The Night Stalker (22 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

A
s I came outside, Buster exploded out of the bushes and followed me across the street to LeAnn’s house. I made him lie on the grass, then knocked on the door.

“It’s Jack Carpenter,” I said.

I heard a deadbolt being drawn back, and LeAnn filled the doorway. She wore a shapeless black housedress, and her eyes were filled with dread.

“I need to talk to you about Heather,” I said.

“Heather’s in trouble,” she whispered.

LeAnn fell heavily against the door. She was in shock, and I escorted her to the living room and made her sit on the couch. From the kitchen I got a glass of cold water, and placed it beneath her lips. She drank the entire glass.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

She pointed at the cell phone lying on the coffee table. It was right in front of her, only she didn’t want to touch it. I picked it up.

“Is there something you want me to hear?” I asked.

“Heather left me a voice message,” she whispered.

I sat beside her on the couch, and made her show me how to access her messaging service. Dialing in, I entered her password, then listened hard. At first, I heard nothing. Then Heather’s voice ripped through the phone.

“Help me! Please, somebody help me!”

Her attacker was beating her, and I could hear the blows. Heather’s screams grew louder, then suddenly stopped altogether. I strained to pick up any background noises, and heard another voice. It was small and strong.

“Leave my mommy alone! Leave her alone!”

It was Sampson, and he was fighting back. I listened as the killer dragged him across the room, and heard a door slam. Then the call ended.

An icy finger ran down my spine. The message was similar to Piper Stone’s last call. The killer had sent that message, along with this one. He was taunting us.

“Sweet Lord, have mercy on their souls,” LeAnn whispered.

“Where did Heather go?” I asked.

“To buy some things for Jed.”

“What things?”

“I don’t know. They talk on walkie-talkies, and sometimes it’s hard to make out what they’re saying.”

“Was she stopping someplace in the neighborhood?”

“I think so.”

“But you don’t know where.”

LeAnn shook her head.

“I need to talk to Jed.”

“I don’t know where my son is,” she whispered.

“I think you do,” I said.

Tears ran down LeAnn’s cheeks, and she balled her hands into fists and bounced them on her lap. I touched her sleeve, but she refused to look at me.

“Your son has a hiding place in the neighborhood, someplace where he goes when he wants to escape from the world,” I said. “He’s been going there for a long time, and you’ve always known about it, even if you haven’t talked about it. Am I right?”

She nodded stiffly.

“This secret place bothered you, so you watched him, and tried to figure out where he went. You wanted to know, and probably came up with some ideas, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Tell me your ideas,” I said.

She took a deep breath. “It was nearby. I knew because he never took his bike or the car. For a while I thought he was going to a mall where his friends hung out. Then I realized that wasn’t so.”

“How did you know that?”

“His clothes. Whenever he went to his secret place, he wore the worst clothes. He didn’t do that when he went to the mall.”

“Did he invite his friends there?”

“Yes, all the time. I used to hear him on the phone.”

“So other kids knew about it.”

“Yes, they knew.”

“Do you remember anything else?”

“Jed always took a shower after he came home. One day I confronted him in the hall. That’s when the smell hit me.”

“The smell?”

“It was rancid. He smelled like he’d been rolling around in something dead.”

“Do you think he’s hiding in a barn?”

“He didn’t smell like horses.”

“Then where?”

She fell silent and stared at the framed photo of Jed on the coffee table. “I just figured he’d dug a big hole in the ground somewhere. Where else could he be going?”

I went outside and called Jessie on my cell phone. A veil of storm clouds had descended over the neighborhood, and a harsh rain was falling.

“Hi, Daddy,” my daughter answered. “How did it go with Heather?”

“Not good,” I said. “Heather’s in trouble. I need to find Jed.”

“What can I do?”

“You grew up with Heather, and shared a lot of friends. I want you to call them, and ask them if they remember a secret hiding place that Jed had. Maybe there’s an old bomb shelter buried in someone’s backyard, or an abandoned garage. Jed’s got a hideout, and he’s had it for a while. Hopefully, one of Heather’s friends will know where it is.”

“I’ll call them right now,” my daughter said.

I folded my phone. Across the street, a small army of FBI agents wearing bulletproof vests and carrying rifles had gathered on the sidewalk. Whitley was with them, barking out orders, and I watched the agents break into groups, and begin a house-to-house search of the neighborhood. Seeing me, Whitley crossed the street.

“We just picked up a message on LeAnn Grimes’s voice mail,” the FBI agent said. “You can hear Jed beating up his wife. We’re going to find him before he kills her.”

I started to protest, then clamped my mouth shut. Whitley had made up his mind that Jed was guilty, and nothing I could say was going to change that belief. I watched him hurry away. Then Jessie called me back.

