Dead River (10 page)

Suddenly Clyde lunged forward but was denied his attack by the taut chain. He continued snarling as David gazed into his deep brown eyes.

“Don’t talk to me that way!” David yelled. “Do you understand?”

David turned toward the shed.

Sunlight streamed through the open door of the shed, illuminating the back wall where various rakes, hoes, and shovels hung. David reached for one of the hoes then shut the shed door and pulled the latch down.

Clyde was now barking in deep bursts as David approached. He clutched the wooden handle with both hands, the metal blade facing down. Then he took a batter’s stance and eyed the dog. White lather slung from Clyde’s mouth with each bark.

David swung the hoe. The first blow nicked the side of the dog’s neck. Clyde yelped and retreated. David could see the thick red blood stream from the dog’s neck.

“Do you want me to send you where the others are? Is that what you want?”

David moved forward and raised the hoe even with his shoulder.

Kyle Barnes will get his soon.

 16

THE CENTRAL FLORIDA NIGHT was warm and humid, but the sky was clear and sprinkled with stars. Hurricane Alberto was brewing in the Atlantic, but it was too soon to know if it would be a threat to Florida.

It was late and the Rileys were exhausted. The news that the FBI was taking over the investigation had rekindled their hope.

Valerie had slipped into a Valium-aided sleep, but Adam lay beside her restless. He was thinking back to his childhood in Iowa. Nothing like this ever happened in rural America back then. However, the world was different now. No place was safe, not even this small community once considered a haven by Adam and many others. My children aren’t safe, even in their own driveway.

As Adam drifted, pleasant thoughts of his father floated into his mind. Hunting together in the woods close to their house, all bundled up against the chilly fall weather. He’d gotten a shotgun for this twelfth birthday, but the real thrill was shooting his father’s historic Winchester .22 rifle …

“Adam,” his mother called out the back door. The crisp late-fall Iowa wind shot through the open doorway and into the house.

“Adam, come in now, dinner’s ready. We’re all waiting.”

Adam heard his mother calling. He turned from the tree where he stood and looked up the hill toward his house. He was a good distance behind his backyard in a dense forest. But this time of year no tree wore a leaf, and they reminded Adam of monsters against the gray sky with their arms reaching out.

He turned back and admired his artwork one more time. Inside the heart he had carved on one of the large oak trees were two names, his and Jenny’s, his new sixth-grade girlfriend. He carefully folded the knife blade into the handle and slipped it into his pants pocket.

He drudged up the hillside, dodging the tree monsters along the way. The blistering wind stung his cheeks. He glanced up at the drab gray sky and saw dark clouds whisking by at speeds that seemed to defy nature.

Up the hill he strode, the underbrush crunching with each step. Finally he stopped to rest. He leaned forward to catch his breath with his hands on his thighs, noticing how they had tightened into knots from the climb. As he straightened up he heard the underbrush crackle. The wind swirled around him. Then he heard another crunching sound, this time in front of him.

He looked up. “Sara Ann?”

Adam groaned and rolled over on his left side, draping an arm over Valerie.

It was twelve-fifteen and a phone was ringing somewhere. Adam awoke, his chest pounding with every heartbeat and the buzz of adrenaline chasing the fog from his head. Valerie was lost in her sleep world.

His hand was on the phone by the third ring.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Riley.”

The metallic voice!

“Yes.”

“This time I want to talk to you.”

Adam glanced at Valerie, rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, closing the door behind him. “Yes, I’m listening.”

“Did you get the letter?”

“Yes—yes, we did,” Adam said.

“So you know I have your daughter. This isn’t a hoax.”

Adam took a deep breath. “Is she all right?” he exhaled.

“Listen, and I mean listen carefully because I got to hurry. I know these calls are being traced—”

“Is Sara Ann with you?”

The voice laughed—an ugly, grating sound through the distortion. “Sara Ann isn’t just with me, she’s part of me sexually, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. Our souls have become one.”

“What? What does that mean?” Adam swallowed hard. “Is she alive?”

“Our souls are now one. Please do what we ask of you.” The voice was talking faster, louder.

“What do you want?” Adam couldn’t keep his voice from rising. “Is Sara Ann all right?”

“What I want is for you to listen to me!” The voice reverberated in Adam’s head.

Then the phone went dead.

Adam snatched his robe and tore down the stairs two at a time.

In the living room Carillo was shouting into his cell phone. “A pay phone. Twelve miles north of the 520 Causeway off U.S. One.” He flashed a thumbs-up at Adam. “Little village called Bellwood. The phone booth’s on Oakland Drive. It’s east off U.S. One. Move!”

Carillo put the phone down and turned. There was a huge smile on his face. “We traced the bastard!”

Four sheriff cars converged on a dimly lit phone booth within minutes of the dispatcher’s call. The deputies leapt from their cars, guns drawn.

 17

ADAM STOOD NEXT to Carillo’s equipment table breathing heavily.

“He’s in Bellwood?” Adam shouted.

“That’s where I got the trace.”

“How long before we know something?”

“Deputies are on their way to a phone booth there.”

Adam threw his head back. “God, please let them catch him.”

They were prepared to find the caller, but instead found the receiver off the hook, still swinging in pendulum arcs. The phone booth sat on the edge of an empty parking lot adjacent to a small office building with a blue and white sign out front: Taggert Insurance Agency.

