Waking Lazarus (19 page)

Odum wanted to head back to the office and work some more, yet he really needed to get home, have a bit of time to himself. He needed to rest, because tomorrow was shaping up to be a big day indeed.

First, he’d probably have to deal with the Feds. This whole incident would have them sniffing around his town, tripping over their own feet while they tied Sohler to all the surrounding disappearances. Odum didn’t like the thought of that happening, only he couldn’t stop it now.

He was more interested in talking to the young girl named Tiffany. He had been able to reconstruct most of what had happened that evening. Even so, too many questions bounced around the corridors of his mind. Who made the call to Sohler? Probably the same person who broke into the house, freed the kids, and then played a tune on Sohler’s head. But how did he know Sohler? What was the connection?

Odum had wanted answers to some of his questions this evening, but the kids fell asleep on the drive to town. When he pulled into the station and opened the back door, there they were: curled up in the back seat together, both fast asleep. Probably the best sleep they’d had in months.

The kids, and the questions, could wait.

Chief Odum sat down with Tiffany the next morning, offering her doughnuts from the City Bakery. He usually didn’t go for doughnuts that much—he’d rather savor a latte sans sugar—but he figured they’d win over the girl. What kid didn’t like doughnuts?

Odum sat down next to the girl and pushed the box her way. ‘‘Hungry?’’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘‘Go ahead and take one. You like maple bars?’’

‘‘Have any chocolate?’’

He smiled. ‘‘Chocolate. Good choice.’’ He picked out a chocolate bismarck with sprinkles, put it on a napkin, and pushed it toward her. ‘‘I got some milk for you, too,’’ he said, pointing toward the carton of two percent sitting on the table. She looked up at him, then reached for the milk.

He waited for her to have a drink and a few bites of the doughnut. ‘‘I’d like to talk to you, if that’s okay,’’ he said.

She picked up a napkin, wiped chocolate from her mouth, nodded.

‘‘Good, good. Let’s start with names. I’m Chief Odum.’’

‘‘My name is Tiffany.’’

‘‘And the little boy? Do you know him?’’

‘‘Joey. He’s my brother.’’

‘‘Okay, Tiffany. Do you mind if we talk about last night?’’

‘‘Nope.’’

‘‘Joey was in the cage, right?’’

She nodded, licking frosting off her fingers.

‘‘Did you let him out?’’

This time she shook her head.

‘‘So who did?’’

She stopped chewing and thought for a few seconds. ‘‘I’m not sure. Must have been Ultra Man.’’

Odum smiled. Ultra Man. The hot kid toy of the year; stores expected to sell out of them during the fast-approaching Christmas season.

‘‘Ultra Man? Do you sometimes pretend he helps you?’’

She shook her head. ‘‘Just last night.’’

‘‘What did he look like?’’

‘‘Well, he said he wasn’t really Ultra Man. He said he was just a janitor.’’

‘‘You ever see him before?’’

‘‘No.’’

Odum frowned for a moment, then smiled as all the dots connected. He’d met a school janitor recently. He’d even taken a call from that gal at the jewelry store, claiming she thought he might be hiding under a false identity. And hadn’t the janitor met Ken Sohler at that pedestrian accident last week? Yes, he had. Everything was connecting very nicely.

It was time to draw the line to the last dot.

27

RECHARGING

A few minutes after four in the morning, Rachel awoke to the sound of the phone ringing beside her bed. Who would be calling this early, waking her up to . . .

She jolted upright. Maybe it was Ron. Something wrong with him.

She answered the phone: ‘‘Hello?’’ She heard wind blowing across the mouthpiece on the other end, and what a sounded like a truck engine upshifting somewhere in the background. Whoever was on the line was outside. Pay phone, probably. Had to be Ron, the only person in the world who didn’t have a cell. ‘‘Ron? Is that you? Are you okay?’’

A voice spoke up—thick, guttural, somehow slurred. ‘‘This is the gal has his kid?’’

She froze. It wasn’t Ron at all. And whoever it was, there was no way she was going to let Nathan be brought into the conversation. ‘‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m expecting a call from my brother Ron Iverson, who’s stationed in Germany.’’ She hoped the lie sounded believable; she’d made it up on the spot. She wanted to hang up, disconnect this evil voice from even being in the same house as her son. At the same time she felt she needed to stay on the line, find out who—or what—this was.

