Cache a Predator (10 page)

Yet.

But he would. I smiled.
You’ll never lay another hand on anyone.

I wiped the scalpel on my towel, retracted the blade, placed all the tools in the middle of the towel, and rolled it into a tight ball. After I squeezed it into the backpack, I zipped the pocket shut.

It was time to go. Now was the fun part. The hide-and-seek part. We’d see how long it took for someone to find the treasure this time. Too bad I couldn’t see their faces when they found it. This one will be in the perfect place. I saw it posted on the computer today. I know how to get there—even in the dark.

Humming, I hurried off to the cache site. Tomorrow I had someone else to observe. Someone who’d come to the place I worked, but who hadn’t registered himself yet. Shame on him.

Chapter Ten

After Sarah and Peggy left Brett’s flat, their assessment complete, he opened the refrigerator. He needed to eat dinner, but his stomach churned with acid. He forced himself to make a sandwich, telling himself it would help him maintain his energy. As he finished his last bite, his cell phone buzzed. Was it Ali? He glanced at the screen, seeing his mother’s name appear. Shoot, he’d forgotten to call her back.

“Hi, Mom.”

“I’m so glad you answered.”

She sounded breathless and like she’d been crying.

“I’ve been worried about you.”

“No need to worry.” He spread peanut butter on a slice of bread.

“Child Protective Services called and asked if we could take Quinn for a few days.”

Brett sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry about that. I tried to tell them not to bother you.”

“It’s not what you think. We want to take Quinn, it’s just—”

“You don’t need to explain, Mom. I’m sure the last thing Dad wants is to take care of Ali’s brat.”

The pitch in her voice went up a few notches. “No, no, you’re wrong. It’s just that—”

“What?”

She lowered her voice. “Dad’s sick.”

Brett’s heart skipped a beat. “He’s sick? With what?”

“He didn’t want me to tell you, but I have to now. You need to know. Dad has pancreatic cancer.” Her voice trembled. Mom had never been real strong or independent. She leaned on Dad for almost everything. “We have to spend the next few days at the hospital for his treatments. He wanted to skip them to take Quinn, but I told him no.”

Suddenly, the only sound in the room was the clock ticking. Everything stood still. His father was older, but old enough to die? And had he heard her right? He wanted to take Quinn? That was crazy. “When was he diagnosed?”

“A few weeks ago. He made me promise not to tell you.”

No wonder she’d seemed a little on edge the last time he spoke with her.

Had his father really wanted to take Quinn? Or had he said that only because he knew he couldn’t? Was it possible he’d changed? “You’re right, Mom. He needs his treatments, and if you’re going to be at the hospital, it’s not a convenient time to take Quinn. She’ll be okay for a few days. I should be able to get her next week, once they petition the judge.”

“Why won’t they give her to you now?”

Brett gave her a condensed version of the protective order, what had happened with Ali, and how it was going to take a few days for the report to be presented to the judge. He didn’t tell his mom what CPS had said when they came to assess his flat, that it had been too small and not enough privacy for a man with a daughter. She didn’t need anything else to worry about. He broke out in a sweat thinking about where he was going to move, how he was going to afford it, and about Quinn living in a stranger’s home, but what else could he do? And there wasn’t anything his mother could do either.

#

The next morning, before five, Brett made his bed, tucking the corners in and obsessively smoothing out the pillows, thinking of Quinn. Had she slept okay last night? Was she scared? Was she being well taken care of?

After checking his cell phone for calls and finding none, he took a shower, hoping the water would revive him, give him the energy he needed after tossing and turning all night. He dressed in plain clothes instead of his uniform. Afterward, he busied himself in the kitchen, washing dishes, but stopped and paced. He couldn’t focus. He found himself washing the same dish for so long his fingertips were beginning to shrivel. On the counter was the Notice of Temporary Removal of Child and Right to Hearing form. It was the same one Peggy had left at Ali’s. He still couldn’t believe this was happening.

Peggy and Sarah had only stayed a half hour—long enough to assess whether Brett’s place was a safe environment for Quinn. Of course, he didn’t have anything to hide. It was neat and clean and void of any liquor. Heck, he couldn’t even go out for a beer with the guys anymore without feeling repulsed. The smell of alcohol reminded him of Ali and made his temper flare.

