Dead River (20 page)

Adam went to his daughter and with his arm around her waist walked her back to her mother. Valerie’s face was puffy and red, her eyes swollen with tears.

Goldman stepped quickly to the podium and leaned into the cluster of microphones. Adam could see Goldman’s face in the monitor, shooting a severe stare straight ahead. “I said I would field the questions,” Goldman said in a cold, authoritative tone.

“Okay, then,” the same reporter said, “do you have any suspects in Sara Ann Riley’s killing?”

“No, we don’t, but we do have evidence that is getting us closer.”

“And what evidence is that?” another reporter shouted imperiously.

“I won’t discuss details that could jeopardize this case,” Goldman said.

“Agent Goldman,” a third reporter said, “do you think there will be more murders?”

“Yes, there’s a good chance, if he’s not caught soon.”

“What leads you to that conclusion?” the same reporter asked.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss those details.”

Adam saw a hand in the back of the crowd go high into the air. He recognized the face. It was Bruce Bingham, the biggest asshole to ever call himself a reporter for WFTV, the ABC affiliate in Orlando.

“Mr. Goldman,” Bingham said in deep, resonating voice, painfully pausing between the two words.

Goldman pointed toward Bingham. “Yes.”

“The medical examiner’s report showed there were letters carved on the forehead of Sara Ann Riley. What do they mean?”

Valerie shrieked. Dawn stood frozen. Adam’s head snapped in Goldman’s direction. Goldman stared ahead and gave his answer the instant Bingham’s last word rolled out of his mouth.

“I don’t know where you got that information, but again, I will not discuss any details that could jeopardize this case. The murderer is still at large. Our major concern is catching him before he strikes again.”

“But we need details about the murder for our viewers,” Bingham said.

“No more questions,” Goldman stated.

Adam heard grumbles from the crowd, grateful that Agent Goldman was handling the press conference. Bingham’s a bigger asshole than I realized.

“I do have one final comment,” Goldman announced. “Mr. Riley informed me this morning that the family has offered one-hundred thousand dollars to anyone who supplies information leading to the arrest of Sara Ann’s killer.”

“Goldman,” Bingham cried out. “Is the FBI putting up any of its money?”

Goldman turned from the podium and headed for the Rileys. He opened the front door, and the four disappeared inside.

 42

THURSDAY EVENING at nine, and the phone in Goldman’s hotel room was clattering. He muted the CNN newscast, cutting off the gaunt brunette with black horn-rimmed glasses in mid-sentence. Osama bin Laden and the U.S.’s inability to track him down were the last words blared from the Philips TV.

“Goldman.”

“Hi, Doug,” Wayne Chang said.

“Did the ESDA uncover anything?”

“Sure did. You remember I thought I saw some numbers imprinted on the first page of the letter?”

“Yes. You said it might be a phone number.”

“It is a phone number, and we also got a name.”

“No shit. What?”

“Only a first name. Jack.”

“Did you call the number?”

“Hold on, don’t get excited just yet. Only part of the number showed up.”

“Did you get the area code?”

“The area code’s clear, it’s in Georgia, and the prefix came through. But we could only recognize the third number in the last four digits. The first and second numbers are not clear at all, and the last number is either a two or seven.”

Goldman calculated in his head. “So, we need to call at most two hundred different phone numbers.”

“That’s correct.”

“That’ll take some time.”

“Sure will. Are you starting tonight?”

“One thing you’re not is a comedian, Chang.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll have Averly put two or three detectives on it tomorrow morning. Okay, give me the numbers.”

The temperature was already in the eighties Friday morning, and the air was saturated with moisture. The traffic on I-4 was a gnarled fusion of cars and delivery trucks, all seemingly going nowhere. Goldman eased his car north along the long stretch of interstate that was more like a slow-moving parking lot. He couldn’t help but find it amusing that the 132-mile highway, termed an interstate, only spanned Florida from Tampa to Daytona Beach.

It was seven miles from his hotel to the Orlando FBI office on Winderly Place, and so far he’d been driving, more like stopping, for twenty-five minutes. This is worse than gridlock in D.C., Goldman thought.

He wanted two, but instead got one detective from the OPD to start calling the numbers. He picked up his cell phone from the passenger seat and called Averly again.

“Did you try other units?” Goldman asked.

“I did, but everyone’s tied up,” Averly said. “I can only do so much over here. Can’t Wilkerson help?”

“I’ve got him off on something else. If you can’t get another detective, I want you calling some of the numbers. And set up a system so you don’t duplicate any numbers.”

“Come on, I have other things to do.”

“Hey! There’s nothing more important than this.”

“Okay, but—”

“I don’t want to hear it. Start calling.”