“I just got off the phone with Cinda Bowe, one of Jed’s old girlfriends,” my daughter said. “Cinda said that Jed’s neighborhood used to be on private well and septic, but got switched over to city water and sewer. Most of the houses kept their septic tanks, and Jed spent a summer cleaning several out, and connecting them with underground tunnels. Cinda said Jed even ran electricity down there.”

“Did Jed ever take Cinda there?” I asked. “Cinda went there once and smoked pot with Jed. She said it stank like a sewer, so she never went back.”

“Did she remember where it was?”

“Cinda said it happened when she was a kid. She forgot the exact location, but said it was a couple of blocks away from Jed’s mom’s house.”

Cinda Bowe wasn’t old enough to be forgetting things like that. My daughter’s friend wasn’t telling the whole truth, probably because she didn’t want her name coming up. We were running out of time, and I decided to press her.

“Give me Cinda’s number,” I said.

“But, Daddy—”

“Give it to me.”

“She’ll freak out if you call her.”

“Good. I always enjoy a freakout.”

“Let me call her. Please. I can make Cinda talk.”

I hesitated. I needed to get to Jed first. It was my only guarantee that he wouldn’t get shot.

“All right, but you can’t let Cinda off the hook,” I said.

“I won’t let you down,” my daughter promised.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

A
minute later, Jessie called me back with exact directions.

The property where Jed had his hideout was owned by an elderly couple named Dodd. The Dodds were snowbirds, and spent six months of the year living in south Florida, the other six in their native Montreal. Jessie said they were hard of hearing, and that Jed had come and gone for years without them knowing it.

I thanked my daughter and ended the call. The rain was coming down sideways, and I crossed the street to the house being occupied by the FBI. Before I could knock, Burrell came onto the porch.

“Come with me,” I said.

“I can’t. I’m helping the techs watch the monitors,” Burrell said.

“I know where Jed is hiding.”

“You do? Did you tell Whitley?”

I shook my head. “We’re going to do this my way.”

“You can’t act outside the law, Jack.”

“I’m not,” I said. “You’re going to help me.”

“I am?”

“Yes. Now get your gear.”

Burrell started to protest. I stepped off the porch and began walking down the sidewalk with my head bowed and my dog by my side.

Burrell caught up to me moments later. She had thrown on a bulletproof vest that was a size too big for her, and was cradling a shotgun between her arms.

“Slow down,” she said.

I slowed my pace. “You need to lose the shotgun.”

“Why should I do that?”

“Because we’re going into a hole in the ground. You can’t turn around in a confined space with a shotgun. Sidearms only.”

Burrell’s jaw clenched, and I saw her blink.

“Anything else you’d like to share with me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “LeAnn told me when Heather left the house, she went to get something for Jed. I’m guessing it was food.”

“So?”

“Yesterday I spoke with the father of Mary McClary, one of the victims at the landfill. He told me his daughter was looking for work, and had worked as a waitress.”

“I’m still not reading you.”

We came to the corner and both stopped. I was going to make Burrell understand if it was the last thing I did, and I turned so I was facing her.

“Our killer works in a restaurant,” I said.

The Dodds lived in a tiny bungalow made of cinder blocks. The front yard was a jungle, the grass knee-high. I banged on the front door, and, when no one came out, checked the mailbox. It was filled with promotional flyers.

“Looks like they’re away,” I said.

I led Burrell to the back of the property. The lot was long and narrow, and had several ripening citrus trees. I picked up a stick and began poking at the soggy ground.

“What are we looking for?” Burrell asked.

“A septic tank,” I replied.

We searched the property. Several times, I saw Burrell drop to her knees and dig in the earth, only to turn up a water sprinkler, or something hidden in the dirt. Soon we were done.

“Are you sure this is the place?” Burrell asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Keep looking.”

There was an art to finding a concealed space, and even the best searchers missed things. I retraced my steps while tuning out the storm. Buster was lying beneath a lemon tree, and raised his head each time I passed him.

“Some help you are,” I said.

My dog let out a whine, and began to dig with his front paws. Etched in the dirt beneath the tree was the faint outline of a small door. I’d passed the spot several times, yet somehow missed it. Kneeling, I dug my fingers into the dirt, and the door came free.

“Over here,” I said.

Burrell came over, and stared into the hole with her flashlight. She pulled out her cell phone.

“I’m calling Whitley,” she announced.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because he’s in charge.”

“Are you afraid of bringing Jed in yourself?”

“Of course not.”

“Then call Whitley when you’re done,” I said.

Burrell acted like I’d slapped her across the face.

“You’re out of line, Jack,” she said.

She started to make the call. I picked Buster up in my arms, and held him over the opening. The drop looked about five feet. I lowered him as far as I could without falling in, then released him. He landed on all fours, and took off running.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I followed my dog down the hole. I was inside an empty septic tank. The air was toxic, and I tried not to puke.

“Wait!” she said.

