Days of Reckoning (22 page)

He found the house without any problem; even in the dark, he could see the numbers by the door, lit by a bright spotlight in the yard. The problem was finding a place to park his car. Four vehicles were crammed into the driveway of the home, and the rest of the street was lined with cars, trucks and SUV’s parked bumper to bumper. Sam took note of the house’s location and pulled around the block. Parking was only permitted on one side of the road on this street, so he drove almost another block before he found an opening into which he could wedge his sedan. It was a tight fit, but the best he could do. Sam was glad it was warm out when he stepped from his car.

He almost turned around and went home when he approached the residence. He could see people milling around inside and hear muted voices coming through the windows. But he had come a long way, and had broken up parties before on police business. So he trudged up the walk and rang the doorbell.

The middle-aged woman who answered the door was dressed in black. Her hazel eyes were red, and tear-lines streaked her face. “May I help you?” she asked in a quivering voice.

“Um,” Sam managed to reply. His heart had dropped a few feet. He knew a funeral party when he saw one. He wondered if maybe Damon had struck here as well. The woman looked patiently at him. “Um, my name is Sam Connor. I’m a detective from Sparta, Ohio. Are you Mrs. Hanson?”

“Yes. How may I help you, Detective?”

Sam wondered briefly how to play this. He’d had several hours of travel time to plan for contingencies, but the thought of crashing a funeral reception hadn’t entered into his mind. “Well, I’m investigating a series of, uh, incidents in my town. And someone involved in the case has disappeared. We searched his home and found an envelope with your address printed on it. I was wondering if you could perhaps shed some light on things for me. Did either you or your husband know anyone living in Sparta, Mrs. Hanson?”

The woman looked at him, her chin quivering with each word that he spoke. Fresh tears began pouring down her cheeks. Not good, Sam thought. A man appeared behind her. “Honey, are you all right?” The woman shook her head and turned, sobbing into the man’s shoulder. He stared at Sam. “Can I help you, Mister?”

“Um,” Sam began again, but then a second man’s voice cut him off.

“Heard it all, Ted. This feller here says he’s a detective from Ohio. He’s got no jurisdiction here, so if you don’t want to say anything, you don’t have to.”

The first man looked at the speaker behind him and then back to Sam. “Look buddy, I don’t know what you want, but we’ve answered enough questions the past two days. We just lost our boy, and would appreciate it if you let us grieve a bit before you start your grillings. You got anything to say, you can say it to my attorney here.” Ted Hanson pulled his wife out of the doorway. The other man came onto the porch and pulled the door shut.

Sam sized him up. He was short, probably in his late forties, wore glasses and had flaming red hair. His suit, shirt and tie were all black. The man said, “I’m Keith Dunlap. I represent Mr. and Mrs. Hanson. I suspect you’re here to ask about their son.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Sam said, truthfully. “Look, I’ll lay things out as best I can for you. There’s been a string of murders in my town the past week. We have reason to believe that a gentleman going by the name of Damon Shearer was involved. When we searched his house, we found a letter, an envelope actually, addressed from this residence, with the names of Mr. and Mrs. Hanson written on it.”

Sam rubbed his temples. He hated feeling like he was already on a witness stand, but he played along. Attorney Dunlap looked like he something important to say. “Almost a week ago. The latest attempt was last night, but it failed.”

“Well Detective, you can scratch Damon Shearer Hanson from your list of suspects. He was Ted and Jeanne Hanson’s boy. His decomposing body was found in a creek the night before last.”

#

Jeanne Hanson had been watching from the window, and regained her composure when she saw the look of shock on the detective’s face. She agreed to speak with him in private, with Keith Dunlap there for moral support.

“We haven’t heard from him in months. He had started running around with some, well, with a bad bunch here. A lot of them got arrested a while back, and he just disappeared. We’d get a phone call every now and then, always from a pay phone. We tried to send money to help him out. He always had a different address. Ohio, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, even Indiana. We didn’t know if he had done anything wrong, been kidnapped, or what. Then we stopped hearing from him altogether. No calls, nothing. And then, earlier this week…” her voice trailed off weakly. Dunlap patted her shoulder reassuringly.

