Blood Trails (21 page)

“What, honey? What?”

She leaped off the bed, still pointing at the screen, just as Savannah’s name scrolled past again.

“Look! Look, there’s Savannah’s name. They’re saying Savannah died in an explosion. They’re referring to her as Gerald Stoss’s love child. That means she’d finally filed the papers with the court. Oh, my God, look what happened. They got to her again, and this time they killed her. I can’t believe this is happening. Please, God, please, this can’t be real.”

She was sobbing hysterically when Bud took her in his arms. The joy of their day had just been shattered. It was his worst nightmare come to life. He couldn’t think beyond the wave of grief that swept through him as he pulled her close against him.

All of a sudden Holly’s cell phone began to ring.

She threw herself on the bed, too distraught to talk, so Bud picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Bud? It’s me, Judd. You need to know that despite anything you might hear, Savannah’s okay. You didn’t already see anything, did you?”

Bud stood and reached for the back of a chair to steady himself.

“Thank the Lord…?. And unfortunately we did, which explains Holly’s sobbing in the background. Hang on. Holly! Sweetheart, Savannah’s okay.”

Holly rolled off the bed and bounded toward him, wiping the tears as she went. Bud pulled her close and gave her a quick hug. “Holly’s here,” he said into the phone. “She needs to hear her sister’s voice.”

“Hang on a minute.”

Bud could hear Judd calling to Savannah, and he handed the phone to Holly.

“Here, darlin’, Savannah’s coming to the phone.”

Holly waited anxiously. There were other voices in the background, as well as the sound of a television, and all of a sudden she felt light-headed and leaned over onto the desk.

“I need to sit.”

Bud grabbed a chair and pushed it behind her.

“Thank you. Going from absolute grief to pure joy in less than a minute is a little difficult to handle.”

He kissed her cheek, then started to walk away, but Holly stopped him. “I put the phone on speaker so you can hear, too.”

Then Savannah was on the phone, the pitch of her voice high with anxiety.

“Holly? Holly? Are you there?”

Relief flooded through Holly. “Yes, I’m here. Oh, my God, you nearly scared me to death! What’s going on? They said you were dead. It’s all over the news.”

“I didn’t know about the report until just a few minutes ago. It’s a long ugly story, but the bottom line is, my lawyer and the police have released this fake story to make the Stoss family think they’ve finally accomplished what they’ve been trying to do since I got here.”

“Are you sorry you started all this?” Holly asked.

“No.” Now Savannah’s voice was full of anger. “They’re responsible for murder, as well as for trying to kill me. They even killed my grandmother, who I just met, because they were afraid I’d told her something. I want them to pay. Are you okay? You haven’t raised any red flags about your past?”

“None that I know of,” Holly said, and then her voice softened. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother. That’s awful.”

“You’re lucky you’re not on anyone’s radar. Try and keep it that way. Let the police do their job, and you get yourself home.”

“I’ll go, but not until I find out what happened to my mother. I’ve been having terrible dreams. I’m pretty sure that as a child I found out that my father was killing people. I think I told my mother, and I believe that’s why she wanted me out of St. Louis so fast. She was afraid of what he would do to me. Sending me away got her killed. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, honey…I’m so sorry,” Savannah said. “Is Bud still there with you?”

“Yes, I’m here,” Bud spoke up.

“I’m so glad you’re there, Bud. After all that’s unraveling, it’s not safe doing this alone.”

“I’m pretty glad he’s here, too,” Holly said, absently rubbing the underside of her engagement ring with her thumb. “There are lots of things happening that we didn’t plan, but not all of them are bad.”

“Like what?” Savannah said. “What’s going on?”

“Oh…I’ll tell you all about it when we all get home.”

“Okay, just be careful. I love you,” Savannah said.

“I love you, too,” Holly echoed, then disconnected.

“You didn’t tell her,” Bud said, pointing at the ring.

Holly shook her head, and then put her arms around his neck.