Overall, there were no safety issues, but they said he’d have to get a bigger place to be granted custody. Since Quinn was a girl, she needed her own room, and since his entire apartment was only one room, it wouldn’t work. There was no privacy.

Where was he supposed to get the money for a bigger place? He clenched his jaw, picked up the dish in the sink, and was about to throw it across the room, but stopped. He sighed heavily, put his head in his hands, and rubbed his temples. Getting angry wouldn’t help. He’d only have another mess to clean up.

As he continued with the dishes, visions of Sarah seeped into the corners of his mind. It had been difficult to read her. Had she known something more about Ali’s brother? Should he go to Mark’s house and have a chat with him, find out what really happened yesterday? If he was with Ali when Quinn was locked in her room, he might know something. Could Brett trust himself not to lose his temper? He and Mark had gotten into it before. The guy thought his sister was perfect. What if Brett wasn’t prepared for what Mark had to say and rage got the better of him? He’d totally screw up his chances of getting Quinn. But still, he had to know.

He dried his hands on a towel and glanced at his watch: 6:50. Just as he reached for his phone to call Clay, Clay’s number appeared on the screen. Brett answered. “Hey.”

“What’s happening?”

“Washing dishes. Waiting for my appointment to see Quinn’s counselor at ten. Any word on Max?”

“Nothing yet. Sorry, man. I wanted to check in on you—see how you’re doing, give you an update on the whacker.”

“The who?” Brett set the towel on the rack to dry. “Oh yeah, never mind. My head’s mush.”

“I’m in your driveway. I’ll be right in.”

Brett met him at the front door.

Clay stood on the porch in full uniform, his squad car parked out front. He carried a few manila folders under his arms and two coffees in his hands. He plowed through the door with the posture of a rhino, his large dark frame filling the entryway. Clay set the coffee and folders on the kitchen table and gave Brett his usual animal-type hug. “I’m praying for you, man.”

Brett wished he had Clay’s strength—physically, emotionally, and spiritually. He’d been a rock, always reminding Brett of his own lack of faith. Brett wished he could be as calm and sure of God as Clay always seemed to be.

Brett fell into a chair, shook his head, and pressed his fingers into his eyes. “I think Mark was at the house yesterday.”

“Ali’s bro?” Clay scooted a chair out and sat down in front of the folders.

Brett nodded. “I want to pay him a visit, but if I find out he’s hiding something, I’m afraid I’ll kick his ass and blow my shot at custody. Do you think you could go see him at the bank, rattle him a little?”

Clay nodded. “Sure. He works at First National, right?”

Brett filled him in on the details. “Find out why he was at Ali’s and if he has the dog.”

Clay said, “I’ll go after I leave here and get back to you.” He slid one of the folders across the table. “How you holding up?”

“I’m hanging in there. All I can do is wait.” Brett told him about Peggy’s visit and how he had to move to a larger place.

“What are you going to do?”

Brett frowned. “I’m not sure I can do anything. I’ll need a security deposit, and I don’t have the cash.”

“Why don’t you check out Tudor Apartments? They’ve had enough crime over there, they’d probably pay
you
to stay there.” Clay chuckled. “Having your cop car out front might cut down on incidents, and maybe they’d waive your deposit.”

“Thanks. That’s a great idea.”

“Have you talked to Ali?”

Brett shook his head. “She disappeared, won’t even answer her phone, and she needs to be at this appointment with me at ten, but shoot, if she doesn’t show, it might help my situation.”

Clay patted Brett’s back. “I agree. Let’s hope she doesn’t show.”

Brett opened the folder. “What’s this?”

“It’s the dirt on our sex offender, Jake Hunter.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Seems he has quite a reputation. Hangs out at the local bar. He served four years at Clarion County Jail for doing that kid.”

“Pedophile?” Brett studied the photo of the man.

“Yep.”

Brett whistled. He stared at the photo—troubled eyes, mustache. But if he’d seen this guy on the street he would never have known he was a convicted sex offender. Too bad offenders couldn’t be forced to wear a tattoo across their forehead labeling them a perv. “What about the kid he did? Anyone from the family hate him enough to do this?”

