Say Goodbye (30 page)

FORTY-THREE

“Social spiders work together in construction teams to build enormous spider cities. [They] also feed in groups so that they can catch and share a larger prey.”

FROM
Freaky Facts About Spiders,
BY CHRISTINE MORLEY,
2007

“YOU WERE STANDING NEXT TO HAROLD WHEN THE first shot was fired,” Quincy was saying to Sal. “If Harold hadn’t jumped to his feet, the bullet would’ve hit you, not him.”

Sal was sitting in the back of an ambulance, holding up the hem of his shirt as he grudgingly received treatment from an EMT. He’d already refused a ride to the hospital. Quincy, Rainie, Kimberly, and Mac remained with him, awaiting the EMT’s official verdict as the young man inspected the damage.

Sal scowled at the man probing his side with a pair of tweezers. “Ow!”

“Told ya you should go to the hospital,” the EMT said mildly and went back to work, tweezing fibers from the wound.

“Ginny said Dinchara wanted the envelopes of driver’s licenses to be delivered specifically to you. Why you, Sal? Haven’t you wondered about that?”

“Missing persons…it’s my hobby. I already…said that.”

Kimberly’s turn to frown at the GBI special agent. “Dinchara targeted you because of your ‘hobby’? Now who’s being stubborn?”

“Makes about as much sense as leaving his trophies on the windshield of my car. Come on, guy really wants to bait me, there are easier ways to get things done.”

“Expediency isn’t what drives serial killers,” Quincy said firmly. “Their rituals are based on emotional need and are often quite elaborate. In this case, we have a man who in his everyday life feels powerless. His fantasy life, therefore, is all about being in control. He thrives on secrecy and manipulation. He is the spider, weaving a web to catch a prey. An approach like this—inciting your involvement by baiting a trap—would fill his emotional need, his image of himself as a superpredator, even if it is impractical at other levels. If you can understand the emotional drive, then you can catch the killer.”

“
You must kill the one you love
,” Kimberly murmured. She looked at Sal. “Maybe, all these years later, he still loves you. And maybe, all these years later, he wants to graduate.”

Sal had finally stilled in the back of the ambulance. “My brother is dead!” he said harshly, but they could tell from his voice that he was no longer sure.

With night blanketing the mountain, Rachel declared the crime scene off limits. They would not approach the summit again until a tactical unit had secured the area and placed snipers for ongoing protection. The team should rest. Rachel was off to the hospital; she’d phone the moment she had news on Harold.

Quincy and Rainie retired to the hotel for another night. Mac and Kimberly offered Sal a ride as he was obviously in no shape to drive. Sal climbed into the back behind Kimberly. He sat in silence, his side covered in white gauze, his bloody shirt untucked at his waist.

Every law enforcement agent in the country had now been notified with the few vital statistics they knew about Dinchara. His actions had earned him immediate placement in the FBI’s top ten most wanted list, and even now the powers that be were preparing a press release for the major news networks.

By morning, Dahlonega and the surrounding area would be swarming with every state officer and National Guard unit available. If today had been a horror movie, then tomorrow would be a circus. Times like this, Kimberly simply hoped no one would get hurt.

Personally, Kimberly doubted Dinchara would try to flee the country. She pictured him more as an Eric Rudolph sort—the Olympic Park bomber who had holed up for five years in the Great Smoky Mountains, living on a diet of wild game and acorns. By all accounts, Dinchara had the same outdoor expertise and loner instincts.

Plus, there was still Ginny Jones and the missing boy to consider. Which made her wonder…

Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the screen, registered the local number, flipped it open. “Special Agent Quincy.”

“Deputy Roy here. We spoke earlier regarding the Jones girl.”

“Oh yes. The Jones girl your department managed to release even after she was an accessory in the attempted murder of a federal agent. I remember.”

Roy chuckled. “Thought you would. Now, technically speaking, it’s the judge you should yell at—”

“I mean to get to that the first moment I’m back in town.”

“I’m sure you will. Listen, Rick and I feel real bad about how that all worked out, especially given what happened on Blood Mountain.”

“Especially.”

“So we did some thinking, and it occurred to Rick that he saw Ginny Jones hugging the man standing next to a vehicle. So he went to the courthouse this afternoon and collected the security video of the parking lot.”

