Officer Jones (31 page)

“I’m impressed. I guess you are doing a little work in between beers. Did you learn anything in Arizona?”

“I met the mysterious Lucy. She had worked with Jones on the Gilbert PD. She basically confirmed that Benson was a psycho who once assaulted her when he discovered that she and Jones had driven home drunk one night. She also told me that Benson was set off by a GNZ report I did on a judge named Raymond Buford, who was known for letting drunk drivers off the hook.”

“That doesn’t sound like good news for the judge.”

“Let’s just say that Benson didn’t let him off the hook. As is his M.O, it was made to look like an accident, but it doesn’t fit into our anniversary theory.”

“Although, it does fit our pattern of not being able to prove anything.”

“Maybe so, but I can prove
where
Buford died.”

“Why does the location of his death matter?” she shouted over a loud crackle of thunder.

“You are on Benson’s street, right?”

“Yes, I’m across the street from his house.”

“Well, look down about three houses from Benson’s. That was Buford’s home.”

She gasped, suddenly feeling that they were in way over their heads.

He continued, “I traveled to Lake Havasu yesterday, to look into Leonard Harris’ death. I learned that there’s a section of many houseboats where exhaust fumes gather that the experts call the ‘death zone.’ Benson rented the boat—it wasn’t a coincidence. He sent Harris to his death.”

“And you can prove that?”

“No, but Kyle Jones’ parents retired in Lake Cumberland, Kentucky, which happens to be the houseboat capital of the United States. Christina was able to get at the court documents, and learned that they died in the exact same way as Leonard Harris. That’s how Benson learned of the tactic.”

This news sent a shiver down Gwen’s spine. As if on cue, Benson exited the beach house, got into his rental car and drove off. She knew she had to get some hard evidence.

“He just left … I’m going in.”

He began screaming at her, but eventually saw it her way. Mainly because there was nothing he could do about it from Seattle.

“I’ll be careful. Is there anything else you want to tell me before I go?” she asked, while struggling to climb over the wet sand of the dune.

“I helped save a missing family last night on Lake Havasu.”

“Well aren’t you special,” Gwen said, no longer listening, all her focus on Benson’s house.

“Just be careful,” he warned.

Chapter 72

Gwen stumbled through the wind and rain, which was so fierce it knocked her off balance. She splashed through puddles that were turning into small lakes. She hurried across the marshy ground, falling twice, before reaching the beach house. After making sure the coast was clear, she climbed the stairs, holding tightly to the slippery railing.

Her naiveté in thinking she could actually walk through the front door worked in her favor. The sliding glass door was smashed in. She didn’t know what to make of this development, but entered the house through the large hole. Her best guess was that Benson had left in search of supplies to fix it, and would be back soon. But for all she knew, he could have been off to kill a drunk driver. Regardless, she didn’t have a moment to lose.

She pulled out her dripping cell phone from her poncho, surprised it still worked, and re-dialed. “JP, someone must have broken in or out of here, the glass door is bashed in. Maybe this is where he was holding Carter, but he was able to break out,” she said, excited by the possibility.

He tempered her enthusiasm, “I broke it during my own search. I also emptied all his drawers when searching for evidence. There’s nothing in there.”

Gwen urgently moved from room to room. “He must have cleaned up because everything is back in place.”

“Hurry up and get out of there!”

Gwen ignored, but kept him on the phone. His voice made her feel safer. “I know there’s something going on in his bedroom.”

She searched the room and then checked the closet. When she parted the hanging clothes, she noticed a piece of the paneling slightly peeling off the wall. It might have gone unnoticed if she wasn’t looking for something. When she yanked on it, it came off, exposing a hidden door with a combination lock. She knew it!

She began fiddling with the combination lock with no luck, and finally settled on the tactic of banging on the thick steel door and shouting, “Carter are you in there!?” Not very effective.

“Can you please just get out of there, Gwen? I just can’t deal with the thought of losing you again,” JP pleaded.

