Caching Out (11 page)

“I
believe you; it’s just that some of the folks around town think that because
you come back to Pine Ridge that you must not have been a very good FBI guy. I
mean, who would quit the FBI to work here?”

Tate
gritted his teeth to keep from cursing. “I don’t have time to go into my life
with you or anyone else right now. I left the FBI for personal reasons that had
nothing to do with my work performance. This is where I grew up, it’s where my
family is and that’s why I came back to Pine Ridge. I gotta go, but first I
need you to promise me that you won’t forget our conversation about things you
might overhear at work or in town okay?”

Her
eyes grew wide. She dropped her voice even lower and said, “Yeah, Tate, I do
remember…I do.”

 “Don’t
forget.”

A
few minutes later Tate and Martin sat in Tate’s office eating their burgers and
comparing the ME reports from the Parker and Babcock cases.

 “No
surprise here,” Tate said between bites. “We already knew that it was the same
guy, the signature is too strong to think otherwise. I expected that we would
see Ketamine on the tox report and with no trace of marijuana on the report it
further confirms our conclusions regarding Parker’s drug use. I don’t fully
understand the incomplete rape. Daniel suggested that something forced him to
stop before he could finish but since he called in the murder at Parker’s that
can’t be right either. Bastard must not be able to get off.”

Martin
shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why did he have to drug the kid?  I know he
would have had to give Saralyn something to subdue her, but this was just a
little boy. For that matter, why the change in victimology? Why a kid at all?”

Standing
to refill his coffee cup, Tate raised the half-full pot silently asking Martin
if he wanted more as well. He did. Tate thought aloud for a moment, “It’s true
that most killers will stick to the same type of victim, but it’s not a hard
rule. I searched the crime databases looking for killers that fit the M.O.
using female victims, but now I need to go back and broaden the search. In
fact, I think it’s time to call the big guns and ask for some under the radar
help.”

Martin
raised a brow, “You still got connections at the FBI?”

Tate
nodded. “I don’t want to make an official request for help from the bureau just
yet because I don’t want them sending a team to take over the investigation which
might scare our killer off. But I do know a very good criminal profiler  who
won’t ask too many questions if I call her for help.”

CHAPTER 17

Gavin
stood in the shower of his hotel room and tried not to think about the
scheduled meeting with the realtor later that morning. He cursed. “Why the hell
did I agree to meet at the house?  I hate that fucking house.” 

He
grabbed a towel and quickly dried himself then stared at his reflection in the
mirror. Water dripped from his short  hair onto his shoulders and ran in little
rivers down his chest to be sucked into the towel now wrapped at his waist. Leaning
forward, he met his own stare in the mirror and warned, “Get a grip Gav. It’s
no big deal, just an old house that you need to unload. Right. It’s just a
viper pit of memories you don’t need and the quicker you unload it the quicker
you can forget it.”

Thirty
minutes later, Gavin turned the red convertible into the driveway of his
childhood home. He stepped out and looked at the place. A post WWII cottage, a
little worse for wear, but it was mostly how he remembered it. He stared at the
faded white exterior and the gray painted porch.
Yard looks good. Guess that
kid next door takes his job pretty seriously.

Pushing
back dark memories of this house and his childhood, Gavin took the steps of the
porch two at a time. He slid a new key into the lock of the freshly painted front
door and let it swing inward. He stepped over the threshold he just as he’d
done a million times before in his life.

The
house smelled of bleach and lemons.
Guess the cleaning service did their
thing, too.
  Gavin stopped in the blue painted living room and stared at
the old, worn furniture there. A green vinyl covered sofa flanked by two tables
that were straight from the 70’s, a scarred coffee table in front of the sofa
was where he did homework as a child. In the corner sat his father’s recliner.

 
A blast from the past, Gav. Only it wasn’t so much fun.
Stepping to what
was once his father’s favorite chair, Gavin flopped down and pushed back to
extend the foot rest.

Gavin
laughed  out loud, the sound echoed in the small house, “What do you think of
that old man?” Gavin demanded aloud. “I’m sitting in your chair today while you
rot in hell.”  He pushed out of the aged recliner without putting the foot rest
down and laughed again, “That used to drive you crazy, didn’t it old man?” 

Gavin
turned to inspect the kitchen. His mother had painted the kitchen yellow when
he was twelve. The paint had lightened with age and was chipped around the
doorway, but overall it still looked the same. The cabinets had been emptied
and the counters cleaned. There was a note on the bar addressed to Mr. Wheeler and
Gavin opened it. The maid service he’d hired to clean the house had boxed the
kitchen and other personal items left behind and placed them in the basement
for his review.   

Jamming
the note into his jacket pocket, Gavin walked to the kitchen stairs that lead
down to the basement.
That’s right, old man. I’m Mr. Wheeler now. You never
even existed.
Half way down the dusty wooden stairs, Gavin stopped.
Damn
I hate this basement. Used to flood every spring and while I was down here
shoveling dirty water that stupid bastard just sat on the steps and watched.

 
He could still
hear his daddy’s voice, “
Time to empty the bucket boy. You missed a spot boy.
Hurry your lazy ass up boy!”

He
shook his head and struggling to push away a different set of memories. Darker,
more sinister memories. He sank down on the next to last step.

Gavin
saw his daddy standing in the shed out back, heard his voice, smelled his sweat.

“
Time
to pay the bills boy. You got any money?”

 
He’d been seven
years old the first time he heard that question.

 “
You
gotta pay for your keep boy, come on over here and let me see if you have any
money in those pockets.” 

Gavin
couldn’t stop the memories now; they took control and consumed him. Rocking on
the steps, he felt his old man sliding a big dirty hand into the pocket of his
shorts.