“Yes?”

“And sure enough, the man walks away, but you can see Ginny get into the vehicle. It’s a blue Nissan hatchback, with Georgia plates reading…”

Kimberly grabbed a pen, frantically writing down the information. “Nice work, Officers!”

“’Course we’re issuing an APB, as well. But thought you’d like to hear the news directly. We do more than eat fried okra and shoot possums round here, you know.”

“You shoot possums?”

“Never mind.”

“Thank you. I mean that, Officer. Thank you very much.”

Kimberly hung up the phone. She regarded Mac, then Sal in the rearview mirror.

“Hey,” she said. “I have an idea.”

“We’ve been operating under the assumption that the younger child didn’t accompany Dinchara and Aaron on the hikes, correct?” Kimberly was explaining excitedly, as she directed Mac to Dinchara’s old neighborhood. “Based mostly on the waitress from the Smith House saying that she only ever saw Dinchara with a teenager. Also, a young boy would slow them down when packing supplies up a trail that steep.”

“Okay,” Mac agreed, though it was his first time hearing any of this.

“Well, what if he didn’t leave the boy alone? What if Dinchara had a babysitter to watch the kid? Someone he trusted to ensure the kid didn’t run away?”

“Like Ginny Jones,” Sal filled in from the back.

“Exactly! And maybe that’s why he was willing to spend ten grand springing Ginny from county jail. Because he wanted to come after us—or really, you, Sal—meaning he needed someone to take over childcare.”

“I can follow that logic right up to the moment we turn into his old neighborhood,” Mac murmured, following the direction of Kimberly’s pointing finger onto the rolling rural road of said neighborhood.

“All the way up at the top of the hill,” she instructed him. “’Bout three miles in, last home on the right.”

“Or look for the big pile of smoking rubble,” Mac filled in drily. “Which would be my point: You said the home burned to the ground. So the kid can’t be there.”

“No, but according to the neighbors, neither was Ginny Jones. None of them reported seeing a girl at the house, but she obviously spent a lot of time with Aaron and Dinchara. Which makes me wonder. What if she has a home locally, too?”

“But she works in Sandy Springs,” Sal protested. “We saw her apartment.”

“A cheap one-bedroom,” Kimberly granted, “convenient for the nights she works as a prostitute. But remember what Ginny said—Dinchara’s other line of work is Internet porn, and she and Aaron both filmed movies for him. So there must be times she’s up here, assisting with that business. So why haven’t any of the neighbors seen her? We know she hangs out with Aaron, we believe she babysits the younger kid. She’s gotta have her own place. It’s the only answer. Someplace close would be my guess. Where Dinchara could keep an eye on her. Such as right there. STOP. Wait. Next driveway, then stop.”

Mac lurched the car forward another two hundred yards, to the next property, then pulled over. “What are we looking for?”

“Blue Nissan hatchback. Like the one sitting outside that house with the big covered porch. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have found Ginny Jones.”

By mutual agreement, Kimberly would wait in the car. Mac and Sal would proceed. She would call for backup. She could tell her very note of cheerful acceptance had Mac suspicious. He kissed her, hard. She grabbed his shoulders and kissed him back.

Sal turned away.

Then Mac and Sal were at the trunk, opening Mac’s locker of supplies, including bulletproof vests, a shotgun, extra ammo.

Kimberly got on the radio, advising Dispatch that they had discovered a vehicle that matched an active APB and were now proceeding with caution. Backup requested, please proceed with discretion. No lights, no sirens. With any luck, Mac and Sal could lure Ginny out, and it would all be over before it even started. They’d arrest the girl, save the child. After the day they’d had, they could use a happy ending.

The men drifted down the street and, soon enough, were swallowed by the gloom.

The man flipped Rita onto her back. She cried out as the motion aggravated her hurt hip. For her troubles, he slapped her. He was tough, this one. Better than the girl. He went through the bulky rolls of her clothes, quickly finding the Colt and yanking it from the waist of her pants.

