Gone (12 page)

“This isn’t an extortion scheme targeted against nameless, faceless victims.”

“Which makes it all the better. The more our guy has to talk to us, the more information he’ll give away. I’m not going to drag this out forever. Game plan is a good-faith down payment of a couple thousand, assuming he can show us proof of life. We’ll even consider it a bonus, given how patient he’s being. Arrange that for late tonight, with a setup for the full ten grand tomorrow afternoon. Meaning that he can walk away with twelve thousand instead of the original ten.”

“Play to his greed,” Mac commented.

Kincaid flashed him a glance. “Exactly.”

Mac looked at Quincy. The profiler appeared ashen. He sat down wearily on the metal chair and Mac wondered once more about the physical toll this must be taking.

“It’s a matter of presentation,” Kincaid said steadily. “We make him feel like he’s maintaining control of the situation while being rewarded for his efforts. We keep him focused on the future payoff, not the change in plans.”

“There’s only one problem,” Quincy said.

“What?” Kincaid asked warily.

A faint chiming sound suddenly emanated from Quincy’s pocket. “I doubt the UNSUB is stupid enough to call your hotline.”

Quincy pulled out his phone, checked the number, then showed them both the screen. Rainie’s name flashed across the display. “Why call you, Sergeant Kincaid, when it’s so much easier to call me?”

“Ahh shit.” Kincaid motioned furiously to the other detective as Quincy flipped open his phone and prepared to speak.

19

Tuesday, 5:05 p.m. PST

S
HERIFF
S
HELLY
A
TKINS WAS TIRED
. She wanted a steaming cup of hot chocolate, a hot shower, and her bed, though not necessarily in that order. She’d had long nights before; her parents ran a cattle farm out in eastern Oregon. You didn’t run a farm without some sleepless nights. But the last sixteen hours had taken their toll. Her boots were soaked, her socks were soaked. Her first shirt, her spare shirt. Every time she ran the heater in the car, she steamed up the windows from all the moisture evaporating off her body.

And her hands were starting to ache now, that bone-deep throbbing that bit into older, long-abused joints. She was trying not to rub her knuckles too much. Not that she thought her deputy, Dan Mitchell, would notice. Dan had been on duty since nine p.m. last night. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, he was already slumped down with his eyes at half mast. If she drove much longer, he was going to nod off completely.

A deputy’s pay didn’t go that far in these parts. Like a few other members of her staff, Dan also worked part-time at a local dairy. He handled the evening milking before showing up for the graveyard shift. Sometimes she wondered how he stayed awake night after night, keeping those kinds of hours. She didn’t want to ask. Truth was, Bakersville was mostly a quiet place. If her deputies dozed off every now and then in the early morning hours, no one had ever noticed or complained.

She needed to start thinking about staffing. Thus far, she’d had everyone up and at it since three this morning, not unusual for a critical incident, where a life might be on the line. Now, however, the case felt like it was slowing down, settling in. Kincaid had pushed back the four p.m. ransom drop. She had a feeling come evening, he’d stall again. If the situation entered a second day, or even a third, she couldn’t continue to have all her men working 24/7. The combined sleep deprivation would turn them into a bunch of armed zombies.

She’d split them into two twelve-hour shifts, she determined. Send Dan, Marshall, and probably herself home first; they’d been up the longest. ’Course, she had a hard time seeing herself sitting things out for a full twelve hours. Three or four might not be bad. Get enough shut-eye to recharge the gray matter, then get up and at ’em again.

She stifled another yawn and turned left down a long, winding road. Locals liked to say that Tillamook County existed due to three things: cheese, trees, and ocean breeze. The cheese factory kept the dairy farms thriving, the neighboring forests kept the loggers busy, and the beautiful beaches kept the tourists coming back for more. The people tended the land, and the land tended the people, as her father would put it.

But as with any community, even one famous for its quaint, rolling green pastures, the county had its seedy side. Shelly and Dan had left behind the tidy, modernized dairies, with their freshly painted barns, shiny green tractors, and “Dairy of Honor” signs. Now they were looping through skinny back roads, passing trailer parks, crumbling cabins, and the other dairy farms—small, poorly equipped, with barns that looked like they’d disintegrate in the next windstorm.

Shelly knew the kind of folks who lived here. The men were stubble-faced and rangy, with the lean cheeks and soft middles that came from drinking most of their meals out of a beer can. The women were equally thin and hunched, with stringy hair and a propensity to bruise. The kids traveled in packs, generally accompanied by one or two mangy dogs. None of them trusted strangers, and all of them could explain to you why it was not their fault that their farm was failing. The price of milk was down, the price of dairy cattle was down. Too much debt given too readily by greedy banks, looking to squeeze out the little guy. The government didn’t do enough to help them, the community wanted to pretend they didn’t exist.

