Don't Cry (14 page)

Ms. Milsaps cleared her throat. “Special Agent Cass?”

“Yes?”

“We don't have an address for Corey Bennett, but we have a phone number. I believe it's a cell number.” She handed J.D. a Post-it Note on which she'd written down the number. “And there's something else.”

“What?”

“It seems that Mr. Bennett paid for his aunt's funeral.”

“He did? Which funeral home?”

“The Chattanooga Funeral Home, East Chapel, in East Chattanooga.”

J.D. thanked her for her assistance, and by the time he reached his Camaro, parked in the area designated for visitors, he had already placed a call to the office requesting a records search for a man named Corey Bennett.

 

He waited for her.

Taking her from the café parking lot was not advisable. There were too many people in the general vicinity who might suspect something and try to interfere. He had been watching her and studying her routine for days now, although he had limited his visits to the restaurant so as not to arouse suspicion. And in case anyone actually remembered him and described him to the police, a few occasional meals at Callie's Café could be explained quite easily.

As she drove into the parking area outside her second-floor apartment, his heartbeat accelerated. Whenever he was this close to bringing her home again—home, where she belonged—the excitement became overwhelming. Just a few more minutes and she would be with him, and within an hour she would be with Cody again. Poor little Cody had missed her terribly. But they would soon be together again, and everything would be as it should be.

A mother should love her child and take care of him.

A mother should be with her child and never leave him.

She and Cody belonged together. Forever and always. All he was doing was making sure that happened, just as he had promised.

She got out of the car, locked it, and headed for the exterior stairs leading to the second level. That man she dated wasn't with her tonight. Good. He hated him. Hated that he had abused her.

He remained in the dark corner of the staircase, waiting and watching patiently. His pulse raced. His heartbeat roared in his ears. His muscles tensed with anticipation.

Her footsteps tapped softly against the metal stairs, her cushioned walking shoes muffling the sound.

She's close. So close.

As if sensing his presence, she paused at the top of the stairs and looked behind her. He pushed himself back against the wall and held his breath. Unless she took several more steps in his direction, she wouldn't be able to see him. From experience, he had learned that surprising her when she had her back to him made persuading her to go with him a lot easier.

She hurried toward her apartment door, inserted the key in the lock, and—

He pounced immediately, threw his right arm around her neck, and covered her face with the ether-soaked rag he held in his left hand. She emitted a startled squeak, but after only a token struggle, she slumped unconscious into his arms. He stuffed the rag into his pocket, lifted her off her feet, and carried her down the stairs and straight to his car. After glancing around to make sure they weren't being watched, he opened the back door and placed her on the seat.

The headlights of what appeared to be an SUV flashed brightly against the building as the vehicle pulled into the parking area. He hurried into the driver's seat of his car, started the engine, and backed out just as the SUV slid in beside him. He didn't look their way as he drove away. Slowly. Cautiously.

“We're going home,” he told her. “I'm taking you to Cody.”

 

Whitney Poole regained consciousness slowly, her head aching and her stomach queasy. Why was it pitch-black in her bedroom? She always kept a night-light burning in the bathroom and the door partially open. Had the power gone out? Was that why it was so dark? She felt around in the bed beside her and instantly realized three things: Travis wasn't with her, she wasn't in bed, and her wrists were bound to the arms of the chair she was sitting in.

Then it all came back to her, like a tidal wave hitting shore. She had left work, driven home, gotten out of her car, and walked up the stairs to her apartment. She had glanced up at her windows facing the parking area when she'd first arrived and noticed that there were no lights on. That had meant Travis wasn't there. Good riddance! She'd thought he loved her, but did a guy slap around a woman he really loved?

When she had reached the top of the stairs, she'd gotten one of those weird feelings, the kind that gave you cold chills. But she hadn't seen anybody, so she'd started to unlock her door when—!

Suddenly, Whitney screamed…and screamed…and screamed.

Once she stopped, her throat sore and her body trembling, she listened to the silence. Deadly silence.

“Where are you?” she asked.

No response.

“Damn it, where are you? Are you sitting over there somewhere watching me? Listening to me? Are you getting your cookies off knowing I'm scared shitless?”

She heard only the unbearable solitude.

