Stutter Creek (12 page)

Beth had no defense. She began to blubber.

“There, there, dear,” Martha patted her kindly. “Didn’t mean to make you cry. Got such a big mouth on me sometimes!” She continued hugging and patting while Beth dug tissues from her purse. Allie smiled ruefully and made it a point to engage the older couple in a spirited conversation as she placed the glasses of water on their table and took their orders for club sandwiches.

When Allie returned to the counter, Martha said, “Allie, dear, can you hand me the Scotch tape? I think it’s in that drawer there.”

The efficient girl opened a loaf of bread with one hand while rummaging through the indicated drawer with the other. “What is that?” she asked, nodding toward the picture in her aunt’s hand. She continued to work, pulling on transparent plastic gloves before toasting the bread and slicing tomatoes for the sandwiches.

“Terrible thing,” Martha said, holding it up for both of them to see. “Young college girl from Pine River, gone missing night before last. On her way to work, talking to her friend on the phone then POOF, she’s gone. No one’s seen hide nor hair since!”

      The woman at the back table, obviously listening, piped up, “That the college girl we been hearing about, Martha?”

Taping the MISSING picture to the inside of the glass door so that it faced out, Martha replied, “Yes, I just picked it up over at the post office. Don will be delivering the rest of them on his route today. The girl’s family stopped there to ask about posting them around the village, and Don volunteered to take a stack himself.”

The man and woman looked at each other then shook their heads. “Did you talk to the family?” the man asked.

Martha shook her own head, a look of consternation crossing her kindly face. “Oh, no . . . I wouldn’t want to interfere. Looked like it might’ve been her sister, though. You could see the worry written all over her pretty face.” She tsked and clicked her tongue as she rounded the end of the counter to wash her hands and help her niece. With her back to the room, she said, “We’ve all got to be so careful nowadays. Especially you, Allie, pretty young girl like you. Why, you could almost pass for twins, you and that college girl on the poster.”

The gentleman from the back table spoke again, “That’s true, young lady. Can’t be too careful. Besides all that, I heard tell there’s a new fella in town. Rented a box down at the Post Office.”

“Really?” Martha sniffed. “Well, he hasn’t been in here, yet. Surely he’ll be by to say hello if he’s planning to make his home around here.” She shook her head, a gesture that indicated she was amazed that anyone could come to Stutter Creek without visiting The Drugstore. “And why would he rent a P.O. Box if he wasn’t planning to stay?”

The question was obviously rhetorical. No one bothered to answer. They were likely all thinking the same thing. If the guy hadn’t shown himself, but had rented a post office box, then he probably didn’t want a lot of folks knowing where he lived. That was a rather chilling thought in light of the MISSING GIRL poster they’d just taped up.

Beth was fascinated by the small town gossip. She’d never realized everyone knew absolutely everything about everyone else. She’d always had her dad as a buffer. He was the one everyone chatted up when they were here. She was beginning to think she’d been quite the wallflower.

Leaving the Drugstore, she stopped and studied the picture of the beautiful young woman again. She was a lot like Allie, young, blonde, and fair. Beth felt a lump of fear forming in the pit of her stomach, and she said a silent prayer for the young woman’s safety. She also hoped the big dog would be at her cabin when she returned. With him there, she would feel much safer. In light of this, she might even try to entice him to stay.

On the way out of town, she stopped at the Corner Market, topped off her gas tank, and bought a large box of Milk Bones. She didn’t recognize the cashier; therefore, she didn’t have to explain herself. If it had been Juanita, the owner, she would have been there a while. It was only when she was back on the road that she realized someone at the drugstore or market would probably have known where the dog belonged. However, when she checked her cell phone, she actually showed three bars so she pulled off the road into a turn-around and called Cindy.

It was so good to talk to her best friend that she deliberately left out the part about seeing the boy. She also did not tell her friend about the missing girl from Pine River. Beth did tell her all about the big dog, though. He seemed like a safe topic. She also drew Cindy into a discussion about the afterlife.

Turned out Cindy wasn’t the least bit surprised when Beth admitted she thought her Dad’s spirit was still around. “Oh, you just wouldn’t believe the strange happenings some of my patients have told me about after their loved ones passed away,” Cindy related. “Footsteps in the hall, lights that went on by themselves, cold drafts . . .”

