Vanished (24 page)

“You want to go with Kyle and T.J.?” Greg asked, worry in his eyes.

“No. Just go for a drive.”

“Okay,” Tomas said, already focused on the files. “We’ll call you if we find anything.”

Greg watched her as she continued to back out of the room. “You okay, Evelyn?”

“Fine. I’ll take a drive down the road that goes out to where we found Lauren.”

“There are cops out there right now,” Greg reminded her.

“I know. I’m not going to join them. I just need to see the area again.”

Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

They’d worked together long enough for him to see something was bothering her. Instead of telling him that if she stayed and flipped through folders looking for twelve-year-old girls who’d died, all she’d be able to see was Cassie, she told him the other part. “I feel like I’m missing something that should be obvious. I need to see the scene again.”

“Call us if you have any new ideas,” Tomas said, then shoved a teetering pile of folders at Greg. “You take this stack.”

Before Greg could ask anything else, Evelyn hurried out to her rental. She rolled down the windows, needing more air, and wind whipped inside. Rain was coming.

She’d planned to head directly toward the dead-end road where she’d followed Darnell Conway yesterday. But instead of driving toward the outskirts of town, she found herself turning the other way, toward Magnolia Street.

She hadn’t been back there in thirteen years. But it looked exactly the same—a winding road, lined with perfectly manicured magnolia trees, bursting with huge white blooms. The houses set way back off the road looked the same, too—big and private. Classic South Carolina–style, with columns out front and big hedges to separate them from prying neighbor eyes.

In the cul-de-sac at the end of the road, the Byers house looked forlorn, all the yard and porch lights out. Were Mr. and Mrs. Byers inside, sitting in the fading evening light, waiting to hear if one of the skeletons found in a field across town was their daughter’s?

Evelyn knew she should stop, pull into the drive and talk to them. She owed them that much. But she couldn’t do it.

Instead, she drove slowly past, gazing at the gnarly branched live oak out front that she and Cassie had liked to climb. They’d get up high, sit together where the branches started to sway just a little from their combined weight and giggle about things Evelyn couldn’t remember.

Next door, her grandparents’ old house looked pretty much as it always had. The new owners had painted the doors and shutters a new color, added some more flowers. Otherwise, if Evelyn squinted, she could almost see her grandpa rocking on the chair on the covered porch, her grandma standing beside him, shading her eyes and watching Evelyn and Cassie play.

A sad smile quivered on her lips at the memory. Those days were long gone. Her grandpa was long gone. Cassie was long gone. And her grandma was still with her in body, but less and less in spirit every year.

There was no time to linger in the memories. It was time to find closure, time to move on.

With one last look at the place that had made her who she was today—probably the last look she’d ever have—Evelyn put her foot on the gas and set out for the other side of town.

She was back at the long, dead-end road before she expected, and then she put everything out of her mind except the day she’d followed Darnell out here and found the cellar. Something about that day was niggling in her mind, some small piece of it refusing to surface. Maybe being here would coax it out, whatever was bothering her subconscious.

She drove slowly, surveying the overgrown fields on either side of her. Houses and trees dotted the landscape at random, mostly set far back. She recalled following Darnell down this road, wondering what the hell he was doing. She passed Frank Abbott’s house now, as she’d done on that day, then another house, boarded up. Then she rounded a bend with the copse of trees, where she and Kyle had originally stopped.

The field came into view, edged with police cars. The field itself was still bright with portable police lights, crime scene tape strung around several sections. The cellar. And the graves.

The graves. Evelyn put the car in Park, staring out at the officers still searching for evidence in the huge field. Overhead, in the distance, she heard the approaching buzz of a helicopter.

There was something about the graves. Evelyn struggled to get her mind to latch on to whatever it was that had struck her as odd. And then suddenly, as vividly as if she was looking into the little coffin, Evelyn saw it.

Brittany’s body, wrapped in a soft blue blanket.

Evelyn’s heart started a slow crescendo. Someone had carefully folded that warm blanket around Brittany before tucking her into the ground. Someone had wanted to protect her from the elements, care for her even in death.

It was a big behavioral cue and she’d totally missed it.

Evelyn flashed back to the day she’d called Greg and talked about reasons the killer might not have come back for her. During that phone call, they’d come to the conclusion that he lived with someone who’d noticed him missing. Someone who might not have suspected then, but surely suspected now. Someone who’d known what was happening.