He straightened, his teeth a flash of white against the shadows. “Arming yourself against me or the boy? Bet you don’t know just how much trouble that kid is. Why, the things that boy has already done…”

He chuckled to himself, as if privy to a joke she’d never understand. Then he lifted her bodily off the floor and stuffed her roughly into sitting position in one of the kitchen chairs. She bit her lip this time to keep from screaming, but the fresh wave of pain made the world spin. She thought she might black out.

He must’ve thought she would, too, because he slapped her again, and that jerked her to attention. She thought she saw a faint movement behind him. A shadow flickering along the wall.

Joseph
, she prayed in her mind.
Please
,
Joseph
,
if there was ever a time to cause a stir…

Except the shadow turned into a solid form. The girl, coming down the stairs, dragging the boy behind her.

“’Bout time you got here,” the girl said. She shoved the boy forward. He stumbled, then fell at the man’s feet. His cheeks were covered with bright red marks, some already dewed with blood.

He had not gone without a fight; the girl’s arms bore similar scratches, though she now held his knife in her fist.

“Found him in the attic,” the girl reported. “Stupid little shit.”

The man reached down, grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck, and jerked his head back, until the boy was forced to look him in the eye.

“What’d I tell you, boy? No such thing as gettin’ away. You belong to me.”

The boy didn’t say anything. His face had closed up, shut down. Rita could tell he was sinking somewhere deep inside himself. Saving what little bit of himself he could.

The man seemed to know it, too. “Well, boy, you know what’s gotta happen.”

The boy didn’t talk, didn’t move.

“You disobeyed me. Now you gotta be punished.”

“Can I do it?” the girl asked immediately.

“Shut the fuck up. Don’t you think you’ve caused me enough headache for one day?”

The girl shut up.

The man was regarding the boy. Rita was waiting for him to do something violent. Strike out with his fist, lash out with his leg. Instead, the man started looking around the room. Then his gaze fell on the Colt pistol, sitting on the kitchen table.

He picked it up. “Boy,” he said. “Come here.”

The boy obediently rose to his feet, stepped forward.

The man pointed to Rita, where she sat, bound and pain-crazed on the hard wooden chair.

“You brought this on yourself, boy. I told you there could be no outsiders. I told you what would happen if you ever asked for help. Do you remember what I said?”

The boy’s gaze dropped down. With a crack, the man openhanded him across the face. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy! Do you remember what I said? DO YOU REMEMBER?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy whispered.

“I didn’t lie, boy. I never lie.” Then the man turned and pointed the pistol at Rita’s forehead.

“Tell her goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” the boy whispered.

And just as Rita closed her eyes, just as she braced herself for the impact of the bullet shattering her temple, the cracking sound happened again, and she opened her eyes to discover the man had struck the boy, this time so hard the boy had fallen to the floor.

“DO YOU THINK I’D LET YOU GET OFF THAT EASY? DO YOU THINK I’M THAT NICE? OR DO YOU THINK I’M THAT STUPID?”

“No, no, no,” the boy whispered, begged, pleaded.

“GET TO YOUR FEET, BOY.”

The boy rose.

“TAKE THIS PISTOL, BOY.”

The boy obediently reached for the Colt.

“NOW SHOOT THAT BITCH!”

The boy turned and pointed the gun at Rita.

She didn’t close her eyes this time. She wanted him to see her face. She wanted him to know that she forgave him.

Behind him, a cupboard door suddenly opened.

The man whirled, looked around. “Who goes there?”

Joseph,
Rita prayed in her mind.
Please, Joseph
.

A drawer rattled, cracked open.

“What the fuck?”

Then the pans were shaking in the cabinet, the teakettle sliding across the stove, the faucet cranking water. The man stood in the middle of the kitchen; he screamed at Rita at the top of his lungs. “Who the hell is doing that?”

It came to her, maybe just the memory of what the girl had said, or maybe with Joseph’s help. She said, “The Burgerman says hi.”

The man started to roar.

The boy pulled the trigger.

At the front of the house, Mac and Sal crept up the steps. They approached the door, hunkered low to keep out of sight of the windows. They came up on either side of the glass panes, did a quick inspection, then returned to their positions of backs pressed against the exterior walls.

“Windows are covered,” Mac whispered.

Across from him, Sal nodded. “Guess Ginny doesn’t want her neighbors seeing in.”