Beth came very close to telling Cindy the whole truth, cell phone and all. But something held her back. Maybe because she was afraid of how it would sound when she actually said it out loud.

After a few minutes, the two hung up. “I’ll try to call you again in a day or two,” Beth told her. “But don’t worry if I don’t. Remember, I have to drive almost all the way down the mountain before I can get a signal.”

Chapter Fifteen

A New Mexico State Trooper found Amanda’s car two days after she was reported missing. The investigators were not surprised to find lots of different prints in the car of a college student. However, they were somewhat perplexed when a few of those prints appeared to belong to a child, especially since they were very fresh, and only in the back of the vehicle.

“So it looks like she was telling the truth when she called her friend at work,” the senior detective muttered to her rookie partner.

They looked at each other.

Woody James agreed with a nod. “Puts a whole new light on the case.”

Senior Detective Kendra Dean plopped down at her desk, slipped her reading glasses on, and reread the initial report. The two of them had just returned from impound where they’d watched forensics process the vehicle.

She nodded absently as she read everything she’d just witnessed. As she nodded, her hair moved back and forth. She’d been a detective long enough to know that when you’re called out at three a.m., hair and makeup were the last things you wanted to worry about, but as it brushed her ears, she knew she needed it cut again. The short, carefree hair and lack of makeup completely suited her no-nonsense personality.

“Obviously killed in the car—”

Detective James looked up. “What makes you say that? We don’t have a body yet.”

Kendra Dean barely shrugged. “Didn’t you see the condition of that dash? The hair all over the place? Someone put up one hell of a struggle. Some of that hair appeared to have been ripped out by the roots.” She waited for the younger detective to catch up with her thinking, to visualize it in his head the way she had. “Someone came in the passenger side, grabbed her, she put up a good fight, kicked hell out of the underside of the dash, he grabbed her by the hair, smashed her head against the window and—”

James nodded. “Okay. Yeah, I see what you mean.” They were both appalled by the obvious violence that had occurred inside the victim’s car. “But what makes you so sure she isn’t still alive somewhere?” His raised eyebrows and crinkled forehead told the senior detective that he wasn’t being a smartass, just trying to understand.

Kendra leaned back in her chair. She pushed her reading glasses up on her head. “Imagine you’re the perp: he wants the woman bad enough to go into her car, probably using the kid as bait—”

Det. James started to interrupt, but Kendra held up one hand and continued.

“—she puts up a struggle, he has to get control. What’s he do? Hit her? Drag her out of the car, what?”

Woody James thought carefully before answering. “He didn’t hit her; not much anyway. Not that much blood.”

Dean nodded encouragingly.

“So,” he continued. “He gets control quickly, maybe by using the kid as leverage, you know. Do what I say or the kid gets it . . .”

“That’s possible,” she agreed. “But I don’t really see it that way.”

He waited.

“We don’t have anything that puts the kid in the front seat of the car. Kid, probably a boy according to what the victim told her friend, was only in the back, if the prints are correct, and I think they are. But Amanda, she was all over the front seat and the front floorboard.”

James nodded. He’d forgotten about the floorboard. There had been more hair and fibers there; smears of semen on the front seat. Detective James shook his head as images of the young woman’s pain and terror flooded his mind. “I see what you’re saying, now. No way she lived through that kind of a struggle without shedding a lot of blood. Strangulation then?”

Nodding absently, Kendra slipped her glasses back in place on the bridge of her nose. “Can’t be sure, of course. But I say we get that cadaver dog back out here. Time to start searching for a body.”

Detective James tapped his pencil against the report. “I sure hope you’re wrong—no offense, of course. In that case, what do we tell the family?”

“Nothing,” she snorted. “We don’t know anything for sure. It’s all speculation. Get that dog up here, but don’t splatter it across the news. Tell the state boys to come in quietly.” She peered over her half-moon glasses at the young man itching to do something. “Just remember, one dead girl is a news report; two dead girls will mean serial killer headlines.” She took the glasses off, laid them on the desk. “We’re not ready for headlines, yet.”

 “So you really think the arm case in Yellow Bend is related to this one?” the young detective asked.