A woman who’d known what was happening.

Evelyn slammed her hand against the steering wheel, furious at herself for not realizing sooner. Wrapping the body so carefully was a sign of remorse. It was often seen in cases where a parent killed his or her child, but almost always it was a woman. In this case, a woman who’d tried to protect both the victim and the predator?

Whoever had prevented the Nursery Rhyme Killer from taking Evelyn eighteen years ago still knew what was happening. Because she’d been the one to wrap Brittany gently in that blanket before placing her in the ground.

That meant the killer wasn’t the only one who knew where his new hiding spot was. There was a woman involved, too. A woman who knew everything.

Twenty-Three

E
velyn sat at the end of Jack Bullock’s driveway, studying the small, tidy house. The porch lights were on, and so were lights in the front room. Miranda Bullock was probably inside, waiting for Jack to come home.

Was she waiting for the police to find him? Or did she know exactly where he was?

The mother of an infant who had died within his first two months of life would have reason to gently wrap a dead twelve-year-old in a blanket before allowing her husband to bury her. The stay-at-home wife of an overbearing and obsessive policeman could also have reason to fear turning that man in if she knew he was also a child abductor.

Especially if she understood his reasoning. If Jack had resorted to the abductions because of something he’d seen on the job, his wife might even agree. A neglected or abused child the law couldn’t protect? Maybe that child was better off with them. They couldn’t have any more of their own children, so they had room to take one in.

And one of the veteran cops had told her Jack’s wife had always wanted a daughter.

But of course, no one could know. And what better way to hide them than on land they owned but no one used? Land that had once belonged to a police chief and was now owned by an officer. Why would anyone suspect that?

Evelyn nodded to herself as she went over the reasoning Miranda might have used. It was too easy to imagine her rationalizing the abductions over the years.

Evelyn reached for her cell phone to call Greg and let him know she was going to question Jack’s wife and realized she’d left it in the station.

“Shit,” she muttered, but stepped out of the car and strode up to the house, anyway. Her car was parked right outside, something the neighbors would certainly notice, and she was armed. And T.J. had been by earlier. Jack wasn’t home.

Even if he’d come home since T.J.’s visit, his smartest move was to claim he’d been off doing exactly what he’d said he was: running down a long-shot lead that had gone nowhere. No one could disprove that, and although at this point Jack probably knew they suspected him, all they had was his father’s pin. Stacked against a lifelong career and family legacy in law enforcement, it wouldn’t hold up.

Evelyn knocked on the door and it opened fast, as though the person inside had been watching her approach.

Miranda Bullock was frail-looking. She was even shorter than Evelyn’s five foot two, with wary brown eyes and brown hair streaked with gray knotted severely on her head.

“How
dare
you treat my husband like some common criminal?” she snarled with a lot more aggression than Evelyn had expected from someone who seemed so beaten down.

“I’m Evelyn Baine,” she replied evenly, ignoring the question. “I just want to ask you a few things.”

“T.J. was already here,” Miranda snapped. “Jack isn’t home. He’s working.”

“Well, the station doesn’t know where your husband is,” Evelyn said.

“It’s not their business. Jack’s been on the force for twenty-one years. Before he was an officer, he worked for his father, doing odd jobs at the station. He started that as a teenager. He knows what he’s doing, more than anyone else at that station, including the new
chief
.” She spat the last word.

“Well, whatever leads he’s running, I’d like to assist,” Evelyn said smoothly, changing the tactic she’d planned to take with this woman. It was obvious that she’d never get her to turn on her husband. Which made Evelyn’s suspicion ratchet higher. How far
would
Miranda go to protect Jack?

“Bullshit,” Miranda said, looking Evelyn up and down with a disapproving sneer on her face.

Evelyn recognized that look instantly, but she forced herself not to react. She knew Jack held at least some animosity toward her because of her skin color; it shouldn’t surprise her that Jack’s wife would, too.

“Ma’am, I’d just like to know—”

“Get off my property,” the woman snapped as she started to slam the door.

Evelyn braced her hand on the door before it could close and Miranda seemed surprised by her strength. Evelyn locked a steely, determined gaze on her, a gaze she’d perfected in her years at the FBI, one that said,
Don’t underestimate me.

“It won’t take long.”

