Believe No One (32 page)

Varley nodded. ‘Typically, a strong personality dominates the relationship, manipulating a weaker personality. Your killer is the weaker personality, taking orders, effectively acting out the dominant personality's fantasies.'

‘Our guy has a horror of being watched by his victims,' Simms said. ‘But the dominant partner makes him film himself torturing and killing the women.'

Detmeyer nodded. ‘Effectively, he is watched twice – by the victim,
and
by the man on the other side of the camera. Blinding the victims denies the dominant figure his final release, the realization of his fantasy.'

‘But more than that,' Varley added, ‘symbolically he's “blinding” the other man, who exposes him to scrutiny that he finds painful.'

‘So, for our guy it's all about the blinding?' Dunlap asked.

‘I think the blinding is only part of it,' Fennimore said, enjoying the stony stare he got from Varley for his impudence. ‘He held Sharla Jane's hand as she died. He comforted her as he bled her to death. It's got to be about blood, too. I mean, hasn't it?'

Detmeyer considered and, after a few moments, he nodded in agreement.

Dunlap glanced around the room, waiting for any further contributions. Finally, he fixed Detmeyer with his warm brown eyes. ‘So, Doctor, are you ready to write that profile now?'

Tulk residence, Williams County, Oklahoma

It's afternoon, and Marsha Tulk has sent the boy to do some weighing in the shed at the edge of the compound.

The boy made himself useful from the get-go. Bryce put him to work on the pot grows on the western side of the highway, out of the way of TV crews and police. He worked all morning from 6 a.m. unsupervised. Did a good job, too. Bryce says he has a green thumb and, as she guessed of him, he is sharp and adaptable. Haley pets him, when he lets her; Harlan ignores him, mostly. Waylon, well, he's a tad jealous and likes to kick the boy in the ass if he gets in the way, but the child is quick and keeps out of reach. Bryce is relieved he won't have to go check on the pot grows as often as he did, and he talks to the boy like he would talk to a grown man about sunlight hours and nitrogen ratios and watering rates.

Before she sent the boy out with Bryce to learn the ropes, she gave him a baseball cap. As he adjusted the clip to fit him, she ruffled his red hair, said, ‘You need to keep that hid.'

The boy nodded, tugging the brim low on his forehead. ‘We'll call you Caleb or just “Boy” from here on in – that all right with you?'

He said, ‘Yes, ma'am,' those pale blue eyes on her.

‘Two things you need to remember, boy,' she said. ‘Do not get yourself noticed and
never
steal my product.'

She looked at him until he said, ‘Yes, ma'am.' But she kept looking like she could see right through his skin to his pot-smoked lungs. She knew he stole from her before – she knew it that first day when he said he had climbed into Harlan's car at the tomato field.

‘I know you loved your momma,' she said. ‘But drugs is for fools and the weak. Do you understand me?'

He nodded, but she made him say it out loud, and he did – in a clear, solemn tone – though it must've hurt to admit his momma had been weak.

She approaches the shed soft-footed, because she may be sentimental and a sucker for a child in trouble, but she is no fool, and setting the child of an addict to weighing cannabis is taking a big chance, especially if he has developed a taste for it. She lifts the latch and swings the door open fast, but when she looks inside, the boy has his head on his arms at the table, and he's crying.

‘What happened?' she says. ‘Did someone hurt you?'

‘No, ma'am. Nobody hurt me.'

‘Then why're you crying, getting the product all wet?'

He wipes his eyes hastily on his T-shirt. ‘I was just thinking how Momma woulda loved this place.'

She looks doubtfully at the rough-cut planks and dirt floor of the shed. ‘You think so?'

The boy holds up a small bag of dried buds. ‘She would've thought she had died and gone to heaven.'

She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. She feels bad to have made him admit his momma was weak, and goes looking for Tyler, who has been keeping an eye on the trailer park, the police being around and all.

She finds all four of her sons watching the news on TV. They look up when she comes in and she says, ‘If this mullet-headed jackass comes looking to find the boy, you can bring him to me.'

Harlan and Tyler look quickly at each other, and Harlan rolls his eyes. Bryce nods, but Waylon asks her why. She gives him a dark look.