She sat there, twisting her wrists, which were tied to the arms of what felt like a wooden chair, and straining to loosen the rope that bound her ankles together. When she struggled harder and harder trying to free herself, the chair moved, rocking back and forth, creaking eerily.

Oh, God! Oh, God!

The reality of her situation became immediately evident.

The man who had kidnapped her and brought her here—wherever here was—had done this before. Twice. She had read about it in the newspaper, had seen it on the TV news.

No, no. You can't be sure that it's the same guy.

It could be a coincidence.

It's not.

The Rocking Chair Killer had chosen her for his third victim.

J.D. left the Chattanooga Funeral Home's East Chapel with the same type of vague description of Corey Bennett that Ms. Milsaps had given him the day before at Moccasin Bend. Average. Young. Probably early thirties at most. Blondish brown hair. Wore glasses. Had a mustache.

“He paid in cash,” Mr. Scudder had said. “Not completely out of the ordinary, but unusual.”

“Anything else you remember about him?”

“No, not really. He was quiet. Didn't say much. Seemed genuinely sad about his aunt's death.” Mr. Scudder had shaken his head sympathetically. “He picked up the ashes himself. I do remember him saying that she grew up on a farm in Sale Creek and she would want to go back home.”

Then just after J.D. had thanked him and had started to leave, Mr. Scudder had called, “Special Agent Cass?”

“Yes?”

“There were a couple of other things that I—that we all thought were rather peculiar.”

“Exactly what were they?”

“Mr. Bennett brought a special container for his aunt's ashes.”

“And that's unusual?”

“No, but the container was, well, rather unorthodox.”

“What was it?”

“The container was a very small toy box,” Mr. Scudder had said. “A toy box that was covered with vividly painted ABC letters and various characters from nursery rhymes.”

Yeah, the container was rather unorthodox, to say the least. And rather ironic, considering Regina Bennett had been obsessed with toddlers, with little boys who bore a resemblance to her dead son.

“You said a couple of things,” J.D. had reminded Mr. Scudder. “What was the other thing?”

“He requested that we allow him to place a small item in the casket with his aunt before the cremation.”

“What item?”

“Well, I didn't see it, but Mr. Bennett said it was a doll that had been his aunt's favorite toy as a child.”

“A doll?”

“Yes, he had it wrapped in a blue blanket. I saw the blanket, but of course, didn't unwrap it and look at the doll inside.”

Good God almighty. Had this man actually put one of the toddler skeletons in the coffin with Regina Bennett? If so, they would never know, because whatever had been wrapped in the blanket had been cremated along with Regina.

As he drove away from the East Chapel and headed back to his office, J.D. went over the information he had so far obtained about Corey Bennett. According to the search results from the TBI inquiry, the telephone number Corey Bennett had given at Moccasin Bend had belonged to a disposable cell phone at that time. And the list of Corey Bennetts the TBI came up with proved that the name was actually fairly common and there were even a few female Corey Bennetts. There were a number of Corey Bennetts in the Chattanooga area, but so far, they hadn't found a link between anyone by that name and Regina Bennett, kidnapper and murderer.

The records on Regina showed that she had no siblings and no first cousins. And she was never married. So, how was it that she had a nephew?

J.D. intended to follow every possible lead, even if that meant personally interviewing every Corey Bennett in Chattanooga. But first, before going back to the field office, he needed to make a side trip just to satisfy his curiosity. And to put an end to a highly unlikely scenario that had popped into his head. What if there was some connection between the people who now owned the farm where Regina Bennett had lived and Corey Bennett?

Instead of following Moore Road to Ringgold Road, the route that would take him back to McCallie, J.D. headed west on I-24. At this time of day, without any traffic delays because of accidents or road construction, he would be in Sale Creek within thirty-five minutes.

 

Tam and Garth hadn't talked about Hart, about how he had shown up on her doorstep at two in the morning. They both knew that there was nothing to say. She suspected that Garth believed she still loved Hart, but he understood that she had no future with his nephew, that he was pure poison to her.

It had been business as usual, the two working together on the Rocking Chair Killer cases, and coming to one dead end after another. Frustration was mounting on a daily basis, from the DA's office and the mayor's office straight to the chief of police. Everyone wanted answers, but so far, all they had were more questions.