Miranda chewed her lip, squinting from Evelyn’s hand braced on the door back to her face. Her own hand, still pushing the other side of the door, trembled. “Fine.” She let go and walked inside.

Evelyn closed the door behind her, checking warily around her as she followed Miranda into a small sitting room. Just because Miranda said Jack wasn’t home didn’t mean it was true.

But the house felt empty and no one jumped out of the shadows.

“Someone stole Jack’s pin yesterday,” Miranda announced as soon as Evelyn sat down.

Damn it. “Did T.J. tell you we’d found it?” Evelyn asked, although inside she was seething. She couldn’t believe T.J. had told Jack’s wife what they had on him.

“Yeah. Said it was on that girl who went missing this morning. But Jack lost it yesterday.”

“He lost it or someone stole it?”

“Well, who knows? But it wasn’t on his lapel when he got home last night.”

Evelyn didn’t push. Instead, she asked, “When did you last see Jack?”

“This morning.”

“What time?”

Miranda shrugged. “Don’t remember. Before he went to work.”

“His shift would be over now, wouldn’t it?”

“Not when there’s a kid missing.”

“We found her,” Evelyn said. “So, shouldn’t he be home by now?”

Miranda crossed her arms over her chest. “No. He takes these cases seriously. He won’t slow down until this guy is caught.”

“Has he always been this dedicated?”

“Yes,” she insisted. “Jack is a good cop.”

“Do you know if there’s a case in particular that really drives him?” Before Miranda could say no, Evelyn added conversationally, “We all have one, of course.”

Her eyes narrowed even more. “Sure, he’s got some of those. But he takes every case seriously. He’s very dedicated to his job.”

“So much so that he doesn’t have time for a home life?” Evelyn wondered.

“He has plenty of time for me. But his job is very important. It has to come first.” She said it as though it was something she’d been told repeatedly.

Evelyn nodded. “Of course. What about kids?”

Miranda’s hands jerked in her lap. “What about them?” she asked faintly.

“You don’t have any?” It was a cruel question to ask a woman who’d lost her only child, especially if Jack was innocent or she knew nothing about what he was doing. But if he was guilty and she was complicit, her reaction would tell Evelyn a lot.

Miranda wouldn’t meet Evelyn’s eyes. She didn’t answer, just got stiffly to her feet. “I want you to leave. And I’ll be telling my husband about your visit.”

She said the last part as if it were a threat.

Evelyn stood, too, studying Miranda for any sign of guilt.

But the woman had stiffened her shoulders and locked her jaw, only anger showing on her face.

When Evelyn didn’t immediately move, Miranda stepped forward aggressively and screamed, “Get out! Get out now!”

Evelyn held up her hands and backed toward the door. “Okay. Please ask Jack to call me when he gets home.”

“You bet I will,” Miranda yelled as Evelyn reached the door. “You can bet he’ll have something to say about it, too.”

As soon as Evelyn stepped outside, Miranda slammed the door, hard enough that a blast of angry wind smacked Evelyn’s back.

Walking slowly toward her car, Evelyn glanced back at the house. A curtain moved in the front window; Miranda was still watching. Or could it possibly be Jack in there?

Evelyn couldn’t tell, and the curtain fluttered back into place.

So much for getting anything out of Jack’s wife.

Evelyn climbed into her car and sank down in the seat without starting the engine. Where the hell was she going to look next?

* * *

Had Greg and Tomas come up with a case in Jack’s past that would motivate him to abduct young girls? Evelyn didn’t have her phone and she didn’t want to drive back to the station. Instead, her mind wandered over all the information she’d learned about Jack in the past four days.

As she ran through everything, she jolted forward in her seat. Noreen. Jack had been close to her, so she’d wondered if he’d known her sister before she died, that Margaret was the trigger. It had seemed like a long shot.

But what about Noreen? Frank Abbott was still a suspect. He wasn’t as high on her list as Jack Bullock, but she didn’t know where else to look for information on Jack. And if Frank was the killer, maybe Noreen was the woman in his life afraid to turn him in.

Eighteen years ago, Earl’s declining health could have stopped Frank’s abductions. Back then, Noreen would’ve been too young to know anything. But now, especially working at the police station, maybe she’d begun to suspect. Maybe she’d figured it out too late to save Brittany, but had carefully wrapped the child in a blanket before her uncle buried her.

Was it possible?