“I’m feeling a little selfish about you and the engagement. Once everyone knows, they’ll be all in our business, asking questions, wanting answers as to when we’re going to get married, all that stuff. I want you to myself, at least for a little while longer.”

“Then that’s how it will be,” he said.

Thirteen

W
hit Carver’s day started off on a positive note when he came to work and found a note on his desk. Someone on the task force had found the name of the past owner of the wholesale company, along with an address and phone number. According to Whit’s information, the old man was in an assisted living center in Little Rock, Arkansas, near one of his children.

Whit headed for the command post in case he needed quick access to additional information, then made the call.

“Whispering Pines Retirement Center. How can I help you?”

“I need to speak to Kenneth Parks.”

“One moment, please. I’ll put you through to his room.”

“Thanks,” Whit said, as he was put on hold. He was just getting past the fact that the music in his ear was Elvis Presley’s “All Shook Up” when it stopped.

A gruff but shaky voice said, “Kenneth Parks speaking.”

“Mr. Parks, my name is Whitman Carver. I’m a detective with the St. Louis Police Department. I understand you’re the past owner of Parks Wholesale House, and I was hoping you could help me with a case we’re working on.”

There was a brief moment of silence, then a faint cough.

“Did you say you were a detective?”

Whit frowned. This might turn out to be a long conversation.

“Yes, sir. I work cold cases. You know…cases that were never solved.”

“I watch television. I know what cold cases are,” the old man muttered.

Whit’s frown shifted to a smile of amusement. Point taken. “All right, then. So, the questions I have for you are in regards to Parks Wholesale, the business you used to own here in St. Louis.”

“I may be old, but I’m not senile. I remember I owned it, too, sonny. What about it?”

Whit stifled a chuckle. He’d found himself quite a character. “Yes, sir, sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m trying to map out a specific route that one of your old employees used to make. It pertains to a series of murders that happened nearly twenty years ago and—”

“You wouldn’t be meaning that serial killer, the Hunter? Is that the case you’re working? It’s about time you people got that solved.”

“Yes, sir, that is the case, and we’re definitely trying.”

“That was awful. My wife, God rest her soul, used to play cards with the mother of one of those victims. I’ll do anything I can to help. Which employee of mine are you talking about?”

“The employee’s name is Harold Mackey. Do you remember him?”

“I remember Mackey. Odd duck.”

“How so?”

“Kept to himself. Didn’t socialize with anyone. Did his job just fine, but people oughta be friendly once in a while, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir. Now, about Mackey’s route, would you by chance remember any of his delivery stops or know someone who would?”

“I’ll do you one better. You got a map of the city there close?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” Whit said, and moved over to the murder board, focusing on the record they’d made of Mackey’s truck route.

“I owned that business for forty-seven years. I remember everything about where my trucks went and who was driving them. So find the elevenhundred block of Market Street on your map, and we’ll go from there.”

“Eleven-hundred Market Street,” Whit repeated, and motioned for one of the detectives to start marking.

“Yes. Eleven-oh-seven was his first stop on Mondays.”

Whit began repeating each address that Kenneth gave him, and one of the other cops made sure they went on the map. One by one, the old man went down a mental list of every stop on Harold Mackey’s route for the entire week, until he was through.

“And that’s the last one,” Kenneth Parks said.

“You’re sure that’s everything? I’m not questioning your memory. I just need to make very sure this is the entire route.”

“I’m a hundred percent sure,” Parks said. “And if this means what I think it means and you suspect Mackey of being the Hunter, it damn sure fits his personality.”

“Why do you say that?” Whit asked.

“As far as I know, he never missed a hunting season. He saved up all his vacation days so he could take off and go hunting or fishing or some such endeavor. I told you he didn’t talk much, but the only thing I ever heard him brag about was that he liked collecting trophies. I was never in his house, but I heard him mention more than once that he had the big kills mounted and hanging on his walls.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sir. And if he turns out to be that killer, I’m gonna be real upset that I paid the bastard even a dime of my money. Anything else you wanna know?”

“Not right now, sir, but thank you. Thank you very much. You have an amazing memory.”