Sam thought of Miranda’s brother, dead for almost a month and found in a cornfield. He shook his head in bewilderment. If Damon hadn’t been doing the killings, then who? This mystery woman? Someone else entirely?

He came clean with the Hanson’s, telling them that their son had been a suspect, and indeed had been linked to a militant group in Ohio. But if he was dead, then he was obviously a victim too, and not the perpetrator. They gave him as much information as they could, and Dunlap told him where he could find the State Police, who were investigating the murder of Damon Hanson.

Sam went back to his car and slumped in the front seat, complete defeat etched in his face. “I’ve been wrong the whole time,” he muttered. “The whole fucking time.” He looked at the picture that the Hansons had been kind enough to let him borrow. It was old, from high school probably, but he was looking at a smiling young Damon Shearer. Check that, Damon Shearer Hanson.

Sam drummed his steering wheel, trying to piece things together. Someone was killing the Sparta Militia. Why? A gun dealer first, then the majority of the members. Somewhere in there Damon had been killed too, only his body had been tossed. Sam wondered where the young man had died. Whoever was killing the militia hadn’t bothered to hide the acts, but Damon… What if someone wanted the police, perhaps even the militia, to think that Damon was the one killing them? That would only work if he wasn’t found. At least not in Sparta. West Virginia would have no reason to let anyone in Ohio know that Damon Hanson was dead. And no one in Ohio would really care about Damon Hanson, because that was a name that wouldn’t be coming up on anyone’s list of suspects. There was no reason to believe that Damon hadn’t simply been killed in the woods and tossed into the creek; after all, there were plenty of militant groups in the area, and they were dangerous people to be running around with.

But Sam had reason to believe something else was going on. He made himself put the key in the ignition of his car and turn the machine on. The fatigue he had been feeling bled off as he steeled himself with new resolve. He could feel the answer there; it was close at hand. Just another corner or two to turn, that was all. But he would have to be careful. Whoever the real killer or killers were, they were ruthless. If they felt him getting too close… Well, he had an idea what would happen. Aunt Fran had been threatened; perhaps not blatantly, but the mere presence of that blonde woman was all the threat he needed. He was glad to have Arnie, Kevin and Miranda watching over her.

Tracy Oliver wanted to go out. She called her former boyfriend, Sam Connor, hoping that maybe he would want to get together for a little fling. She had read in a magazine that interludes with exes could be very satisfying experiences. Besides, seeing him out with another woman – one younger than she was, at that – fanned the flames of jealousy. It wasn’t so much that she wanted him back; she just wanted to be the one who found someone else first.

She studied herself in a full-length mirror. Her figure was still respectable, and her legs looked great in a little black skirt. Her blonde hair was teased just a little, and her make-up was subtle yet sexy, just like the magazines commanded. She looked good. Sam would be impressed.

Unfortunately, every number of his that she called failed to connect her with the man. She pouted. This simply would not do. She had been trying to call him for weeks, and in the past several days hadn’t spoken to anything other than his voice-mail. He never returned those messages, so she didn’t bother leaving a new one. Tracy flopped on her couch to brood. She contemplated getting herself a beer and going out, but then her doorbell rang.

Even though it was late, she decided to answer it. Her girlfriends often stopped by on a whim, and they usually knew of good places to go to when they went out. Maybe she’d get to show herself off after all.

She didn’t recognize the young woman with the blonde hair standing on her porch. “Uh, may I help you?”

#

Miranda smiled at Tracy. She had met her once before at an office function. Sam had looked rather grim to be dragging her to it, and Tracy hadn’t looked all that excited about having been dragged along. She wouldn’t be a big loss.

“Step inside and keep your hands where I can see them.”