“Not that I could find. The kid he was convicted of molesting would only be twelve right now, and he’s moved to Ohio with his family. I’ve got Officer Holmes on that—trying to locate them.”

Brett studied the profile sheet, pretending to care because he still had a job to do, and the diversion was healthy, but trying to focus on what Clay was saying was difficult, at best. “So our pecker-whacker has a thing against pervs. That’s not a bad thing. I kinda like this guy.” Brett grinned.

Clay’s radio squawked, and he turned the volume down. “There was another victim last night.”

“Who?”

“His name was Terry Bull. A low-life registered sex offender living with his mother.” Clay handed Brett the other file.

Brett opened it to find a profile sheet very similar to the first one.

“What happened?”

“Same thing. Best we can tell is that the whacker went to great lengths to stop the bleeding with his little tourniquet. I think he wants his victims to live without their rods for a while.” Clay snorted a couple of times.

“Has anyone found it?”

“Not yet, but we’re searching cache sites.”

“I saw that there are close to five hundred in our county!”

“Yeah, I saw that too. Let’s hope he’s not going to hide the next one in one of those places. We’ll have to recruit every officer within a hundred-mile radius to help cover them. Chief put me in charge of organizing a team that will rotate some of the larger sites. Some of them are micro sites, not big enough to hold the loot.” Clay blotted his forehead with a napkin, absorbing the perspiration lining his brow. “The blood work on Jake Hunter came back. Seems he had high levels of ketamine in his body. It’s a drug used to put patients under before surgery. We only found a few fibers at the site. Not sure they’ll amount to much. This person seems meticulous. Hasn’t left any real clues yet.”

Brett nodded.

“We suspect he knocks the victims out with a chloroform rag and then injects them with this drug. They don’t feel a thing until the drugs wear off. Then, wowsa!” He sipped his coffee. “No prints found. The neighbors didn’t see anything either. But two days ago they saw a man in a truck parked across the street, watching the house.”

“What’d that guy look like?”

“Thirty-something, balding, wore sunglasses, drove a light-blue truck—older model, lots of dings and dents.”

“What can I do to help?” Brett needed to stay in the game, keep his mind occupied because eventually he needed to get back to work. Idle time only gave him opportunity to worry about Quinn.

“Thought you’d never ask. Feel like hiking?” Clay smiled.

“Where?”

“There’re a few sites near here. I could use another man on the hunt team. You can use your iPhone to find the coordinates for the cache box. Hand me your phone.” Clay held out his hand and waited.

Brett took his phone out of the clipped case and handed it to Clay.

“It’s not every day you can hunt for dicks-in-a-box.” Clay snorted.

Brett chuckled.

Clay added. “The media has leaked this, so there’s a good chance there’ll be more geo-hunters looking for caches than ever before. We can’t keep the press out of it. We can’t block off every site, and game players are adding new sites every day.”

Brett couldn’t believe there were so many geo-hunters in the county when he’d never heard of the sport until yesterday. He moved his chair next to Clay, looking over his shoulder at his iPhone. “Show me what I need to know.”

#

After Clay left, Brett searched in the little shed outside his flat for his old hiking boots. He hadn’t worn them in years. He used to hike trails but hadn’t for a long time. He glanced at his watch: 8:05. Maybe he had time to pay Mark a visit first.

When he saw Max’s spare leash hanging on the wall, an emptiness filled him. Too bad the dog wasn’t here; Brett could use his expert sense of direction. Brett could get lost even if he had a compass.

Where are you, guy? We miss you.

The side door into his shed creaked open. “Brett?”

Brett jumped. Ali stood in front of him. Her short blond hair stood flat on one side and straight up on the other. It looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. Her blue eyes looked almost purple from being bloodshot red. She leaned against the doorjamb as if she might fall over.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.” Tears fell down her face. She wiped them with the back of her trembling hand.

He should have felt sympathy, but her tears didn’t matter anymore. “Okay. Come into the apartment. Give me a minute to shake the dirt off these boots.”

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk, but not till later, that’s all. Nowhere right now. We have an appointment with the counselor at ten. I’ve been trying to reach you, but you probably know that. You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?”