‘‘I’m talkin’ ’bout Ron Gress. You know him. Might wish you didn’t, soon.’’ The phone clicked, then went silent, and bounced to a dial tone after a few seconds.

Quickly she rose from bed and padded to Nathan’s room. He was facedown on the bed, pillow next to him—his favorite sleeping position. While it looked uncomfortable to her, she noticed her son sleeping that way often.

She went to the bed, brushed her hand on his cheek, and felt its reassuring warmth. Yes, he was fine. After walking to the other side of the room and checking the window—locked—she slid out into the hallway and closed the door gently behind her again.

She made a quick trip around the house, checking locks and windows. For once, she wished she had a big security system like Ron’s.

When she reached the kitchen, Rachel flipped the switch to the overhead light and pulled out a coffee filter. Might as well make a few cups, because she wasn’t going to be sleeping again this morning.

Jude awoke, stiff and sore, in his recliner. His muscles felt overstretched as if he’d been pulled on some kind of medieval torture device.

At the same time he felt oddly refreshed. A current of energy coursed through him, an uncontrollable excitement waiting to be let out.

He looked at the clock. It read 5:30, which shocked him for two reasons. First, it wasn’t within five minutes of 6:30. Over the years, his mind and body had become so accustomed to waking at 6:30 that he felt odd, out of place, waking at a different time. Second, he was surprised to find he’d actually awakened an hour
earlier
than usual. No wonder his body still felt sore; he was running on just a few hours’ sleep.

Jude disarmed his alarm system, then shuffled through the rest of the house. He embraced his usual routine, checking all the cupboards, closets, doors, and other hiding spots. It comforted him, calmed him—something that felt important since his body had robbed him of much-needed sleep. He noticed three messages blinking on his answering machine and pressed the button to listen.

‘‘Message one: 3:57 A.M.,’’ the answering machine’s mechanical voice told him. It was just background noise. Wind, and maybe traffic. He thought he heard the Jake Brake of a large diesel in the background. The message ended abruptly. The mechanical voice came back. ‘‘Message two: 6:07 A.M.’’

‘‘Ron, it’s, uh, Rachel. Pick up if you’re there.’’ A few seconds of silence. ‘‘Okay, maybe you can’t hear me, or maybe you’re out. I just . . . I just want to make sure you’re okay. I got a strange call a few hours ago, and . . . like I said, I just want to make sure you’re okay.’’

‘‘Message three: 9:47 A.M.’’

‘‘Ron, I guess I got a little buggerboo on your time off.’’ Frank, from school. Frank was always full of colorful colloquialisms Jude never quite understood. ‘‘I thought you were just gonna be gone yesterday. Anyway, no whoop-de-doo. You have a boatload of vacation time, so use it. Just let me know when you wanna polish the old pine again.’’

Jude scratched his head. The times didn’t add up; maybe the answering machine’s internal clock was off. It was one of those digital things he mistrusted; he spent as little time as possible with it, so its time probably
was
off.

He went to the kitchen, rummaged through a drawer, and found a watch. Its digital readout also said it was 5:45. Still puzzled, he shuffled to the front door, unlocked the dead bolts, and peeked outside. Low light, just as he would expect at about six in the morning this time of year.

Or six in the evening
.

He shut and dead-bolted the door again, then moved to his television. He pressed the power button and flipped to a local channel as he backed up to sit in his living room chair. A commercial for a local dry cleaner was playing, and Jude waited impatiently for the main program to come back on. Just before six in the evening, the local news should be . . .

The local weatherman came on, the squinty one who annoyed Jude. ‘‘Let’s take a look at your current conditions for this evening,’’ he began before Jude stopped listening and forced the voice into the background.

Jude hadn’t slept five hours. He’d slept
seventeen
hours.

As the weatherman droned, another memory flash of his father came—just for a few milliseconds. In the flash, Jude was young, maybe eight or so. He lay in bed, looking at his father sitting beside him. The flash didn’t last long, but Jude somehow felt his father was upset. Mad, maybe.