“What?” Tracy looked shocked and confused. Then she saw the pistol in Miranda’s hand, pointing at her mid-section. For some reason she recognized it as a Glock, probably because Sam carried one. She blanched, and took a stumbling step backwards. “What is this?” she muttered, trembling.

“Just do as I say, and everything will be alright.”

“My boyfriend’s a cop,” Tracy protested, trying to sound defiant.

“Right.” Miranda pushed her way forward, into the house, and kicked the front door shut. Tracy looked from her to the telephone. “Don’t even try it,” Miranda warned. “Put your hands on your head and get down on your knees.”

Tracy shook and whimpered, but did as she was told. Miranda moved behind her and then struck her hard. Tracy dropped to the floor with a muffled thump.

#

She awoke on her bed. She thought briefly that she’d had a bad dream, or maybe was really drunk and passed out. But then she tried to move.

Her arms were over her head, tied securely to her headboard. She struggled, but couldn’t move her feet either, for they were bound to the posts at the foot of her bed. Tracy tried to scream, but tape kept her mouth securely shut, and she managed only to emit a low moan.
Jesus, what the hell is happening here
?

A blonde woman entered the room. Staring down at Tracy, she said, “Well, well, up and at ‘em are we?”

Tracy stared up at her and moaned again. Her memory was coming back, and it especially focused on the gun she’d seen.

The blonde tutted and patted her captive on the cheek. “There, there,” she soothed. “You be a good girl and get some rest. Everything will be all right if you don’t give me any trouble.”

Tracy continued to struggle while her captor unfolded a futon and put some blankets on it. The woman then left the room and went into the bathroom while Tracy listened to her running water in the sink. In the process, she must have removed a wig, because when she came back into the bedroom, she had brunette hair and Tracy’s eyes widened in recognition.

#

Miranda caught the expression. “I was wondering if you remembered me. Those wigs you can get nowadays are great, aren’t they?” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Sam is doing well, if you’re wondering. He’s in West Virginia, hunting a murderer named Damon Shearer. I doubt he’ll find him, though. The boy’s been a slippery one.” Tracy stared at Miranda blankly.

“I’ve heard some of your messages on Sam’s machine,” Miranda continued. “You know, you really sound desperate. Between you and me, Sam wishes you’d leave him the fuck alone.”

Tracy groaned.

Miranda smiled in reply. “He’s a great guy. You really shouldn’t have dumped him like you did. Although I think he’ll be better off without you. He says you were pretty much a ‘psycho bitch,’ I think was the term he used. I guess he stuck with you mainly because you were a good fuck.”

Tracy moaned in protest and strained against her bonds.

Miranda checked to make sure they were secure. “You are an attractive woman,” she continued, pulling a roll of duct tape off of the nightstand and tearing a long piece from it. She used it to reinforce the bonds. “But that eighties hair of yours really needs to go. I mean honestly, I don’t know what it is with the people here being stuck in that decade.”

Tracy sobbed through the tape that bound her mouth. Miranda’s ad hoc psychological barrage was having the desired effect: breaking down any resolve her captive might have retained. Miranda patted Tracy roughly on the cheek. “Sweet dreams. I need some sleep, so don’t make too much noise.” Miranda laid down on the futon to fall asleep to the sounds of Tracy’s muffled sobs.

Sam ignored his ringing cell phone while he talked with the lieutenant on duty at the State Police Outpost. “Sorry about that,” he said, letting the call go into voice mail.

“I’ll bet.” Sam perused several photographs, including pictures of Damon in high school, from a line-up and after his body had been found. “Looks like he was a busy young man.”

“Mm hmm. He up and disappeared a month or so ago, right after a black church was firebombed in Charleston. Witnesses saw some John Doe leaving the scene, but Damon here,” Armstrong scratched his head, “well, him disappearing right after seemed mighty suspicious.”

“Okay, so this John Doe, is this the guy?” He held up a police sketch, which matched the one he had in his desk drawer.

“Best we could do. Lady was pretty badly shaken, it was dark, you know the drill. She couldn’t ID him through any of our mug shots, so we think he’s somebody new.”