Shelly knew all about it. She’d heard all the same stories growing up in La Grande. As her father liked to point out, successful farmers worked more and talked less, whereas some of these farmers never seemed to have much to do, but always had plenty to say.

Visits like these were still the toughest part of Shelly’s job. Walking into worn kitchens with peeling linoleum and water-stained ceilings. Trying to explain for the second or third time to some forty-year-old-looking twenty-two-year-old, with her third baby planted on her hip, that she did have options. That she didn’t have to stay.

Knowing she’d be back again. Like the sheriff before her had probably done for this girl’s mama so many years before. Life was full of cycles, and the older Shelly got, the less she believed she had all the answers. Her parents had certainly never been rich, and God knows there’d been long stretches where their daily supper had contained more potatoes and less meat, but she’d never been forced to see her father bowed and broken. She’d never watched her mother apply makeup to cover a bruise. She’d never heard her parents blame anyone else for their struggles. We just need to work a little harder, her father had always said, so that’s what Shelly and her brothers had learned to do.

Now she turned into a dirt driveway. She hit a pothole, her right tire spun shrilly in the muck, and for a second, she thought she was stuck. Then the SUV lurched forward, jostling Dan out of his slumber.

“What the—”

Dan came to his senses just in time to realize he was sitting next to his boss, and bit off the last of that sentence. Shelly grinned at him.

“Good nap?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. One of us needs to be refreshed. We’re here.”

She pulled up in front of a small farmhouse with a hole in the front porch the size of a boulder. The property boasted four pickup trucks, three rusted-out Chevys, and what looked like might have been a combine. Not to be outdone, various appliances also competed for real estate—old stoves, ovens, freezer units just waiting for summer to swallow some poor unsuspecting kid.

Hal Jenkins owned this property. It had been a farm in his father’s day, and according to what Shelly had heard, a decent one. Small, but well run, tidily equipped. Hal hadn’t wanted to be a farmer. He’d decided his calling was in automotive repair, hence the cars. He hadn’t been bad at it. No, what had tripped up Hal was stripping car parts off of unsuspecting owners and recycling them into other people’s vehicles—while charging them full price for the part, of course. Couple of country boys, not bad with engines themselves, had figured it out.

Calling cops wasn’t much appreciated in these parts, so they’d beaten the snot out of Hal instead, then taken a baseball bat to his house. Most of the first-story windows still hadn’t been replaced, hence the sheets of MDF nailed over the exterior.

After spending four months in the hospital, Hal decided maybe the automotive industry wasn’t for him. He turned his attentions toward oven repair. Not so much money in appliances, however. In this day and age, people bought new instead of repairing old.

Exactly how Hal continued to make a living was subject to much debate. Shelly’s best guess was that Hal had finally figured out the true value of a small, backwoods farm with plenty of outbuildings and few neighbors: a meth lab. The state chopper had taken a pass several times, but had yet to detect the heat signature they needed for a warrant. And so far, Hal wasn’t big on letting Shelly or her deputies wander the property. Hal would never be a rocket scientist, but he was smart in his own survivalist sort of way.

Shelly stepped out first. Her boots sank deep into the marsh. Shit, they would be lucky to get the truck out. Dan got out a little slower, glancing at his watch. That irked her and she sent him a sharp glance.

“Now’s not the time to worry about the evening milking, Deputy.”

“Sorry.” He was immediately abashed.

Inside the house, they heard a voice. It was the official Hal Jenkins greeting. No open door. Not even a look through a shattered glass window. “What?” he boomed from somewhere in the interior.

“Hey, Hal. It’s Sheriff Atkins and Deputy Mitchell. We were wondering if we could have a minute of your time.”

“No.”

“For crying out loud, Hal. It’s pouring down rain and we’re covered in mud. Least you could do is offer us a cup of coffee.”

“No.”

“Well, I got some bad news then. Our truck is stuck—” Dan gave her a startled glance. She shushed him with her hand. “Looks like we’re gonna have to dig through that pile of appliances and car parts over there to find something to get us out. Won’t take but a minute, though.”

The door jerked open. Hal finally appeared, sporting three days’ worth of beard, a dark green flannel top, and the sorriest pair of jeans Shelly had ever seen. “Don’t you touch nothin’.”

“Well, Hal, we don’t feel like standing here all day. We’re on official police business.”

Hal scowled at her. Ironically speaking, he was still a young man, and wouldn’t be half bad looking if he ever cleaned up his act. He was tall, with dark wavy hair and the athletic build of an outdoorsman. He had a reputation as a good marksman, a hunter who skinned and hauled his own deer, often pulling the carcass for miles through the woods. And while the local boys had worked him over pretty good, by all accounts he’d put up one helluva fight. They’d arrested all three of his attackers in the emergency room; two were receiving stitches and the third had two broken bones.

