Serial Love: Saints Protection & Investigation (30 page)

*

“Got a hit,
boss,” Luke called out. The Saints’ eyes darted to the screen on the wall as Luke projected his findings.

“Twenty-six years ago, Stan Jefferson registered for classes at college. His name pops up in a campus police report which never made it to the town’s police, hence no official record. A girl, Josie Simpkins reported that he stalked her and then kept asking her out. He never touched her so the campus police just filed it and forgot it. The college has no record of him coming back after the first semester.”

“That’s awfully circumstantial,” Bart commented.

“Yeah, but get this. Josie Simpkins finished out the second semester and then did not come back either. She was from North Carolina and when I did a search on her…nothing. It was right at the end of the school year so the campus police weren’t involved.”

“So where is he now?” Chad asked.

Monty, using his FBI information, cursed, “Fuck. Stan Johnson just disappeared. Not using his social security number, no taxes, no employment.”

“Go with his middle name, any variation. Check his mom’s bank account and see if anyone has been putting money in it.”

The tension in the room grew with each minute that the men furiously tapped on their keyboards. Each focused soley on finding the killer before his urge came again.

“Got it,” Luke declared triumphantly. “Son of a bitch dropped his last name and is using his middle name as his last name.”

“Get everything. His address, where he works. Get into his bank account. I want to know where the fuck he is right now,” Jack growled.

*

As soon as
Bethany entered the bathroom of cabin seven, she could hear the sound.
What is that?
Listening carefully, it seemed to be a rattling in the air duct, as though there was a loose object inside. Tossing her tool belt to the toilet seat, she pulled out a screwdriver and, standing on her tiptoes, she unscrewed the four screws holding the metal plate in place. Once it was down, she realized she was too short to see inside. Huffing, she walked back into the kitchen and picked up a chair, carrying it back into the bathroom.

As she climbed up onto the chair, she heard the front door close. “I’m back here, Roscoe,” she yelled. “In the bathroom.”

Turning toward the vent, she peered in.
What on earth is that?
“Roscoe, come here. I can’t tell what I’m looking at.”

Reaching her hand in, she pulled out a long, thin, slightly curved knife. She recognized what she was holding, having seen the fishermen washing their filet knives off when they came in from fishing. She stared at the pristine instrument in her hand, the fluorescent lights shining off of its stainless surface.

But how did it get here?
Her mind was still pondering that question when she looked back into the vent, seeing a glass jar further back. Squatting, she lay the knife down on the toilet seat along with her tool belt and then stood to stick her hand deep into the cavity. Grasping the glass jar, she pulled it forward.

Her hand shook as her mind tried to understand what she was holding. Little bones. “What the hell?” she said out loud to herself.
Bones?
A queasy feeling started in her belly and slid upward toward her throat, threatening to choke her.

“They were all good girls,” someone said behind her.

Whirling in fright, the jar slipped out of her hand smashing onto the bathroom floor scattering the small bones amongst the glass shards.

She stared into his smiling face, incomprehension flooding her expression before she dropped her gaze to his hand. Holding a rag.

“Wh…why…?” she stammered.

“They were all good girls,” he repeated.

Looking down at the mess on the floor, she began to shake as dawning slowly descended. Jerking her eyes back to his, she gasped, “You? Oh, Jesus, you?”

*

Blaise delved into
the bank accounts, quickly scanning the information. “Seems he makes regular deposits to his mom.”

The rest of the suspect’s bio flashed up on the whiteboard on their wall while Monty sent the information to his FBI contact so they had it at the same time. “This is our man,” Monty shouted into his phone.

Jack’s gaze scanned the information hurriedly as more and more of the suspect’s bio fell into place. There was only one word out of the multitude of words on the screen that grabbed his attention, squeezing his lungs until he was not certain he would be able to breathe.

The last place the suspect’s credit card was used…
Mountville Cabins
.