Burrell jumped down the hole so she was standing beside me.

“Don’t do that again,” she said.

I pointed at the passageway on the other side of the tank.

“That way,” I said.

“Jack, I’m warning you. Don’t do that again,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

We went down the passageway. The ceiling was low, and we both walked like crabs. It led to another septic tank with bleached walls and breathable air. A Coleman lantern hung from the wall; beneath it several pieces of mismatched furniture were arranged like a living room. Hanging from the walls were posters of James Dean and Kurt Cobain, and I spied an old bong on the coffee table with cobwebs on it.

Burrell pointed at a black door on the other end of the tank. It had a half moon painted on it, and appeared to be a bathroom. She drew her weapon, and aimed at the door.

“Don’t shoot him,” I whispered.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she whispered back.

“Does this look like a killer’s lair?” I asked.

Burrell glanced around the tank. “No.”

“Let me open the door.”

“Go ahead.”

I went to the door and jerked it open. The bathroom was empty.

“Where the hell is he?” Burrell asked.

I looked around the tank. There had to be another way out, only I wasn’t seeing it. Then I realized that I didn’t know where Buster was.

“Where’s my dog?” I asked.

“He was ahead of me, then disappeared,” Burrell said.

I let out a shrill whistle. Through the walls I heard a sound that was half whine, half dying breath. I tore through the living room, and did not stop until I found a secret door hidden behind a piece of cloth painted to resemble the wall. Tearing the cloth back, I stared down another passageway, and made out two forms at the other end: Jed Grimes, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and nothing else, and Buster. Jed had gotten a chain around my dog’s neck, and was strangling him. Buster’s tongue was sticking out of his mouth, his body hanging limply by Jed’s side. My head scraped the ceiling as I ran toward them. “Let him go!” I shouted.

Jed released my dog, and scurried up a ladder against the wall. Reaching him, I grabbed his bare foot, which was dangling above me.

“He’s here!” I yelled.

Jed kicked me in the face. I heard my nose break and saw pools of black before my eyes. I fell onto my dog, and tried to regain my senses. Buster lay beneath me, his body limp. I found his face in the dark, and ran my hand across it.

He was dead.

Burrell’s voice brought me back to reality.

“He’s getting away!”

I forced myself to stand. My head felt like a balloon, and I was having a hard time seeing clearly. Burrell stood in the passageway with her weapon drawn. There was not enough room for her to pass, and she grabbed my shoulder and shook me.

“Wake up, Jack!” she said.

I filled my lungs with air. A ladder was attached to the wall, and I grabbed a rung and started climbing until I was standing in an unfamiliar backyard. The rain was coming down in sheets, and I spotted Jed scaling a picket fence. I took off after him.

“Jed! Stop!” I shouted.

He looked over his shoulder at me, then disappeared. I hurled my body over the fence, and landed in a flower bed. Jed was twenty feet ahead of me, and running for a gate that led to the front of the property. I yelled for him to stop, and he ignored me.

I came through the gate running as fast as my legs would go, and found Jed standing on the front lawn of the house, surrounded by five FBI agents. The agents were pointing their weapons at him, which consisted of three rifles, one shotgun, and one pistol. Jed was dancing around like a boxer, trying to find an opening to escape through.

“No!” I screamed.

One of the agents’ heads snapped in my direction. It was Whitley. He was holding the automatic pistol, and had his free hand stuck in the air. When he dropped his hand, the agents were going to fire. His eyes met mine, and I saw him squint.

Whitley’s arm came down as I jumped. I tackled Jed directly above the knees, and brought him down hard. Jed grunted, and I felt his body go still. I hugged the ground as bullets flew around me.

“Get up,” Whitley shouted.

My ears were ringing as I rose to my feet. Whitley pulled me to the side while two of his men frisked and handcuffed Jed, who remained facedown on the ground. The air was thick with gunpowder, and I was having difficulty breathing.

“You’re a stupid son-of-a-bitch,” Whitley said.

I tasted blood, and brought my hand up to my face. It was trickling out of my left nostril. I’d gotten my nose busted a few times as a kid, and it hadn’t killed me.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Whitley asked.

I shook my head. The agents pulled Jed to his feet, and walked him to the curb.

A black SUV pulled up, and Jed was hustled into the backseat. As the door was closed, his eyes met mine. He looked terrified. I hadn’t wanted Jed to get shot, and although the price had been more than I’d bargained for, I’d succeeded.

“Did you find his wife or son?” Whitley asked.

I shook my head. Whitley climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV. Its tires squealed as it pulled away from the curb.

I found Burrell in the backyard next door. She was sitting on the ground and had something furry clutched in her arms that looked like a giant teddy bear.

“The FBI has Jed,” I told her.

“Is he alive?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Now help me.”

I got up next to her, and saw that she was holding my dog.

“He’s still got a pulse,” she explained.