Stranded (20 page)

Then without waiting for her to speak, he said, “You found something.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes.” It was silly to say anything else.

“And now you believe me.” His tongue flicked over his lips. He was pleased.

“Yes.”

His face lit up like a little boy’s on Christmas morning. Obviously pleased, so much so that even the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes smiled.

“I’m hoping,” she continued slowly, deliberately, “that you’ll share with me more of what Jack told you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, then paused, head now tilted, watching her, gauging her body language. He still didn’t trust her. “Why would I wanna do that?”

She wondered the same thing. Why would he want to share?
If he had wanted a deal to reduce his sentence or one that gave him any perks, he would have brought it up last month when he shared the first information about the victim in the culvert with the orange socks.

Gwen suspected Otis had shared Jack’s stories with her and with the news reporter last month simply because he enjoyed the attention. Even he had pronounced himself a “powermaniac.” She knew that arsonists—especially serial arsonists like Otis—set fires not just because of the power they felt through destruction but also the power they gained from the attention. But now he was looking at her expectantly, like there was something tangible he wanted from her.

“Depending on what else you offer,” she said, “I would certainly consider personally testifying to your parole board about how you’ve helped us.”

She had absolutely no authority to make that offer and she imagined Kunze jumping out of his chair and screaming at her through the soundproof wall. Whatever the repercussions, she saw immediately that the payoff would be worth it.

There was something that swept across Otis’s face, an emotion so strong he couldn’t hide it behind one of his silly grins. Gwen recognized that they were his coping mechanism, an internal leveler that he used even when they didn’t match his words or moods. But in the seconds that followed Gwen’s offer, Otis slipped. His eyes flashed disbelief. The smile waned—but just for a couple of seconds, at most. And in that brief momentary lapse, Gwen saw that Otis P. Dodd was surprised—maybe “flabbergasted” was a better word—that someone like her would sincerely offer to speak on his behalf.

“You’d do that?” The smile returned, along with the poke of the tongue.

Finally he sat up and leaned forward, but only slightly. Trust was such a delicate thing, so fragile, not easily earned and harder to repair.

“If you provide us with more information that helps us find Jack, yes, I would do that.”

“Find Jack?”

He slipped back in his seat. He hadn’t seen that one coming and he shook his head as if she had sucker-punched him.

So much for trust. She had shattered it before she could claim it.

“Perhaps you can help me understand him. You know, learn about him and why he does what he does.”

Would he notice how much she was backtracking? If they wanted someone who was good at sucking up to criminals they should have hired a hostage negotiator. She never pretended to understand how to relate to the criminal mind even as she studied it and hoped to dissect it.

“Maybe I will tell you about Jack just because I like your company. And I think you’re pretty.”

Her turn—she had not seen that one coming. It was definitely becoming a battle of wits. And Otis was certainly not a dim one.

“You like older women?” She produced a laugh to make it sound like she thought he was putting her on.

“Why now, you can’t be a day past what’s old enough for me.”

It sounded sweet and charming and only reinforced her image of him as a teenage boy. Even Otis’s neck flushed red.

“Tell me about meeting Jack. You said you spent an evening drinking with him. It sounds like you had an opportunity to get to know him.”

Otis leaned forward. Was he finally ready to confide in her?

“Funny thing about Jack. Just when you might think you’re getting to know him and what not, you sorta realize you don’t know Jack. I think there ain’t nobody that knows Jack.”

“But he told you things.”

“Yep, that’s right. He told me a whole bunch of stuff.”

“Why do you suppose he did that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Otis said, but he wasn’t rattled or defensive. He leaned back and did his search of the ceiling, like he’d find the answers there. “I supposed he saw that me and him have something in common, you know. Both of us kinda got messed up when we were kids.”

“He talked to you about when he was a boy?”

“No, he doesn’t really like to talk about it. I could just tell. Like there was something there. But Jack could see that me and him, we ain’t like normal people.”

“What’s normal? Does anyone know?”

Otis laughed, a genuine chuckle this time. Gwen should have been pleased that she’d made him laugh. Then he squinted at her as if he were trying to determine if she was serious, or if she was playing him.

“Whatever it is, I’m not sure I can get back to normal,” he said.

She met his eyes and knew there was nothing dimwitted about this man. He was too good at throwing out simple remarks that cut deeper.

Gwen shrugged, trying to encourage him to continue. She could see that he wanted to.

“And Jack?”

“Oh, he’s not normal.” He laughed again. But this time it didn’t sound genuine or joyful. It sounded nervous and forced.

“So what makes him kill?”

He shrugged with both shoulders, practically bringing them up to his huge earlobes, an exaggerated gesture. Gwen realized Otis knew much more than he was willing to share.

“I suppose you’d have to ask Jack. But he does seem to enjoy it quite a bit.”

“He told you that?”

Another shrug. “I guess he likes the challenge or what have you. He likes to study them.”

“By killing them?”

He was watching her. His tongue darted out the corner of his mouth. Gwen was starting to recognize the mannerism as a tell, a nervous twitch when he was trying to decide if he should confide or reveal what was evidently on the tip of his tongue.

“Well, it’s not just the killing.” His voice was so quiet and soft, Gwen found herself leaning over the table between them so she could hear him.

Otis hesitated, either struggling to find words or measuring them. Gwen wasn’t sure which.

“He said he enjoys seeing what they’re made of, you know. What they’re willing to do, what kinds of things they’ll say just to stay alive. What they’ll tell him and what not, just so he won’t kill them.”

He paused. Eyes darted up to the ceiling, again, for a moment. Back to Gwen.

