the wiser.

  If Telly was an addict, however, Quincy couldn’t find the signs. And the more he thought about it, the less he liked the idea anyway. According to Aly Sanchez, Telly had seen the toll drugs and alcohol had taken on his parents. Having lived that life once, Telly had more incentive than most to just say no.

  There was no way of predicting what might set a shooter off, of course. Telly could’ve done any number of things that might have earned him punishment. Which in turn had triggered his resentment or rage.

  But if the Duvalls were indeed the targets, why had Telly shot them as they slept? In theory, he should have wanted them awake, terrified. Acknowledging their foster son and the command he now held over their lives.

  Power. That’s what rampage killers really wanted. One moment when they were finally the ones in control.