Tam rubbed her right temple trying to soothe a pounding headache. It was tension, pure and simple. Ever since Hart's unexpected late-night visit, she'd been coiled so tight that with the least provocation, she would snap. Marcus had commented on how irritable she'd been ever since he came home and she had assured him that it was just the pressures of her job, the two murder cases they hadn't been able to solve.

Last night, after she and Marcus had made love, after she had faked her orgasm, she had lain in her husband's arms and prayed for God to erase every thought of Hart Roberts from her mind and from her heart.

Marcus had held her, kissed her forehead, and told her how much he loved her. Then he had startled her by saying, “Is now a good time to talk about the future, while we're both relaxed and happy?”

How little he knew. How easily she pretended.

“What about the future?” she had asked, not daring to look him in the eye.

“I'm heading fast toward forty and you just turned thirty-four. I've been thinking that if we intend to have children, we might want to consider getting started sooner rather than later.”

When she hadn't immediately responded, he had cupped her chin and turned her around to face him.

She had forced a smile, one she prayed he wouldn't realize was as fake as her orgasm. “Yes, I think we should talk about having a baby, but not now. Not while I'm so involved with these murders.” She had caressed his cheek. “I love you. You know that. And we'll talk about having children soon. I promise.”

Marcus had accepted her response without question, agreeing that they would temporarily postpone the discussion about parenthood.

“Headache?” Garth's question snapped Tam out of her thoughts.

She glanced up at him. “Yeah.”

“Take some aspirin.”

“I did.”

“Take some more. We need to head out soon and I want you at your best.”

She eyed him inquisitively. “We're heading out where?”

“To talk to a missing woman's boyfriend, employer, and neighbors,” Garth told her.

“And we're working a missing persons case because…?” But she already knew. “He's kidnapped another woman, hasn't he?”

“Maybe. She fits the general description. Young, attractive, tall, and slender. Long, dark hair.”

“Damn!” The word escaped from between Tam's clenched teeth. “Who is she?”

“Whitney Poole, twenty-four. She's a waitress at Callie's Café. Her boyfriend reported her missing after she didn't come home last night or this morning. And her boss called her apartment looking for her because she didn't show up for work this morning. No one has seen her since she left the café last night. The boyfriend has called every girlfriend she has, and none of them have seen her.”

“She's been missing less than twenty-four hours, so I assume the reason we're jumping on this is because she fits the profile for the Rocking Chair Killer's other two victims.”

“We can't afford to wait,” Garth said. “If our guy abducted Whitney Poole, then the sooner we investigate, the better our chances are of nabbing this guy. And if it turns out he didn't take her or that maybe she's not actually missing, I'd rather know we acted immediately than risk the possibility that she is his third victim.”

 

The young woman who opened the door when J.D. arrived at the old farmhouse that had once belonged to Luther and Dora Chaney smiled warmly.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” J.D. returned her smile. “Mrs. Gilliland?”

“Yes, I'm Allison Gilliland.”

He showed her his badge and ID. “I'm Special Agent Cass with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. May I come in and talk to you?”

Her smile vanished, replaced by a speculative stare. “Yes, of course, please come in.” She invited him inside and showed him to the living room.

On arrival, he had noted the new tan vinyl siding on the house and freshly painted white shutters. The yard was neatly mowed, the landscaping was filled with greenery, and yellow mums lined the walkway. Once inside, he noted that the interior of the house had been renovated; also, the old wooden floors had been refinished, the walls had been recently painted, and the décor was a combination of traditional and contemporary.

“Won't you sit down, Special Agent Cass.” She indicated the sofa as she sat in a leather recliner in front of the big-screen TV. Once they were both seated, she asked, “What's this about?”

“It's about a woman named Regina Bennett.”

“Oh. I see, but I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“You know who Regina Bennett is or rather who she was?”

“Yes, of course I know. And I know that she once lived here, in this house and later on in the rental house on this farm. You said who she
was
—is she dead?”

“Yes, ma'am. She passed away while an inmate at Moccasin Bend earlier this year.”

“I'm afraid I'm confused. I don't understand what—?”

