Boneyard (30 page)

The Berkshire cops were truly useless, he thought disparagingly. In the past that had served him well, but now Sam found their incompetence annoying. How much clearer could he have made it for them? He’d gone so far as to deliver the tip about Dwight’s car to the FBI agent as well, in case Doyle responded with his usual laziness and ineptitude. They should have had Dwight on the run by now, which would free him up from distractions for a few days. Even if Dwight was caught, Sam planned on hiring him a top-notch attorney once the heat died down. Owning a car that entered a park late at night wasn’t enough to hold a man without bail, not on a first offense. And once Dwight was free on bail, Sam could punish him at his leisure. He just needed to buy himself a little time…

In a sudden flash of rage he pounded one fist against the steering wheel. So far he’d been going easy on Dwight’s mother, but now that Dwight had made the mistake of infiltrating his inner sanctum…they would both pay, he’d make sure of it. He’d just gone and checked on the mother; she was holding up well, all things considered. For an old bird she was pretty hearty. She barely lifted her head when he came in, and her hands were bruised blue from the shackles, but her pulse was good and she’d probably last another few days. He’d considered escalating on her that night, revealing the next level of punishment, but truth be told he was a little worn-out. He’d had a long day playing with the girls, and would prefer to relax on the couch with a tall glass of Scotch and the early showing of SportsCenter.

As Sam turned the corner toward home, colored lights bounced across his hood and he frowned. He slowed as he approached the house—his driveway was filled with police cars. He watched as a few officers spilled out the front door and walked across the lawn. “Shit.” He hissed under his breath. His mind raced. Had that asshole Dwight told the cops about him in some vain hope they might help find his mother? Would anyone believe that moron? It was his word against Sam’s, after all. He was a pillar of the community, while Dwight was just a night watchman with a history of mental illness and delusions of grandeur. Sam kept driving, passing the house before taking a right down the next street. He’d been careful, hadn’t he? He’d eliminated all traces of the hatch’s real purpose. But it was possible that Dwight had taken something. Even he wouldn’t be idiotic enough to call the cops without some sort of evidence. He shuddered involuntarily as he pictured the cans, their treasure sealed inside. All it would take was someone with a little too much curiosity…could Dwight have discovered his tokens?

Sam took another right. He had to collect his thoughts. He accelerated and turned on to the road back toward town. He could see the walls he’d carefully constructed around his life crumbling, the facade vanishing, the faces of his wife and children receding into the distance. He shook his head as he reviewed his choices. He could just keep going, head to Canada. But he literally had nothing but the clothes on his back, a small amount of cash and no passport. With the FBI involved, he’d have a tough time making it across the border. If he was going to get away, he needed time to get some things together, and he’d have to avoid the authorities until then. He had buried a box at the base of a maple tree on the perimeter of his first boneyard. In it was a gun, a stack of Canadian money and falsified papers for just such an emergency. He’d dig it up, grab some camping supplies and head north. Although it was always possible he was worrying needlessly. Maybe he should just hunker down and try to wait this out. He could stay at the civil defense bunker, call Sylvia from a pay phone to find out what the story was.

Sam thought again of the half-dozen black-and-whites parked at his house and knew that kind of wishful thinking would be his downfall. Game over, he’d been caught. If he didn’t manage to escape somehow, he’d go down just like Bundy and Dahmer and all the rest of those incompetents. No, he’d have to head north while taking care to cover his tracks. And it probably wouldn’t hurt to have some insurance, he thought as an idea dawned on him. Setting his jaw, he tapped the accelerator and spun the truck around. Bennington was out of his way, but if he got backed into a corner, he needed to have a final ace up his sleeve. And he knew just where to find one.

Thirty

“You want to tell her, or should I?” Joe asked in a low voice.

“Tell me what?” Jan snapped. She was holding a tray filled with plastic cups, ice cubes rattling. In a rare fit of largesse she’d offered to make an iced coffee run, partly to convince Mike and Joe to work overtime on the second segment of the series. After the 6:00 p.m. broadcast had wrapped up, they had driven down to Northampton. Jan was hoping to track down a few of the boys. Apparently most of them had already left town, but she’d gotten the address of a club that was a known hangout. If she could get some of them to sit down for one-on-one interviews, it would be quite a coup.