 43

THE DULL BLACK SEDAN crept along the crumbling asphalt road. House trailers lined both sides, some appeared abandoned, others were tattered and faded but clearly inhabited. A chalk-white vintage trailer home with lime-green trim sat off by itself on the left side of the narrow road. The landscaping consisted mostly of knee-high weeds and grass, with two paths cutting through the overgrowth. One trampled trail led to a set of rickety wooden stairs positioned at the front door of the trailer, the other to a rusted and tottering swing set in the backyard.

Gabriel checked his inside rearview mirror. No cars were behind him. Then he glanced out each side. On the left he spotted two children playing at the edge of the road in front of the lime-green trimmed trailer. A girl was pushing a smaller boy on a bicycle with training wheels. She threw her head back and laughed as she struggled through the tall grass, her long blond hair fanning out as she shook her head from side to side. The boy sat listlessly on the bike, gripping the handlebars with both hands as he was jostled about.

Gabriel pulled down the bill of his ball cap until it hit his Ray-Bans. He continued down the road slowly. He was now alongside the two children. He glanced toward the boy. His eyes were hollow and dark. Gabriel then turned his attention to the girl. She smiled in his direction as he slowly rolled his car down the road.

He felt a surging pillar of desire run through his body. The desire was as much a part of his life now as anything could be, the call from beyond piercing him, then vibrating inside like electricity. His head was spinning and his skin burned. A sinner, Gabriel thought, a blasphemous sinner! She must be saved!

At the end of the road Gabriel turned his car around and headed back. The girl stopped pushing the bike, the smile had disappeared from her face. I’m the revealer of answers and the maker of change. The world must be rid of these sinners. God’s world must be saved!

Gabriel was again beside the two children. He quickly glanced around. There was no one else in sight. He gave the horn a quick, sharp honk and leaned across the passenger seat, unlatching the door and pushing it open. The girl took a step backward and clutched the boy’s shoulders as he sat on the bike seat with his head down.

“Have you seen a small dog running around here?” Gabriel asked, in a gentle, caring voice. The girl shook her head.

He leaned closer and stared at the girl for a moment. “Will you help me look for him? He’s very scared.”

A frown formed on the girl’s round face. She whisked her blond hair back over her shoulder.

“I’ll give you five dollars if you help me. I have to find him. His name’s Skippy.”

“Can I play with Skippy?” the girl asked slowly.

“Sure.”

The girl leaned over and whispered something into the boy’s ear then headed for the open car door. Gabriel smiled as she approached the car.

 44

THE EARLY SATURDAY morning sky was sunny and humidity hung in the air. The first day of September offered no relief from the oppressive heat that had moved in early May and stayed for the summer.

Adam sat in his study with the door shut. This man that called himself Gabriel had shattered his family’s world. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, slowly lowering his face until it rested on both his hands. He quietly thought with his eyes closed. Dawn wouldn’t be going back to FSU for the fall semester. She had bodyguards with her everywhere she went. He had to go back to work soon but wasn’t confident that he could do anything useful. Valerie had missed the first week of classes and was now being asked by the school principal to report back Monday morning. The security system was finally installed, and Detective Carillo was still at the house.

This is maddening. Gabriel should die. He deserves to die. Adam massaged his temples and tried to imagine what this monster looked like, this freak of nature. No images came, only a storm of rage exploding inside his head.

Goldman’s hotel had two power outages in the middle of the night from a violent thunderstorm that swept through central Florida. His alarm was an hour off, but it didn’t matter. His biological clock woke him at precisely six in the morning.

After a short morning walk and a shower, Goldman ate breakfast in the hotel lobby restaurant. Fresh fruit, an assortment of granola muffins, coffee, and fresh-squeezed orange juice made up the continental breakfast. He finished and went back to his room. As he slid the magnetic card into the reader on the door he could hear his phone ringing. He rushed to the desk phone and picked it up. He noticed the red message light was blinking.

“Goldman.”

“This is Averly.”

“You hit the phone number we need?”

“No, but I got some bad news. It looks like our killer struck again.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“I just received a report that a nine-year-old girl, Tami Breckenridge, was abducted in the Orlando area yesterday evening. On the north side, in a trailer park. Actually a small town called Maitland.”

“Orlando area … It could be him.”

“I think it is. The m.o.’s the same.”

“Go on.”

“She was playing in her front yard with her four-year-old brother when a man pulled up in a car. A neighbor was supposed to be watching the kids while the mother worked. She heard a car horn honk. By the time she got out of her trailer, a man was driving off with the girl. She called the police immediately.”

“Was the neighbor able to give a description of the abductor?”

“Not really. She thought he had dark hair was all.”

“What about the car? She get a license number?”