Shelly didn’t think Hal would have any trouble with a five-foot-six-inch female. And again, when sober and properly motivated, he could be cunning.

Shelly climbed the steps of the front porch. She was trying to peer discreetly into the gloom. She wanted to see if good ol’ Hal had the most recent edition of the
Daily Sun.
Couldn’t tell. Lighting was too poor, and Hal wasn’t exactly a housekeeper; it was hard to pick out anything from the towering piles of trash.

“Got a warrant?” Hal asked.

“Got something to hide?” Shelly replied evenly.

“Yeah. World’s greatest Chinese food. Don’t want the word to get out. So if you don’t mind, Sheriff, I think I’ll return to my dinner.”

“And to think, you struck me more as a pizza man.” Shelly leaned against the doorframe, crowding Hal’s space and pushing him back a step. Give her another minute, and she’d have her foot inside the door. Better yet, she’d completely block Hal’s view, giving Dan more leeway to walk the grounds.

Hal coughed three times, not bothering to cover his mouth. His own ploy to gain real estate. Shelly didn’t budge, though she’d seriously have to consider burning her clothes later today.

“Need cough syrup?” she asked idly. “Bet you have some in the house.”

“Bet I do. All this rain, a man’s bound to get a cold.”

“So that’s why you buy it by the case?”

Hal just grinned. Some over-the-counter cough syrups contained the chemical compound pseudoephedrine, needed to make methamphetamine. First sign of increased meth activity in an area was the sudden shortage of cough syrup in the local pharmacies, making drugstores a new and interesting arena in the war against drugs. First, stores were asked to report bulk orders. Budding illegal chemists simply started “cherry-picking” their local markets, buying a bottle here, a bottle there, etc.

At law enforcement urging, stores then stopped carrying the over-the-counter drugs, well, over-the-counter. You wanted children’s Sudafed in Oregon, you had to personally request it from a pharmacist. Even this method wasn’t foolproof, however, so for the latest round of combat, the giant pharmaceutical companies had promised cough syrups that were pseudoephedrine-free just for these kinds of markets. Would still treat the common cold, without endangering half the teenage population.

Of course, that still left online pharmacies, drug runs to Canada, etc., etc. Criminals were stupid, but never as overwhelmingly stupid as law enforcement would like them to be.

“I heard you owe some money,” Shelly said, trying to jump-start things by dangling a little bait.

“Me? No way. Never a borrower or lender be.”

“Why, Hal, you’re quoting Shakespeare.” Shelly batted her eyes.

Hal grinned. Not a good look on him, considering what years of tobacco chewing had done to his teeth. “Shakespeare? Hell, my old man told me he wrote them words himself. Son of a bitch; shoulda known he was lying.”

“More like plagiarism. So you ever gonna fix this place up?”

“Why? Guy like me always has a few people who think I’ve done ’em wrong. New windows will just make new targets.”

“Did you do them wrong?”

“Ah, Sheriff, I just want to eat my Chinese food and repair another stove. Can’t a guy make a living?”

Shelly nodded, chewing on the inside of her lip. Hal was blocking her view of the house as well as stalling the conversation. Definitely a guy with something to hide, but then again, that’s why they’d come here. Hal would always be hiding something, and he was right about not bothering to replace the windows.

“What about some guys who may have done you wrong?”

This was a new tactic. Hal frowned, squirreled an eyebrow, and tried to figure it out. “What’d you hear?”

“I hear some guys are looking to score some quick cash. Doing all sorts of crazy-ass stuff. Kind of activities that bring the state police into the town, and soon, the FBI. That sort of thing fucks it up for everyone, don’t you think?”

Hal finally put two and two together—and proved he’d read the most recent edition of the
Daily Sun.
“The kidnapping,” he murmured.

“Yes, sir.”

For a change, Hal’s reply was immediate and forthcoming. “Ah, no way. I do not go there. Abducting some woman, making ransom demands. All for a lousy ten grand? That is crazy-ass. I can barely stand being around some chatty female long enough for sex. Like hell I’m locking one up in my house.”

“Well, you do have a barn.”

“Ah jeez.”

“Just let us take a quick tour. Then we can remove you from the suspect list and save you the same visit from the FBI.”

“As long as the FBI is packing the same warrant you are, I got nothing to worry about. Time for my dinner—”

Hal moved to slam the door. Shelly stuck her foot in the way. “We’re serious about this,” she said quietly. “It’s not the same old shit, Hal. One word, one whisper she is anywhere near here, and a judge will grant us permission to tear your place apart board by board. Forget the windows, you won’t have a house when we’re done with you.”