Earlier that evening the station manager had come down personally to watch the segment with her. He’d even proposed sitting her at the anchor desk tomorrow night for the follow-up. Jan glowed at the memory. Something in Joe’s face, though, warned her that feeling might be short-lived. She watched as Mike and Joe exchanged glances. “What?” she demanded more insistently.

“The police-band. It’s going nuts.”

“Turn it up.”

Joe ratcheted up the volume, and she heard the dispatcher request that all available units report to an address in Williamstown. Jan checked her watch: it was nearly half past eight, and they were an hour’s drive away. “Fuck!” she exclaimed, slamming the tray on the ground. Coffee slush seeped into her navy pumps. Mike and Joe startled backward at the vehemence in her voice.

“So get moving!” she said, throwing her arms up. “Something’s happening, and we’re fucking missing it!”

Keenan Johnson strode home, backpack slung over one shoulder. He’d planned on spending the night in the library, but it was still so damn nice outside. His roommate had texted him about a “brews and blues” party that a few guys on the water polo team threw every Wednesday night. He’d gone to one of those parties last year and it had rocked. Keenan had spent the night kicking back on the couch, sucking down beer and taking hits off a spliff that was being passed around. The guys who threw the party were smart enough to invite the best-looking chicks on campus, and popular enough that most of them actually came.

The freshman crop had just arrived, and he had his eye on a cute blonde from Tempe. His roommate said she’d probably be there, and that had clinched it. Screw organic chemistry, he thought. It was only the first week of school anyway. No one seriously expected him to be studying yet.

He turned the corner onto his street and stopped dead. A truck idled by the curb, passenger door open. A guy was dragging a kid down the sidewalk toward it. Something struck Keenan as wrong, and he called out, “Hey!”

The guy swiveled his head toward him. Keenan was six-two and African-American, both of which made him stand out in Vermont. He’d grown up somewhere even more white-bread than here, but could play the street hood when he needed to. He slipped into his ghetto walk, chin up, stance aggressive as he called out, “Yo! What you playing at?” He pictured himself as the hero who saved some kid—that’d get the blonde’s attention for sure.

The guy grinned and waved him off. “Nothing to worry about, just taking my kid home. Guess he snuck into some college party, had a few too many.”

“Yeah?” Keenan examined the kid quizzically. He was definitely out of it, his eyes lolled back.

The man shook his head. He looked normal enough, like any dad. “Just hope I can get him in the house without my wife seeing him. She’s the tough one in the family, you know?”

“Oh yeah, my mom’s the same way,” Keenan said with a chuckle. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

He helped stuff the kid in the back seat, swinging his legs across as the dad pulled from behind. As they drove off, he waved. Poor kid was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow, he thought, grinning. A glance at his watch and Keenan realized he’d better hurry if he wanted to end up feeling the same way.

Thirty-One

Kelly turned in a slow circle. She was standing in Sam Morgan’s living room, which looked pretty much as she would have pictured it. Either they’d used an interior designer or his wife had incredible decorating sense, the decor was ripped from a spread in Better Homes and Gardens.

“Wow. I didn’t know serial killers had such great taste in TVs,” Jake said admiringly as he examined an enormous flat screen that dominated one wall of the room. “This thing must’ve set him back a few grand at least. What’d you say this guy does for a living?”

“He’s a stockbroker,” Kelly replied.

“And he’s the guy from the sandwich place the other day, right?” Jake eyed her. “Did you have a little crush on him?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kelly said, but she could feel a flush spreading across her cheeks. “He’s married.”

“Thank God, because that would be too ironic. Kelly Jones, serial-killer-hunter-extraordinaire, attracted to the guy she was tracking. What would Freud say?” Jake teased.

“We still don’t know if he had anything to do with this,” Kelly said pointedly.

“Yeah, but let’s be honest, it doesn’t look good.”

“The only reason I let you come along is because you promised to stay out of the way,” Kelly said, lowering her voice. “You’re just lucky the bed-and-breakfast was ten miles in the opposite direction.”

“Hey, I’m out of the way. Just admiring the man’s taste in TVs, is all.” Jake raised both hands and flopped down on the couch. “Wow, this is comfortable. He’s got great taste in couches, too—go figure.”

Kelly turned away from him, aggravated. Monica was standing in the doorway looking concerned. “No luck?”