Gwen took his words with a smile.

Then she screamed.

A strong hand strapped around her neck. The other hand covered her mouth, muffling her screams.

Her phone fell to the ground.

Chapter 73

Once again Grady Benson swallowed the bitter taste of betrayal. When his necklace signaled an intruder, he had hoped it was a looter, but deep down he knew he’d find Gwen Delaney.

Even though he knew she’d plotted against him, he still held out some hope she would mend her ways. No woman had ever made him feel like she did. But now he saw that she was nothing more than a test. And it was one he was going to pass.

He kept a firm hand over her mouth, while reaching down to pick up the phone. He listened for a moment, hearing Warner’s pleas, as if it would help. He unceremoniously hung up on him.

He first secured the prisoner with a pair of Rockfield PD handcuffs, and putting masking tape over her mouth. It was bad enough she betrayed him, but he didn’t have to listen to her refer to him as a “sick bastard” and tell him over and over again he wouldn’t “get away with it.”

He spun the combination lock and proudly informed her the combination was
74891010.
The first part was the date of his parents’ murder, while the other was the date that would live in infamy.

He tore off her hood and baseball cap. He grabbed a chunk of her hair and walked her into the secure room. When he tossed her on the floor, she landed right next to the unconscious Carter.

“You very much disappoint me, Gwen,” he lamented. She couldn’t respond, which suited him fine. “You were supposed to be a journalist, to report the story without prejudice. But instead you used your platform to support an enabler of evil like JP Warner. He was once a courageous truth-teller who exposed Buford, but like Kyle, he turned his back on his calling. And look what he’s done to you—he turned you into a common criminal, willing to break into a private home to support your agenda of lies.”

He noticed her eyes casing the room, viewing the pictures on the wall. Many that she was very familiar with. He took pleasure in the shock on her face when she viewed the one remaining photo without an
X
. She knew he was next. Too bad she wouldn’t be around to see it.

He took out a bag of candy bars and tossed them on the floor. “Don’t fret, Gwen, you are a prisoner of war. A prisoner of a just and morally correct war. Therefore, you and your friend will be treated with the policies outlined in the Geneva Convention. You are too important to the final outcome for me to let you starve to death.”

He tore the masking tape off so hard he first thought he tore her lips right off her face. “I will leave the keys to your handcuffs over here. You are very resourceful, I’m sure you’ll find a way to remove them. It won’t matter, since you will never be able to escape this room.”

He viewed the trepidation on her face. “Don’t be afraid. This room is designed to withstand winds up to three-hundred-miles-per-hour. The rest of the house may fall apart, but your final resting place will be stable.”

He used the remainder of the afternoon to eat a light lunch and board-up the sliding glass door. He penned a chapter in his journal as the rain pounded on the roof and the wind howled. Before leaving, he returned to the storm-room with a large mixing bowl filled with water. He figured it would keep his prisoners alive for the precious few days he needed from them. Then he locked them in.

He secured the residence, in case of looters, or JP Warner, whom he was convinced was responsible for the previous damage. He then left the island. But before heading back to Connecticut, he decided that he needed to make a stop in Raleigh.

On the ferry ride back to Cape Hatteras, he threw Gwen’s cell phone as far as he could and watched it plop into the turbulent waters.

_______________________________________________________

Part Six -

Bridging the Gap

_____________________________________

Chapter 74

Cape Hatteras, North Carolina

October 6—present

The minute Gwen’s phone went dead I made a beeline to North Carolina. No flights were landing in the area, so I had to fly to Norfolk, Virginia and drive. The irony didn’t escape me that it was the same city I landed in on my return from Germany, convinced that my life was about to take a turn for the better, or at least would be calmer.

My calls to the authorities went nowhere—the local police in the Outer Banks were too busy with hurricane evacuation, while the FBI has a standing policy against taking my calls. I did get in touch with the state police, but they hung up on me after I started talking crazy stuff about stolen identities, kidnapped wrestlers, and vigilante killers.

