The Missing (26 page)
Authors: Shiloh Walker
Tags: #Contemporary, #Romantic Suspense, #Romance Suspense
“The first to disappear.” A young girl, younger than Jillian. Then two others.
“Disappear from where?”
“Around.”
Voice rusty, Cullen asked, “Why do you have her sketch pad?” Instead of answering Cullen’s question, Jones flipped open the sketch pad and asked one of his own. “Care to explain this?”
He didn’t bother clarifying what he wanted explained, and it wasn’t necessary. Cullen stared down at the sketch, feeling like he had been sucker punched. It was the one from the airport. But it no longer had three kids.
It had four, and Jillian was the fourth. Still trying to take in that particular shock, he was left floundering as Jones removed something else from the briefcase, three pictures, to be exact. And each picture bore a striking resemblance to one of the faces that Jillian had sketched.
Jones tapped his finger on the one that looked the oldest. It had that yellowish cast to it, and the background was that fake, woodsy looking backdrop that had been used in a lot of school portraits in the seventies. Her hair was long, parted down the middle—again giving him the idea that the picture had been taken a good thirty years earlier.
“Her name was Leslie. She disappeared from Birmingham when she was ten. Back in 1974. As of this summer, she was still presumed dead.”
Something about Jones’s voice made Cullen’s gut knot. “Presumed?”
Jones acted as though Cullen hadn’t said a word. He pushed another picture toward Cullen. This one was the black boy with the impish smile, and Jillian had captured the mischief in the boy’s smile almost perfectly. “Kendrick. Disappeared from Atlanta in 1982. Presumed dead.”
Cullen asked hoarsely, “What do you want me to say, Jones? You already know about Jilly. Obviously. But she can’t help you. She’s tried. And I won’t let you traumatize her.”
“Amy. Disappeared 1992. Perdido Key, Florida. Presumed—”
“I get the picture. Why in the hell do you have this, and what do you want me to say?”
Jones leaned back and stared at Cullen. “Your daughter knew something was going to happen to her, Cullen. Did you know?”
“She didn’t know!” Cullen shouted, shoving back from the chair. But then he looked down at the sketch pad and wondered if he knew what he was talking about. It was there, plain as day, sketched out with the talented strokes of Jillian’s charcoal pencil. “Oh, God.” The strength drained out of him, and he sank back down into his chair, covering his face with his hands and trying not to puke.
She’d known. Somehow, some part of her had known, but Cullen hadn’t recognized it for the warning it had been. “You all found this the day she disappeared?” he asked, his voice rusty.
“My agents were here with your father. They found it on her bed. She left it there, almost like she knew they needed to see it.”
Cullen shook his head. “I don’t understand. I don’t get it.”
Jones’s gaze fell away, and that polished, cool veneer left his face for just a second, letting Cullen see the man under the mask. “We’ve been working on identifying the bodies that were buried under the cabin where Taige Branch found Jillian,” Jones said softly. He pulled yet another piece of paper from his briefcase, but this one he didn’t offer to Cullen. “There are more than twenty bodies buried under there, and just about all of them are children or young teens. The first positive match came back yesterday.”
Jones looked up and met Cullen’s eyes as he laid the page down on the table and pushed it toward Cullen. Almost afraid to look, Cullen shifted his gaze downward.
Leslie King.
Most of the jargon on the report was too medical in nature for Cullen to follow, but he saw one thing clearly enough: bones found at the crime scene in Otisco, Alabama, were positively confirmed as the remains of Leslie King, a child missing now for more than thirty years. It had been confirmed through DNA.
“Shit.”
Jones grimaced. “That was my first thought as well.”
TAIGE read the report and looked up at Jones with unreadable eyes. “So why am I hearing this? You never officially put me on the case.”
With that neutral, polite smile, Jones said, “Taige, you put yourself on the case all on your own.” He laid three other reports out. They were preliminaries as well, and staring at the names revealed nothing to Taige. She might as well have been reading a list of names out of the phone book.
But he wouldn’t be here just to update her on the case. He would have done that on the phone or not bothered. Taking a deep breath, Taige reached out and touched one of the pictures that Jones had placed facedown.
She didn’t even have to flip it over. It jolted down her back, and she hissed. Her instinct was to jerk her hand back and cradle it against her chest. It was almost like she’d touched a hot stove. Pain streaked through her, but instead of pulling back, she flipped the picture over and found herself staring at a young, dark face. He had a mischievous smile. Even as the pain swarmed her system, she was more aware of that smile than anything else.
At least until she heard his scream.
This time, the gray didn’t come and wrap her gently in its embrace. It was a violent possession, and she knew she’d be ill when it was over. But she was powerless to fight it, and she knew why Jones had brought the pictures instead of calling her. He’d been hoping for this.
She fell into the boy’s head like a stone falls into water. Taige’s physical connection to herself grew weak, replaced by the one forged between herself and the boy. He lay on the floor, screaming and crying, begging for his mama. There was a man, but his face was distorted. Whether through fear or a child’s eyes, she didn’t know, but there was no way she would learn anything about the man that would help identify him.
Pain streaked through her back as something struck her. The initial blow didn’t hurt so much; it was the fiery pain that came after. Even as lost inside the boy as she was, Taige knew what was happening. Somebody was beating him, not with their hands, but with a belt. A leather one, with a metal buckle. She had a few faint scars from the times when she’d been similarly whipped, and in the small part of her that was still cognizant, she didn’t know what she wanted more: to weep or to tear into something with her bare hands.