Monica shook her head. “I gotta say, I’m feeling a little guilty. I’ve been wishing for weeks that Doyle would just disappear. Maybe that voodoo doll actually worked.”

“You checked the garage, too?”

Monica nodded. “Everywhere.”

“What on earth is going on here?”

Kelly turned to find an immaculately dressed woman in her mid-thirties standing in the doorway, clasping the hands of two little girls. One of them turned in toward her mother, clamping on to a khaki thigh.

“You must be Mrs. Morgan,” Kelly said, stepping forward. “We’ve got a warrant to search your house.”

“What? Why?” the woman said, puzzled. Blond hair tied back in a neat bun, high cheekbones framing blue eyes. They must make a good-looking couple, Kelly noted in spite of herself.

Kelly dodged the question by asking, “Mrs. Morgan, where’s your husband?”

“He’s not here?” The woman peered around her, as if doubting her word. “Well, he probably just ran out for something. I’m sure he’ll be back soon, then we can clear this up.”

“Sure, honey. Why don’t you have a seat,” Monica said, coming forward and guiding the woman to the couch. “Probably a good idea to send the girls up to bed, don’t you think?”

The woman paused, then nodded in agreement. “Girls, go brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

“But Daddy said we could have ice cream when we got home,” one of them whined, looking petulant.

Her mother cast her a warning look. “I mean it, Jennie. And make sure your sister washes her face, too.”

The girl grumbled but stomped toward the stairs, leading her younger sister by the hand.

“So what’s this all about?” Mrs. Morgan asked, gaze still focused on the stairs.

“Your name is?” Kelly asked, settling into the chair opposite her.

“Sylvia Morgan.”

“Okay, Sylvia. I’m Special Agent Jones with the FBI.”

“My husband was working with you,” the woman said abruptly. “He helped you find all those poor boys. Weeks, he was out there.”

“I know,” Kelly acknowledged.

“So what could you possibly accuse him of? You know Sam, he would never hurt a fly.”

“I’m not saying he did. But we received a report that an officer was being held here.”

“Here? In my house? That’s absurd,” Sylvia said.

“Maybe, but the officer’s vehicle is parked down the road. Is there anywhere else on the property you can think of where someone might have concealed him? Maybe some sort of duck blind, something like that?” Kelly watched her closely. She saw something flit behind the woman’s eyes.

There was a long pause before Sylvia said, “Well, there’s the bomb shelter.”

“Where’s that?” Kelly sat up straighter.

“Under the garage. Sam just found it today.”

Kelly nodded toward Monica. “Send a unit to check it out.”

They sat in silence, waiting while Monica spoke into her radio. Sylvia Morgan stared straight ahead at a Toulouse-Lautrec print on the far wall. A second later Monica’s radio buzzed. She held it to her ear, then turned to Kelly and nodded.

Kelly leaned forward and said, “Sylvia?”

There was a long silence, then the woman responded, “He’s there, isn’t he.”

“Yes, he is.”

“What about Sam?”

Kelly shook her head, then asked, “Can you think of where Sam might have gone?”

“He’s a good husband. A good father.”

“Of course he is, honey,” Monica chimed in, settling on to the couch next to her.

Sylvia suddenly twisted to face her, eyes brightening. “Maybe someone took Sam! They left the police officer, and took Sam. Isn’t that possible?”

“Sure, that’s possible,” Monica nodded reassuringly. “So we better find them, huh? Anyone you can think of who might be after Sam? Maybe he’s got a place he goes to get away?”

“That’s what this house is,” Sylvia said, irritated. “We live in Manhattan. This is where we come to get away.”

“All right. I’m going to check on Lieutenant Doyle. Please stay here. I might have a few more questions for you.” Kelly cut her eyes at Jake, and he nodded slightly in understanding. He wouldn’t let Sylvia out of his sight.

Monica followed her from the room.

“How is he?” Kelly said in a low voice.

“They said he seems fine, just pissed as all get-out.”

Kelly heaved a sigh of relief. An injured cop was the last thing this case needed, and despite her dislike of Doyle, she’d hate to have anyone hurt on her watch. As soon as she’d heard Doyle was missing she flashed back to last October when she lost her partner. That same cold feeling had settled in her stomach again. Now she felt it release. She wouldn’t have to be calling anyone’s families, not tonight.