Whit heard a brief snort, then a chuckle. “That’s about the only thing that still works. Have a nice day.”

The line went dead in Whit’s ear. He turned to look at the map.

“Where does this put us?”

Two of the detectives were already comparing the victims’ places of employment against Mackey’s route, while another was checking their places of residence.

There was excitement in the first detective’s voice when he spoke. “Hot damn! We’re getting matches! Already have two, no…three of the victims working at places where he stopped, and I’m still checking.”

Whit shivered. After all these years, were they finally going to be able to close the case?

Harold called in sick.

It was so unusual that Sonya didn’t have a backup driver. The scramble it took to find a sub so the deliveries would go out was so hectic that by the time she had a driver on the road, she was ticked. She complained to her boss about the lack of planning for such contingencies, and then went into the bathroom and cried from frustration.

Harold couldn’t have cared less. He had made himself a plan and needed the better part of the day to carry it out. By late afternoon he had everything he needed to make it happen: a duffel bag with a change of clothes, a fake ID he’d bought from Party Favors and Gifts, his toolbox—including a pipe wrench and his hunting knife—and a fifty-dollar arrangement from a flower shop.

He’d gone over the plan in his head many times—just like he used to do when he was taking down the scourges—and was ready for a trip to the hotel. He’d already shown up once as himself, so this time he had to come up with another approach. He didn’t know how long they kept security tapes, but he was covering all his bases.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn his khakis and was a little surprised to find he could barely button them. He added a blue knit shirt and tucked his ponytail up beneath a red baseball cap, then headed for the Jameson Hotel in his SUV.

He parked alongside the front curb, got the arrangement he’d purchased and carried it into the hotel, straight to the concierge.

“Got a delivery for a Holly Slade,” he said, putting down the arrangement, then began fumbling in his shirt pocket. “Dang, I lost the invoice with her room number. Sorry, man. You’ll have to look it up.”

The concierge typed the name in the hotel computer, then took the card from the flower arrangement and wrote down a number. Harold was watching every move the concierge made, and even though he was reading it upside down, it was easy to decipher the number—Room 663.

“Thanks again, man,” Harold said, and strode out of the hotel without looking back.

Now he knew her room number, too.

The deciding factor in whether he ran or made an attempt to eliminate his witness had to do in part with his reluctance to let a woman best him.

He would have bet his life that after what Harriet had seen, and how he’d scared her, she would never tell. But she had told, and then Twila had made it worse. She hid Harriet before he could rethink his earlier decision to let her live. Running now would have meant admitting defeat, and Harold wasn’t a quitter.

It was nearly sundown as Harold exited the hotel, then drove away. But he didn’t leave the premises for long. Instead, he circled the hotel to the delivery entrance and parked on the far side of a semi. Shielded from the view of passersby, he jumped out of the SUV and pulled an old pair of coveralls from his duffel bag. He put them on over the clothing he was wearing, traded his red baseball cap for a black hard hat, clipped the fake ID he’d made onto the pocket of his coveralls and then changed the shoes he was wearing for old work boots.

He pocketed his car keys, grabbed his toolbox and then headed for the delivery entrance with his head down. As he neared the door, it suddenly swung open, and two of the hotel’s employees came out.

“How’s it going?” Harold muttered, catching the door before it went shut and striding inside.

He was in! He began searching for the freight elevator. As soon as he located it, he went straight up to the sixth floor. Once off the elevator, he began looking for a house phone and found one near the guest elevators. After a quick glance to make sure he was alone, he made a call to Room 663.

Holly was just getting out of the tub when the house phone rang.

“I’ll get it, honey!” Bud yelled, giving her the space to finish dressing. They had a seven o’clock reservation at the hotel steak house, and he didn’t want to show up late.

“This is the front desk. There’s a package here for Miss Holly Slade.”

“Can you send it up?” Bud asked.

“I’m sorry,” Mackey said. “The courier is waiting. It has to be signed for.”

“By her personally?” Bud asked.