Not something. Someone. Some ominous, faceless man who beat a small boy with a fury. And it was fury. It wasn’t some lust for causing pain, although Taige suspected the man did enjoy inflicting the pain. She could hear his harsh, labored breathing, but it sounded more like the gasps of a man in the throes of passion than exertion. Fury drove him. Though she couldn’t see him, and though her gift was one of thought, not emotion, she could feel his fury. It beat at her, crawled over her, digging into her flesh like a thousand little knives.
The boy screamed again and again, until his voice gave out, and then he went silent. He retreated into the safety of his own mind—and Taige felt it when his mind finally gave out. Inside, he stopped living. Although his body still bled and his heart still beat, what had made the boy alive was gone. As Taige came clawing back into awareness, she knew that it had been a blessing.
She was on the floor, a quivering, sweaty mess, and she shoved to her knees. Before she could lurch to her feet, her stomach rebelled. Jones was there, shoving a pot under her just before she would have puked all over the floor. It was a sense of fastidiousness that had him holding her hair as she puked, not compassion, but she was thankful, nonetheless. Her eyes burned, and her throat felt raw as she sat back on her heels.
“God.” Closing her eyes, Taige said a prayer under her breath. A prayer for strength to do what she had to, a prayer for justice, a prayer to stop the man before he killed again. She’d saved Jillian, but that wasn’t enough now. She had to save them all, stop this man before he could hurt another soul.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Jones watching her with faint amusement. “Considering what your uncle did to you in the name of God, it’s a wonder you pray at all.”
“My uncle did it, not God, Jones,” she said tersely. Slowly, every muscle in her body protesting, she pushed herself upright. Taige doubted she had the strength to stand, though. Instead, she rested there on her heels and waited until her breathing slowed. She jerked her chin back to the coffee table where two more pictures still sat. “Those pictures of the boy or other people?”
“Others. Two girls. Did you see anything?”
She shook her head jerkily. “Not much. Not him.” Taige didn’t need to clarify. She didn’t like Taylor Jones, but she knew him well, and she knew what he had been hoping for when he showed her those pictures. “I can’t help you find him—not yet. The boy couldn’t see him.”
“His name was Kendrick.”
Kendrick. Taige squeezed her eyes closed and tried to block out the sound of his screams. “He had a sweet smile.”
Jones didn’t respond to that. Instead, he rose to his feet and went back to his briefcase. “I have the original file from his case. He disappeared in 1982 from a mall in Atlanta. He was there with his mother, picking out clothes for school. He would have started third grade that year.”
“Third grade,” Taige murmured. “He was so young.”
Jones glanced at the pictures and then back at her. “I’ll warn you now. One of the girls was even younger.”
With a grimace, Taige said, “I need a drink.”
“You drink too much as it is.”
Her legs still felt way too unstable as she shoved to her feet. Three unsteady steps had her back to the couch, and she collapsed on it thankfully. “Considering the shit you dump on me, it’s amazing I still have a functioning liver.” She started to ask how young, but then she shook her head. It was best she not know much before she looked at the picture.
“Did you notice anything unusual about the boy?”
Frowning, Taige asked, “Like what?”
“Like the fact that he was like you.”
Taige blinked. “Like me how?”
“Gifted.” Jones leaned back into the dark blue leather of his chair, watching her closely. “His mother ran away with him when he was two, because his father was using him to help win at the races. The boy knew which horse would win, which would lose. All before he could even tie his shoes.”
“Could it be just dumb luck?”
Once more, Jones glanced at the coffee table.
Taige felt something sick spin inside her.
“It could, but you and I don’t believe in coincidences, do we? Jillian is gifted. Kendrick was gifted—and at least one other victim that we’ve identified.”
No. It wasn’t coincidence. Taige reached up and wiped a hand over her mouth. She felt numb inside, chilled from the fear. Three victims. No way was that a coincidence. Which meant the other children were probably gifted as well; more, it meant that the killer was probably gifted. It usually took one gifted person to recognize another.
“It isn’t over,” Taige whispered, more to herself than him.
But Jones responded anyway. “No, it isn’t. But I think you already knew that.”
NINE
THE scream woke Cullen out of a dead sleep. He raced down the hall toward Jillian’s room and hit the partially opened door with the palm of his hand, shoving it with a strength that sent it flying. He heard it hit the wall, but the sound barely registered as he crouched by Jillian’s side and pulled her into his arms.
“Wake up, Jilly. Come on, baby, wake up,” he whispered, his voice harsh, almost thick with tears. The knot in his throat threatened to choke him, but he didn’t know what would kill him first: the knot or the poison of the rage that flowed through him. This was killing him.
Every night for the past week Jilly had awakened screaming from the nightmares. Every damn night. And each dream made him feel more and more helpless. He had to do something. Had to.
“Daddy . . .” Jilly moaned, and he pulled back just enough to see her face as her lashes fluttered open.
“I’m here, baby. I’m here.”
“He’s going to hurt her, Daddy. Don’t let him.”
Cullen stroked a hand up her back and whispered, “He can’t hurt you again, baby. I won’t let him.”
But she shook her head, shoved against his chest with a strength that was almost unnatural for a child so young. “Not me, Daddy. It’s Taige. The lady that helped me. He wants to kill her. He knows she helped me, and he hates her.”
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