Evelyn leaned back in her seat, the engine running but her rental car still outside Jack Bullock’s house. The world outside was getting dark, and Jack wasn’t home yet.

There was nothing she could do about that, so she turned her mind back to Frank and Noreen. With her father and sister dead and her mom seemingly out of the picture, all Noreen had was the station and her uncle Frank.

Both Jack and Tomas had said Noreen was incredibly smart. If she’d realized it was her uncle, would she be able to turn him in?

She clearly had mixed feelings about him. Resentment at the way he’d left her on her own to look after her father as soon as she hit eighteen. Gratitude that he’d stuck around that long. Loyalty and love because he was the only family she had.

Evelyn knew what it was like to have too few people in her life, too few family members, too few friends. She knew exactly what it was like to want to hold on as tight as she could to what she still had.

It was probably the same for Noreen. Evelyn found it easy to imagine her love and loyalty to her uncle extending too far.

Evelyn shifted out of Park and pulled away from the Bullock house, the idea gaining momentum in her mind. Noreen was only twenty-four. Naive and socially awkward. Not much of a life outside the police station. If she’d turned her uncle in, it would’ve destroyed everything she had in one swoop.

Evelyn tried to put herself in Noreen’s shoes, imagined discovering that the only family she still had was a killer. Having worked in the police station for years, she’d know that the death penalty was a real possibility for this kind of crime. And if he was the killer, what would the officers she worked with have thought of her? Would they want the niece of the worst criminal in Rose Bay’s history working in their station? Probably not.

So if Frank Abbott
was
the killer and Noreen turned him in, she’d be left with nothing at all.

Evelyn sped up as she headed toward Noreen’s apartment. The girl had mentioned she lived in a walk-up a few blocks from the station. When Evelyn got there, she’d find out which unit.

Because no matter what Noreen’s motive might have been for keeping her uncle’s secret, Noreen believed in her job. Evelyn was sure of it.

She remembered the long hours Noreen had put in coordinating the search parties, the work she’d taken home with her, the way she’d called Evelyn with information. When Evelyn had first suspected her uncle, she’d seemed to genuinely believe he wasn’t guilty.

Which meant that if Frank
was
guilty, she’d probably uncovered something along the way. She’d probably only learned her uncle’s horrible secret recently, likely after Brittany was already dead.

Evelyn could imagine the horror she must have felt when she learned what he’d done. Had Noreen confronted her uncle? Was that how she’d found out about Brittany? Or had she known of his hiding spot and discovered Brittany already dead, too late to save? Either way, if this theory had merit, if Noreen had been the one to wrap that blanket around Brittany, it was because she felt guilty.

Guilty for not realizing sooner. Guilty for being related to the killer. Guilty for loving him—and her own life in Rose Bay—too much to turn him in.

But if she felt guilt, it also meant that if Evelyn handled things right, she could talk Noreen into giving her uncle up.

Assuming her burgeoning theory was correct.

The truth was, she had too many theories and too few facts. Profiling wasn’t an exact science.

In some ways, that was better. It took her places that physical evidence alone couldn’t.

But in other ways, it was frustrating as hell. Because there would always be elements of profiling that were conjecture. The right conjecture could connect dots that a regular investigation would never find. The wrong conjecture could waste time, manpower and resources, and lead everyone off track.

And right now, Evelyn felt as uncertain about her profile as she’d ever felt about anything.

Was it Jack? Was it Frank? Hell, was it Walter Wiggins or some other resident of Rose Bay Evelyn had never even considered?

The only way she’d know was by taking her theories as far as she could and seeing what she found.

Evelyn gritted her teeth and parked in the only apartment complex within walking distance of the police station. A quick stop in the manager’s office told her that Noreen Abbott did live here, but she’d gone out an hour ago and hadn’t yet returned.

Borrowing the manager’s phone, Evelyn called the station and got Greg. “How’s the search going?”

“Nothing yet. Jack pulled a few nasty domestics as a rookie, but none that involved a twelve-year-old girl.” Greg sounded dejected. “How about you?”

“I stopped by Jack’s house. His wife was not happy to see me. And T.J. gave her a head’s-up on the pin.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Hey, is Noreen there?”

“Nope. Carly’s back, though.”

“Okay.”

“You coming back now?”

“Soon. Thanks, Greg.” Hanging up, Evelyn handed the phone back to the apartment manager and returned to her car.