‘God is forgiving,' she says. ‘But I am not.'

Lambert Woods Mobile Home Park, near Hays,
Williams County, Oklahoma
Sunday afternoon

When Kate Simms and Deputy Hicks arrived at Lambert Woods, the search was yet to get under way. Sheriff Launer was talking to Kent Whitmore, the tall Team Adam consultant, and Hicks drew them to one side and brought them up to date on the new recording.

‘Is there a problem with the search?' Simms asked. ‘I thought you'd be started by now.'

‘Just waiting for the full contingent to foregather,' the Sheriff said vaguely.

Kate Simms looked around her at the crowd standing about in tree-dappled sunlight at the back of Sharla Jane Patterson's home. Being a Sunday, a lot of the locals had volunteered; women and older teens, as well as the woodsmen and hunters the Sheriff had deployed (his term), in the search at Cupke Lake. There must have been fifty or sixty people, including the Sheriff's deputies; it was hard to imagine who else might be needed.

She looked askance at Whitmore and he nodded towards the access road. The first of a convoy of TV outside-broadcast units was bumping and growling up the track. It seemed the Sheriff had made a few calls, issued some invitations.

‘How sure are we about this partnership theory?' Whitmore asked, as Launer preened himself for the cameras.

‘It's pure speculation, right now,' she said, and an irritated frown crossed the Sheriff's brow. ‘It's all geographical linguistics this and language-pattern analysis that – Professor Fennimore could probably explain,' she added, confident that Launer would not be keen to hand over his carefully engineered TV slot to Fennimore. He sucked his teeth and stared longingly at the TV trucks forming a queue on the access road.

‘Well, I'll leave the theorizing to the eggheads,' he said. ‘We got a body to find.'

‘Boy,' Whitmore said, softly. At Launer's tetchy look, he dipped his head apologetically, but repeated, ‘We got a
boy
to find.'

They waited a little longer while the TV cameras set up and the reporters primped, ready for their intros. Finally, Launer moved front and centre, stooped to pull up a bunch of dry grass, held it at chest height, then lightly tossed it into the air, watching as it floated gently away towards Sharla Jane's trailer.

He raised his voice to address the volunteers: ‘Wind's coming from the south-west.' He indicated in the direction of the woods. ‘Little Riley has not been seen for close to seventy-two hours, so it's likely he's already dead—'

Kent Whitmore cleared his throat. ‘You will find cabins out in woods like these,' he said. ‘Or maybe Riley hitched a ride. We aren't ready to give up hope yet.'

Launer was momentarily vexed, but he shook it off with a politician's ease. ‘There's always room for hope,' he said in a chiding tone, as if someone else had voiced those negative thoughts.

‘We'll spread out in a line, work our way south and west into the woods, and the prevailing wind will—' Whitmore coughed again and Launer frowned, but thankfully he reconsidered the wisdom of telling the mothers and fathers and their teenaged kids to be guided by the stench of death. Instead he looked sad and sincere and murmured, ‘Well, you all know …'

Simms exchanged a look with Deputy Hicks, glad that Fennimore wasn't around. Launer steepled his hands and made an arrow of them, pointing into the woods beyond the fence but, as people started to form a line, the Team Adam consultant spoke up again.

‘Folks?' His bass tones carried effortlessly to the people at the back, and Simms noticed that several of the cameras focused on the big Oklahoman. ‘Keep in visual contact with the person either side of you at all times,' he said. ‘And if you find anything – anything at all – you should stop and call for assistance, not disturbing what you find.'

Three yards into the woods, at eye height on a young oak, a sign read: ‘DO NOT TRESPASS'. Below it, a second board: ‘NO HUNTING'.

They walked a few more yards, maintaining the line, and ahead was another sign: ‘ARMED PATROLS – ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK'.

Ten minutes into the search, a new set of boards started appearing on trees at intervals. ‘GO NO FURTHER', ‘YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED'.

Whitmore asked for a consult.

‘Nothing to worry about,' Launer said. ‘Just a landowner's empty threats.'

‘My advice would be to find out who that landowner is, Sheriff,' Whitmore said.

‘We'd lose hours,' Launer said.