“The TBI is trying to tie up some loose ends concerning Regina Bennett,” J.D. said. “Ms. Bennett was cremated, and when her nephew picked up her ashes, he mentioned to the funeral director that he planned to return his aunt to the farm.”

Allison Gilliland's gray eyes widened in surprise. “If you're asking if anyone came here to the farm and asked permission to scatter Regina Bennett's ashes, then the answer is no. But we own nearly a hundred acres, so it wouldn't be difficult for someone to have entered the property without our permission or our knowledge.”

J.D. believed Allison. There was no reason she should lie to him. As far as he knew, neither she nor her husband had any connection to Regina Bennett or her relatives. Nor to the previous owners, who had bought the farm from Dora Chaney. Had he actually thought the mysterious Corey Bennett would have asked permission to scatter his aunt's ashes?

“Would you mind if I took a look around the property?”

“No, I don't mind, but just what do you think you'll find here?” she asked, standing when he did. “It's my understanding that the local authorities and the FBI covered every square foot of this farm years ago.”

“I don't expect to find anything in particular. I thought that since I'm here and if you don't have any objections, I'd take the opportunity to just look around, maybe check out the house where Regina lived. Would that be possible?”

“You mean the rental house?”

“Does someone live there?”

“No, not now. The house is run down, and we haven't bothered putting any money into fixing it and renting it since we bought this property a couple of years ago after Mrs. McGregor died and her daughter put the farm up for sale.”

“How long has it been since you've been in the other house?”

“Well, actually, not since shortly after we bought the property. Why?”

“No reason. Just curious.”

As he walked out of the living room, a framed wedding photo of a happy young couple caught his eye. The bride was obviously Allison Gilliland. The husky young groom in the picture had green eyes, red hair, and freckles.

Mr. Gilliland didn't fit the description he'd been given of Corey Bennett.

Not until that moment did J.D. realize he had subconsciously been wondering if it was possible that the new owner of the old farm might be Regina's nephew.

“The house isn't locked,” Allison told him as she walked with him onto the front porch. “It's about a quarter of a mile east of this house. If you follow the dirt road over there, it'll take you straight to it.”

J.D. shook hands with the young woman, thanked her, and surveyed the landscape as he walked toward his Camaro. As she'd said, there were nearly a hundred acres, some of it still cultivated farmland, some of it wooded, and a couple of dozen acres that climbed into the hills. From the FBI report he'd read and reread, the hills were dotted with caves and a couple of springs ran through the property, one to the south and the other to the west of the farmhouse. Both houses had basements. Both basements had been thoroughly searched. And every cave in the hills that they had discovered had also been searched.

Any evidence left behind twenty-three years ago would now be long gone. Besides, if the investigators hadn't found anything, it was probably because there was nothing to find.

And you're not going to find anything today.

On the short drive to the rental house, J.D. noted the time on his wristwatch. Nearly eleven. He had noticed a pizza place on Dayton Pike on his drive there earlier. When he left, he could stop by for a quick lunch. Since he and Zoe had their first appointment scheduled with Dr. Sherrod that afternoon at four-thirty, it would be after six before they'd get a chance to eat dinner. He sure wasn't looking forward to this family-therapy thing. Hell, he'd rather walk through broken glass in his bare feet than talk about his feelings for a solid hour. His gut told him that somehow Audrey Sherrod would make whatever problems he and Zoe had all his fault. Two females against one male. Yeah, even if one of those females was the counselor.

J.D. pulled up in front of the small, ramshackle, clapboard cottage. Several windows were broken and had been boarded over with plywood. The front porch sagged on one end and the roof was in bad shape. A few scraggly, overgrown shrubs grew along the sides of the house, and knee-high weeds and patches of grass dotted what had probably once been a well-kept yard.

As he stepped up on the porch, the boards beneath his feet creaked, and when he looked down, he saw that several slats of the wooden floor had rotted and given way in places. The front door opened easily with just a turn of the knob, the rusty hinges groaning as J.D. entered the house. The small living room lay before him empty and bare and he could see through into a kitchen that looked the same. A musty, unlived-in scent filled the house, and shards of prenoon sunlight crept through the boarded windows and cast long shadows on the dirty wooden floor. Taking his time, he walked through the house, going from room to room and opening closet doors, searching for anything other than dust and grime and an overwhelming sense of desolation.