“
No
change in there, but wait, what’s that I feel? Maybe a little folding money all
rolled up?” 

“Stop
laughing, you ugly bastard!”  Gavin heard his own voice tear through the fog of
the past, but it wasn’t strong enough.
He
wasn’t strong enough.

“Pull
those shorts down and show me that roll of money boy. I’ve got a big roll of
money. Come over here and I’ll show it to you. That’s it, just relax. It won’t
take long to pay those bills.”

“I’ve
got money. That hurts! Stop! Oh, please stop!” Gavin heard his voice begging, saw
his own tear-stained face, felt the pain. Rocking harder he begged the memories
to leave him, let him be.

“
I’ll
stop in a minute, before it gets messy. You know what messy is don’t you boy?”

 
“Mr. Wheeler! 
You in here, Mr. Wheeler?”  The high-pitched voice of a woman pulled Gavin back
to the present.

“Bastard,”
Gavin hissed. He sat for a moment composing himself then slowly climbed the
stairs.   

“Ah,
there you are, Mr. Wheeler!” The middle-aged realtor said. “I see that you got
the house all cleaned up and those planters of ivy on the porch really were just
the best touch.”

With
a smile that didn’t reach further than his lips, Gavin approached the
irritating woman and shook hands.

She
pulled her bag up on her shoulder and chattered, “Now, I think that with a few
more improvements, we should be able to get a fair price for the house.”

Gavin
frowned, “No.”

“Now,
whatever do you mean, Mr. Wheeler?  New interior paint and flooring would go a
long way in getting you a higher bid. Don’t you want to get a good price for
the house?  I think. . .”

 “Sell
the house as is,” Gavin interrupted. “I’ve only kept it this long because it
belonged to my mother. I don’t ever intend to step foot in it again.”

A
frown creased the woman’s forehead and he recognized that she was thinking of
her commission. “Twelve percent,” Gavin barked. “Sell the house in sixty days
and your commission more than doubles what it would normally be. That should
more than make up for any loss on the asking price.” 

Her
beady eyes widened at his proclamation then narrowed appreciatively, a slow smile
turning her lips upward. Gavin swore could see the calculator in her brain
clicking away at the numbers.

Pulling
some papers from a briefcase sitting on the floor Gavin saw her smile widen as
she bent away from him. Keeping her tone flat the woman drawled, “Well, okay
Mr. Wheeler, as long as you know that we probably won’t be getting everything
that we could for the property.”

Motioning
her to follow, Gavin took a seat at the kitchen table and pulled a pen from his
inner jacket pocket. “Where do I sign?”

Gavin
pulled the door closed behind him and stepped out of the house for the last
time. He sucked in the cool spring air, feeling the pressure lift a little. With
the turn of a key he locked away the unwanted memories of his past. He pressed
the house key and his business card into the realtor’s paper-white hand and
instructed her to e-mail him any necessary paperwork as he didn’t plan to
return to Little Rock for several months. He stood on the porch and watched as she
got in her car, giving him a jaunty little wave before backing out of the
drive.

“Silly
bitch.”

Gavin
watched the realtor’s car turn the corner and made sure it was out of sight. He
then moved down the narrow cement steps of the porch and walked around the side
of the house to the back yard. He paused under a giant oak tree, and looked
around. It was so familiar, so very familiar. Nothing had changed. How many
hours had he spent out here when his daddy was passed our drunk in front of the
television?

 
Moving through the yard, he slid into a copse of pine trees lining the back of
the property. Without any thought at all, he took an old trail leading through
the woods to the small stream where he’d played as a boy. Gavin stood on the
rocky edge of the stream. His eyes moved across the opposite bank and then
landed on a pine covered hillside. “They’re all still here,” he whispered.

 A
slow smile spread across his face. He needed their comfort years ago and
knowing they were still here, were still his, gave him comfort once again. It
started with a bird that broke its wing. It was soon joined by another, and
then another. Then a squirrel or two and many cats of all colors, some from the
neighborhood and some strays. Then there was the old man’s dog. That one gave
him such joy, such power. Knowing he’d hurt the old man just a little bit was
something for a small boy. Even now, Gavin felt his penis harden at the thought
of that dog’s blood flowing into the creek. The fear, adrenalin and pure
excitement of that moment gave him a high like no other.  No one could take
them from him; each and every kill scabbed over old wounds, keeping them
hidden, at least for a time. He could feel the need building once again. It
wouldn’t be long.

He
retraced his steps through the woods and yard without giving the house another
look and slid into the convertible. He turned the radio up to drown out his
thoughts and reached for the button to lower the convertible top. As the top of
the car slid down and the warm sunshine touched his face, Gavin relaxed,
letting the music and wind pull him back to the present.

Once
back at the hotel, he turned the car onto the paved, red-brick driveway and rolled
to a smooth stop. The colonnade was shaded and cool. The front of the eight
story building was tastefully decorated with large planters and iron benches
that screamed ‘stay here!’ to passing travelers. Not slowing to lock the car or
to speak with the doorman, Gavin entered the hotel and took the stairs two at a
time until he reached the second floor.
Time to move on, Gav. You’ve seen
enough of the old home town to last a lifetime.

 
He quickly packed, slid his computer into the leather carrying case and zipped it
closed. Grabbling his duffle and backpack he returned to the lobby to check
out.
One more stop and you’re out of here.

Gavin
drove the short distance to the Alzheimer’s unit and briskly walked down the
barren hallway to his mother’s room. He pushed the door open and was surprised
to see her sitting on a small stool in front of a mirrored dressing table.

“Mama?”
Gavin moved to stand behind her. She looked up at his reflection.

 “Baby.
My baby,” she stammered.