A cameraman from one of the TV crews stepped forward, aiming the camera at the two men, and Simms took a step back.

‘Sheriff, have you seen any tracks or footpaths in the last five minutes?' Whitmore said in the same quiet, reasonable tone. ‘I don't mean deer trails or rabbit tracks – I mean real, human-trod pathways, like you'd expect to see in wood right next to fifty-plus homes. There's a lot of kids on the trailer park. Kids like the woods, Sheriff, but something is keeping them out of here.'

A few nervous mutterings started up around them, and Sheriff Launer scratched his neck, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I understand your concern,' he said. ‘But we lose hours, we lose the light. It'll be tomorrow before we can get back in, and that little boy's been missing for three days already. You all can turn back if you want. We'll keep moving.'

Whitmore looked along the line of volunteers and raised his voice again. ‘I would advise against anyone going further till we know what we've got here,' he said.

Many of the civilians dropped out, as did Simms and the two camera crews that had followed them in. Prepared for any eventuality, Launer had equipped one of his deputies with a digicam. Launer gave him the nod, and the deputy removed the lens cap and turned the machine on. Launer summoned his deputies with a look and they formed a new line, moving slowly into the underbrush.

Whitmore took out his cell phone as he watched them go. He checked the signal, but after a moment, he shook his head and slipped it back in his pocket. ‘You got a signal?' he said.

Simms checked, and shook her head.

He reached into his backpack and took out a satellite phone. Seconds later, he was talking to Detective Dunlap at the Incident Command Post in Westfield; ten minutes after that, he knew that the woods belonged to the Tulk family, and that they had a bad reputation.

He tried the Sheriff's cell. ‘Not available,' he said. The calls of the search party were growing faint. ‘I think they're still in striking distance.' He stowed the phone and hitched his backpack onto his shoulder. ‘I'm going in,' he said.

‘All right.' Simms fell in step behind him.

‘Ma'am, you should stay.'

‘And if you step on a mantrap, who's going to let people know where to find you?'

He hesitated and she shooed him ahead of her. ‘It'll be fine. I'll stay a couple of steps behind, let you clear the way.'

He blinked and smiled faintly, and they headed in the direction of the hollering.

Five minutes later, they had almost caught up with the search party. Abruptly, the shouting stopped.

Whitmore yelled, ‘Everyone okay?' Launer, sounding tetchy again, hollered for them to stay put. Moments later, he and his crew appeared in single file.

One of the deputies was puffing and blowing anxiously on the lens of the digicam, trying to clear it of dust and leaf debris. Another – the one who had originally been carrying the recorder – was limping slightly and his uniform looked scuffed and dirty. Hicks brought up the rear, resolutely avoiding eye contact with Simms and Whitmore.

‘Are you hurt?' Simms asked.

‘Only his pride,' Launer said. ‘Numbnuts here stepped right into a pitfall trap. I thought you said you weren't coming in?'

Whitworth dipped his head. ‘Couldn't get you on your cell phone. Thought you should know this land is owned by Marsha Tulk.'

‘Well, I could've used that piece of news five minutes earlier,' Launer said with bad grace.

‘You know her?' Whitmore said, and Simms marvelled at his refusal to take offence.

‘Her 'n' her brood,' Launer said dryly. ‘And I happen to know that the Tulk family residence is eight miles west of here. So, whatever they're protecting in these woods, it isn't house or home, and I'll bet it carries a Federal penalty.'

Tulk residence, Williams County, Oklahoma

The Tulk family home stood on a rise in a clear-felled patch of mixed oak, hazel and redbuds, about a half-mile off the back road to Hays. A wooden structure with a cedar shingle roof and wrap-around porch, it seemed to grow out of the clay soil. A mud-spattered Ford pickup and a rusted sedan were parked in front of a barn off to the left. A smaller shed, closer to the house, stood open.

Just two vehicles had made the journey – the Sheriff's cruiser and an unmarked SUV driven by Detective Dunlap, with Detective Ellis and Chief Inspector Simms riding along. The yard was quiet, and the four from out of county remained in their vehicle, the engine running for the air conditioning, waiting for the Sheriff to take the lead.