With a roar, he bolted out of his seat, shouting directions to the others as he pounded up the stairs. The Saints, only a few seconds behind him in seeing the words, fully understood that this changed this case from detached and professional to intense personal; each jumped to their duty.

Monty informed the FBI, who would helicopter their Richland agents immediately. “Tell your boss not to do anything stupid,” Monty’s contact yelled. Monty watched the retreating back of his employer…and friend. “Too late,” he said, disconnecting his phone and charging after him.

*

Gravel flying behind
the SUV, Jack jumped out before it came to a stop. Taking the lodge steps two at a time, he slammed through the door, screaming, “Bethany!” No response.

With Chad and Bart on his heels, he flew through the connecting door into the private area and toward the back door, continuing to scream her name. His heart pounding faster than his footsteps, he turned to the left seeing Roscoe coming out of the shed.

“Bethany, where’s Bethany?” he yelled.

Roscoe looked up in surprise, his expression a mixture of shock and guilt. Wiping his mouth, he answered hastily. “Cabin seven. A guest was complaining about a noise so she moved him and went to investigate.”

Jack turned to begin running up the lane toward the right of the pond, pulling his weapon out, yelling instructions over his shoulder to his men.

Chad changed direction, heading back to the SUV, to grab his Kevlar and other weapons, making sure their radios were activated. Bart followed Jack, catching up to him as they approached the cabin.

“Jack,” Bart growled, seeing Jack’s recklessness. “Keep your mind in the fuckin’ game.”

The trio spread out around the cabin, as Jack stalked in toward the open front door. Weapon raised, he entered. Other than a missing kitchen chair, he moved through the house, not seeing anything out of the ordinary. “Living room clear. Bedroom one clear.”

Entering the bathroom, his heart stopped. His eyes took in the small room, immediately categorizing the scene. Bart shoved him aside, stepping in. The missing kitchen chair was next to the wall where the vent cover was off, leaving a gaping hole where the duct work was. A tool belt was on the toilet seat and on the floor…
fuck…a shattered glass jar with bones scattered everywhere.

*

Bethany’s eyes blinked,
the sickly sweet smell still lingering as she slowly regained consciousness. Her foggy mind tried to make sense of her surroundings, but only bits and pieces would fit together, the whole picture staying just out of her reach.

The hard floor came into focus. Realizing that she was sitting on concrete, her gaze moved upward, seeing cinderblock walls. Trying to push herself up, the rattling of chains sounded in her ears, the noise scraping against the wall. Blinking several more times, she saw a ring in the wall above her head with a chain leading down from it to a metal cuff around her wrist.

Managing to lean her back against the wall, she gazed around the rest of the enclosure. A metal table sat in the middle of the room, dark rust stains all over the legs and the concrete floor underneath. Her head lolled to the side as she took in the wall to her left. Covered in wallpaper…a very busy wallpaper print with lots of pictures on it. As her eyes focused a little more, she could see it was not wallpaper. But photographs. She had to strain to see what they were.

Oh, fuck. Oh, my God!
The photographs were all of naked women. Tied to the table. Sliced. Some eyes wide in fright. Some eyes wide in death.

Her gaze shot back to the table in the middle of the room.
That’s not rust. It’s blood.
The gruesome realization mixed with the lagging effects of the chloroform that was in her system had her pitching forward, vomiting what little contents were in her stomach.

Shaking, she jerked her arm against the metal restraint, hoping her small wrist would come loose. No such luck. All she managed to do was tear the skin and bruise her hand more.

How could the Campus Killer be him? I’ve talked to him. Joked with him. Laughed with him. And his family!

The metal door opened with a loud screech and she jumped at the noise. As she turned her eyes toward the offending sound, Stan Taylor walked through, his usual smile gone, replaced by a pained expression. She watched him warily, pressing her back against the rough cinderblock wall.

Muttering to himself, she managed to catch, “Not right. Not how it’s done. Not the right time.”

His gaze came to hers and he said, “Why did you meddle? You’ve been a good girl. It didn’t have to come to this.”