“Let’s hope not,” Detective Dean replied. “But the press will think so, that I can almost guarantee.” She turned back to the report. “Can’t wait to get that DNA report. I’ll bet money that creep is already in the system. Too bad there were no fingerprints. We’d have him already.”

***

Shaniqua Patterson hung up the phone. “Fired,” she said. “That girl is so fired.” She pulled Sherylyn’s time card from the stack and headed toward the night manager’s office.

Rapping hard with her closed knuckles, she pushed the metal office door open and entered speaking: “Ms. Deevy, I can’t reach Sherylyn on the phone. This the second day she hadn’t showed up. I’ma go ahead and pull in Dewayne, that part-timer. He’s been wantin’ full time. I’m givin’ him Sherylyn’s shift.” She started out the door without waiting for approval.

Candy Deevy nodded, barely raising her fingers from the keyboard. “Good decision. That’s what I pay you for,” she murmured.

Then a brief memory flashed across her mind. The memory was of Sherylyn talking to a friend in the cashier’s meeting last week. She’d been going on and on about the possibility of moving closer to work so she wouldn’t have so far to drive. She had seemed pretty excited about an apartment that was opening up, even talked about the new apartment having a balcony, said she was looking forward to getting a grill with her employee discount. Doesn’t sound like someone who suddenly quits for no reason, Candy Deevy thought. The girl had plans.

“Hey,” she called before the door closed.

Shaniqua stuck her head back in, a question framing her features.

“You got an emergency contact number?”

“Tried it,” the cashier-manager said bluntly, pulling her head back through the door as if the matter was closed.

“Try it again,” Ms. Deevy ordered. “In fact, send someone to her house. Better yet, you got her landlord’s number?”

On the other side of the door, Shaniqua looked at her watch and rolled her eyes. Sherylyn’s shift started an hour ago. Her register was closed, lines were backing up, and customers were getting cranky. Taking a deep, calming breath, she cracked the door open again. “I don’t have landlord’s numbers. Think she lived in a duplex.”

The night manager sat upright at her battered gunmetal gray desk, her fingers poised over the computer keyboard. “Find out if she’s got a friend that’ll check out her place. If not, keep trying the contact number. I’ve got a feeling she didn’t just not come to work. Might’ve been in a car wreck or something. Can’t be too careful, you know.”

Shaniqua’s feet hurt. She wasn’t a small woman; and she still had seven hours to go on her own shift. “Yes, ma’am,” she sighed. “I’ll see what we can do.” Then she shuffled out into the hall shaking her head. She still had to get in touch with Dewayne, too.
Hell, maybe I should have him go by Sherylyn’s house. Nah, him I need on the line, now.

***

Kurt and Danny had finally found the cave. It was on the lower slope of Blue Mountain, the entrance almost completely hidden by brush.

It’s cold at night in the mountains. In March and April, the weather is very unpredictable. Warm temperatures in the daytime can slide right down below freezing when the sun sets.

Danny was cold all the time. Kurt let him lie near the door in the sunshine. “Soak up some rays,” he said jovially. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

He didn’t have to worry about Danny calling out to anyone. There wasn’t anyone this high on the mountain. Besides, the boy was both sick and drugged. He didn’t know night from day. He barely even noticed when darkness fell. All he knew was that he was cold and thirsty.

That night, Kurt wrapped him in the nylon tent and stowed him in the corner of the dank cave like a box of old clothes. He wasn’t ready to lose his bait. But Danny was already so ill he could barely raise his head.

Kurt wanted to move on as soon as he’d dealt with the owner of the Camaro and his Stutter Creek victim. But he knew if his bait died, his plan would be much harder to complete. And without the plan, he was afraid he would implode. Besides, just like heroin, killing was addictive. He couldn’t wait for his next fix.

He thought if he could get the kid some better food and some dry clothes, maybe the boy would last long enough for him to finish his list. He wasn’t ready to give up just yet. The first girls had been too much fun. But five was the magic number. Five girls for five years. The old broad would just be one-to-grow-on. He thought of putting that in the letter to the prosecutor. Definitely have to remember to put that in there, he thought, but first: have to get the kid some decent food and a source of warmth. Maybe the owner of the Camaro would share that toasty little cabin if he asked her just right.