The four deputies holstered their handguns and gathered under the brightest light at the back of the lot. Night offered additional challenges, but the deputies settled quickly on the proper perimeter to set. Roadblocks were to be set up on U.S. One and at the two streets connecting to Oakland Drive.

“He may be on foot!” one of the deputies shouted. He was pointing to a path cut into some thick woods behind where they stood, the entrance barely visible.

Not more than eighty yards from the lot, across the fenced-in woods, was Washburn Road, running north and south. It was nothing more than a dirt byway with abandoned shacks and tall weeds along both sides.

Two deputies stepped over a broken section of the fence where the path began and drew their handguns and flashlights. They bolted down the trail, scanning from side-to-side as they ran, clutching pistols in one hand and the flashlights in the other.

As they flew down the trail, a car’s engine raced ahead of them. They finally reached the side of the road and pointed their flashlights down the narrow byway. Only a cloud of dust could be seen dancing in the two beams of light. It was so thick that the car wasn’t visible, but the roar of its engine could still be heard.

“Son-of-a-bitch!”

“Shit!” the other deputy yelled. “We didn’t set up a road block on this one! I’ll call it in.”

Carillo answered his cell phone on the first ring.

“Carillo.”

It was one of the deputies at the scene. “We missed him.”

“What? Goddamn it! No trace of him at all?”

“Only a dust cloud on a dirt road that runs parallel to U.S. One. Had to be him.”

Adam’s glimmer of hope faded instantly. He turned toward the couch and kicked the center cushion, sending it high in the air.

Carillo glanced up in time to watch the cushion topple the end-table lamp. “Didn’t you set up road blocks?” he continued.

“Hey, give me a break. Hell yes, we did, but not on Washburn Road. It’s barely a goddamn road—there’s nothing on it.”

“What about prints on the phone?”

“Probably nothing useful.”

“What the fuck you talking about?”

“We only found prints on the front stainless steel plate and a few keys. The receiver was wiped clean.”

“You think he was wearing gloves?”

“Yup. But we did find something resting on top of the phone.”

“What.”

“An empty syringe. Looks like it’s been used.”

Insulin! How much more does she have? “Shit!”

“What?”

Carillo’s eyes darted in Adam’s direction. “Nothing,” he said quietly. “Let me know if anything else turns up.”

“What happened?” Adam shouted, as he marched toward Carillo who was sitting at the equipment table.

“They missed him.”

“How?”

“Look, it’s one thing to trace a call, quite another to catch who made it. Especially this one.”

“Why?”

Carillo stroked his mustache reflectively. “This guy knows what he’s doing.”

Adam stared down at Carillo. “I heard something about road blocks. Did they have any set up?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t they caught him?”

“Because he was parked on a dirt road that no one uses. They didn’t think of it in time.”

“Jesus Christ!”

Carillo leaned forward in his chair. “We’ll get him.”

“You’d better hope and pray it’s in time.”

 18

ADAM SHOT UP in bed. Was that the phone? He checked the time. It was five-thirty. He’d been drifting in and out of sleep for less than an hour. His temples throbbed. Another ring didn’t come. It had to be a dream.

The hot, steamy shower was invigorating. He dressed and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee. Cup in hand, he opened the front door quietly and stepped out into the darkness. Hurricane Alberto had made a sharp turn north, no longer threatening the East Coast. But weather reports showed the outer bands drenching most of central Florida by late in the week.

Adam walked to the main road to get his newspaper. Not one star was visible on the black backdrop of sky, and the early-morning air was sultry and still. From deep within the bushes along the south side of the driveway, a lone bullfrog croaked.

On his way back to the house Adam stopped in front of the mailbox. He stood staring at it for several moments then turned in the direction of the main road. He dropped his head. Why did I ask her to get the mail?

As he continued up the driveway the bullfrog stopped croaking. He tried to settle on the right time to tell Valerie and Dawn about the second phone call.

In the house Adam poured himself another cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, not sure what to do with himself.

“How about a cup of that coffee?” Carillo asked.

Adam wheeled around at the sound, sending coffee flying out of his cup. “God, you scared the shit out of me.” His chest burned from the hot java.

“Sorry. Let me clean up the mess.”

“No, that’s all right. You pour yourself a cup and I’ll clean up.”

“Hope you didn’t get burned.”

“I’m all right.”

Adam dabbed the coffee puddles off the tile floor and then went upstairs to change. He returned to find Carillo at the kitchen table reading his newspaper.

Carillo glanced over the top of the paper. “I hope you don’t mind. I want to see if the Mets won last night.”

“No, go ahead, Detective.”

“Call me Peter, okay?”

Adam sat at the table opposite Carillo. Elbows planted with his chin resting on his hands. Only his eyes looked up. “Sure. And call me Adam.”

Carillo folded and creased the newspaper back like new and slowly laid it on the table. Adam sat staring at his coffee.

“Better drink that stuff before it gets cold,” Carillo suggested.

Adam didn’t look up. “Yeah, I know.”

Carillo sipped his coffee then shifted in his chair. “I know this is a nightmare, but you can’t give up hope. Agent Goldman’s coming today. This is a big break for us.”

Adam shook his head in silence.

 19

FALL HAD FINALLY ARRIVED, and the Mississippi afternoon air was cool and crisp. The last school bell had just sounded, and David Sikes was ready to go home. But today, something was going to delay him. Something that would make him famous, at least at Jefferson Elementary. It all happened on the playground, south of the school building.