I rented an SUV with four-wheel drive that seemed like my best bet with the looming hurricane. But what I really needed was my Humvee, which was still docked at the Ocracoke Air Field as a security deposit on my last trip home. At least I hoped it was still there.

The hurricane evacuation had turned the road heading out of town into a virtual parking lot. But working in my favor was that I was the only moron heading toward the storm, so traffic was clear my way. I took US-158 and then crossed over the Wright Memorial Bridge into Kitty Hawk. I wound through the center of Roanoke Island until I reached Whalebone Junction in Nags Head.

When I reached Hatteras, I received some bad news—no more ferries were traveling to the island. I was left to face the reality that the only way to reach the island was a twenty-mile swim. I actually thought about it for a moment, before realizing I couldn’t even walk five miles in perfect weather in my condition. I retreated to Sloopy Joe’s in need of a new plan … and a drink.

The only person present was Joe himself, and since I was his lone customer, I received the VIP service. Joe was a slim older man with a matter of fact style that was softened by his gentlemanly, southern charm. As I nursed a Killian’s Red, the past few months suddenly rose up like a tidal wave. Gwen and Carter were likely captured by Benson, my brother was dead, and another loyal friend was paralyzed. And I was no closer to stopping Benson. I’d never felt so helpless in my life.

Probably feeling sorry for me, Joe brought another beer for his only customer, on the house. My only other request was if he would change the Weather Channel to the news. I was hoping to hear some good news on the Gwen and Carter front, but the reality was that they hadn’t even been reported missing and nobody was actively searching for them. But I clung to my delusion.

Joe obliged, clicking the remote until he landed on GNZ. Close enough.

Lauren Bowden appeared on the screen and I instantly regretted my request. I was about to ask Joe to change to some other form of newsertainment when Lauren announced, “GNZ was the first to report to you earlier this morning that there has been a break in the murder case of Senator Craig Kingsbury.”

This was news to me. And seemed to grab Joe’s attention also because he raised the volume.

“Ron Culver, a member of the North Carolina State Police, committed suicide last night in his Raleigh apartment, leaving behind a note in which he confessed to the murder of Senator Kingsbury. Culver was originally ruled out as a suspect, but the speculation now is that the Kingsbury family had provided an alibi for Culver. According to GNZ sources, they created the alibi to avoid potentially embarrassing facts coming out about the relationship between Culver and Senator Kingsbury, which might have hurt him in the upcoming election. The suicide note cited the romantic relationship between the two, and how Culver’s jealousy drove him to the crime.”

Lauren continued on, “As many of you know, Lamar Thompson has been an exclusive guest of GNZ many times during this fascinating investigation … and Mr. Thompson joins us again.”

Lamar appeared on a split screen from his current residence in Kitty Hawk. He looked very much like the man I remembered from twenty years ago, but his face was scarred with the lines of a hard life. The ones I could spot when I looked into the mirror.

“Lady, can we hurry this up—I got to get back to my job.”

Lauren faked a smile. “We at GNZ are thrilled to hear you are now employed and making a useful contribution to society. Can you tell our audience what you now do for a living, Mr. Thompson?”

I took a swig of my beer, unable to decide if she was more condescending or patronizing.

“I’m a tour guide at the Wright Brother Museum here in Kitty Hawk. But I ain’t gonna have no job for long if I don’t get back to it! Can we get on with this?”

Lauren smiled again. She would’ve had the same reaction if he said he was the head of an international terrorist organization. “Mr. Thompson, with the admission by Ron Culver that he murdered Senator Kingsbury, do you feel vindicated?”

Lamar’s face creased with anger. “Vindicated for what? The reason I came on here in the first place was to set the record straight that Craig Kingsbury was the one driving the car that night when we hit Mrs. Lacey.”

“But it must be a relief not to be a suspect anymore?”

“I was never a suspect.”

“Maybe not in a court of law, but I think in the all-important court of public opinion you were,” Lauren retorted, followed by another dimwitted smile.