The thirty-two-year-old Jude pushed the eight-year-old Jude from his mind as his innards rumbled in hunger. Perhaps his brain had skipped twelve hours, but his stomach wasn’t about to do the same. He walked over to the refrigerator and dug for something to eat. He found a couple packages of lunch meat and ripped them open, then grabbed a Diet Pepsi and returned to the living room. Another commercial break.

Jude stared at the phone for a while, then picked it up and dialed Frank’s office. It was the machine, of course; Frank would have gone home by now. At the beep he left a message. ‘‘Hi, Frank, it’s Ron. Sorry about the confusion on the time off. I wasn’t really planning on today either, but I’m feeling a little under the weather. I think I’ll take your advice and maybe just take off the rest of this week.’’

He hung up the phone and punched the volume on the TV. The main anchor filled the screen. ‘‘As promised,’’ the anchor said, ‘‘we have a live update on our top story. Kim Reardon is at the Red Lodge Police Department with the latest.’’

Jude recognized the reporter standing outside the police department. She was a striking woman with short-cropped hair and an earnest voice. He liked her; he guessed she wouldn’t stay in Billings too long before moving up to a larger television market. ‘‘Thanks, Lynn,’’ the reporter said. ‘‘As we told you earlier, a 9-1-1 phone call last night started an incredible turn of events at a local Red Lodge home. I spoke with Police Chief Michael Odum about ten minutes ago, and this is what he had to say.’’

The tape rolled footage of Chief Odum, who looked even more imposing when standing next to the diminutive reporter. ‘‘Chief,’’ the reporter asked, ‘‘can you tell us what happened last night?’’

‘‘We received an emergency call from a local residence. When officers arrived on the scene, they found two children held captive inside the house. At present, we’re attempting to locate the owner of that house for questioning.’’

The reporter nodded. ‘‘We’ve seen a number of regional child abductions recently. Are you making connections to any other cases?’’

‘‘We’re investigating leads, but I can’t comment at this time.’’

The television went back to Kim Reardon, live outside police headquarters. ‘‘Lynn, the police department did release the name of the home owner.’’ A photo flashed on the screen. ‘‘He is Kenneth Sohler of Red Lodge, and that’s about all we know about him right now. Sohler is—’’

Jude flipped off the TV. Odum’s words spun in his mind:
‘‘We’re
attempting to locate the owner of that house . . .’’
That wasn’t right—he saw the police at Sohler’s house last night, and Sohler had been knocked cold in the backyard. Had he recovered that quickly, crept into the woods surrounding his house, and escaped? Didn’t seem likely. Did someone else own the house, and Sohler was renting it? No, the reporter had said Sohler’s name specifically.

Most likely, he decided, Odum was hiding something from the press. Child disappearances had become big news in the past months—good for ratings and all—and Sohler was the cause. Odum hadn’t said anything like that during his television news interview, but Jude knew. Everyone watching that broadcast knew. If a man had two kids locked up in his house, and if other kids had been disappearing regularly, well, you didn’t need to be a math major to add those two things together. Satellite trucks from all three Billings television stations were probably parked outside of the Red Lodge Police Station even now.

Jude sat, still exhausted despite sleeping through until evening. It was a rare occurrence—first ever, from what he could remember—but probably understandable. What his body, his mind, had been through the night before was too much, way too much for someone who had spent six years insulating himself from outside stimulus. No wonder he had shut down for so long.

He thought of the television report, and of Sohler, once again. What created a monster like Sohler? Was he abused as a child? Did something warp his mind, making him think children were a danger?

And what was up with the police? Shouldn’t they have Sohler in custody?

He sighed heavily. These weren’t things for him to worry about. It was time to go back to just being Ron Gress, mild-mannered janitor. He’d done his part, and now it was time for the police to do theirs. That was what they were for.

At that moment he heard a knock on his door. Had to be Kristina, speak of the devil and all that. And, despite himself, he was eager to see her. He climbed from his chair and headed to the door, opening it without hesitation.

It wasn’t Kristina.

Instead, he found himself face-to-face with the police officer he’d first seen at the accident scene the other night. Jude couldn’t quite remember his name.

‘‘Mr. Gress, I don’t know if you remember me, but we spoke a few nights ago. I’m Officer Jim Grant, with the Red Lodge Police Department.’’

That was it. Officer Grant. ‘‘Sure,’’ Jude said.

‘‘Could you come with me, please? We’d like to ask you a few questions at the station.’’