“And he said he likes to … oh, I don’t know … he likes to feel what they’re made of, too. Their skin and their blood, what have you. He really enjoys cutting them. Cutting up a person isn’t really any different from butchering a hog.” Another pause, but now he was watching Gwen to see her reaction. “At least that’s what he said.”

The room felt hot. Gwen’s blouse stuck to her back. She resisted
the urge to wipe her forehead. She didn’t want Otis to see that she was uncomfortable. That she was sweating. She had forgotten her mission. Somehow they had verged way off the path. She didn’t need to know all this. She needed to focus. She needed to get what she came for.

“It’s been over a year since you talked to Jack. You think you’d still be able to recognize him?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s pretty ordinary looking.”

“Did he tell you where he lived or worked?”

Otis’s smile grew wider but he twisted up his face, then shook his head. He knew exactly what she was doing and he wasn’t playing.

“You found one of his dumping grounds.” He said it like the discovery should mean something more.

“Does he live close by?”

Still shaking his head. Gwen wasn’t sure it meant “no,” or if he just couldn’t believe she was asking.

“I can’t give you Jack.”

She stifled a sigh and shifted in her chair. This was a big waste of time.

“But I can give you another one of his dumping grounds.”

“There really is another one?”

“Oh yeah. Several.”

Gwen reminded herself that everything he had told her so far had been true.

“Okay.” She nodded.

“But this time there’s something I want. I want to go along and show you.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not gonna tell anything more unless I get to go along.”

And sure enough he pushed his chair away and stood up as
best he could with the limitations of the shackles. He was finished with her.

“Otis, I don’t know that I can arrange that.”

The guard came in and Otis lifted his hands to him.

“You let me know. I’ll be waiting. I’m not going anywhere.”

CHAPTER 38

MANHATTAN, KANSAS

“He’s afraid,” Maggie told Detective Lopez and Tully.

“That this so-called madman will come back and get him?” Lopez wasn’t buying it. “Then why not give us a description? Why not tell us where we can find his friend?”

“This killer is not just confident and efficient, he’s …” Tully paused to search for the right word. “To put it mildly, he’s brutal.”

Lopez shook his head.

They were waiting at the rest area for Ryder Creed and Grace. Lopez had brought two of his uniformed officers to assist, but he’d already explained how he had a crew of a dozen men search the woods for ten straight hours the day before. They hadn’t found anything valuable for their efforts.

“And it’s mushroom season,” Lopez said.

“Mushroom season?” Maggie asked, glancing at Tully to see if he had any idea what that meant.

“As soon as the redbuds bloom, wild mushrooms sprout up,” Lopez explained. “They’re a delicacy. People hunt for them. Which means there’s been a bunch of people traipsing around these hills
and bluffs and nobody’s reported finding a lost teenager. Or a body.

“You want to know what I think,” Lopez continued. “I think Noah Waters is afraid, all right. I think he’s afraid I’ll arrest his ass. You say this killer you two are looking for is confident and efficient? Pretty sloppy to let one of his victims go. This case obviously doesn’t have anything to do with your guy.”

“You still think Noah did something to Ethan?”

“Hell yes. Why else would that kid be throwing up every time we want to discuss the details? Maybe he can’t even believe what he did. I’ve seen how a guilty person acts and Noah Waters is guilty.”

“So what did he do with Ethan?” Tully asked.

The detective shrugged. “I’ve checked hospitals in a hundred-mile radius. Just in case someone found him and picked him up. His parents have called all of his friends. I put out an APB. If he’s injured he could be delirious. Maybe a trucker picked him up. He could be in another state by now.”

Maggie took a good look at Lopez. Mid to late forties, military buzz cut, a short but compact body, eyebrows that were perpetually knitted with worry. He projected a serious, experienced, and tough demeanor, yet he still didn’t appear to believe her or Tully that this case could possibly be related to their hunt for a serial killer. She couldn’t decide if he really did believe that Ethan was still alive or if he simply wanted to believe it.

“But your men didn’t find the knife?” Tully again, playing the skeptic.

“What knife?”

“You have a severed finger,” Tully said. “You haven’t looked for the weapon that may have cut it off?”

For the first time Lopez looked like he had been caught off guard.

Just as Creed’s Jeep appeared on the interstate ramp coming down to the rest area, Maggie noticed the garbage truck, its hydraulic brakes hissing. It was finished collecting at the far end of the other parking lot and was heading for the ramp to get on the interstate.

She turned to Lopez and asked, “Your men didn’t check the trash receptacles?”

“My men were busy doing a search and rescue.” He seemed annoyed and defensive.

“How often is garbage collected here?”

“What? Once a week maybe. I have no idea.”

Maggie motioned to Tully to give her their rental’s keys.

“We have to stop that truck.”

“I’ve got it,” Tully said as he took off running for their SUV.

It was parked clear on the other side of the winding road in the cars’ parking lot.

Maggie gauged the distance. The garbage truck hiccupped and belched diesel. Tully would never make it in time. She sprinted over the lawn and sidewalk, dodging travelers. Through the trees she could see the road that wound around the rest area. The truck would need to follow it to get to the interstate’s entrance ramp. It was shorter for her to race through the trees that surrounded the small brick building. She ran at a diagonal, pumping, pushing, willing her legs to go faster. The truck had started up the road. She’d need to intercept it before it got to the ramp.

She didn’t, however, give it much thought as to how she’d stop it.

As she ran toward the road she pulled out her badge and waved
it, but she was on the wrong side and too close for the driver to see her running alongside him on the passenger side. The truck started to accelerate and so did Maggie.