Redemption (31 page)

Jane continued driving through the pelting storm as the cell signal became stronger. Sawyer repeated that the condom was always a nagging loose end. That the greenish, “micalike” chip
found on the condom pulled at his gut fourteen years ago and that he felt that there was possibly more to it. He got the name of the lab and the guy in charge and wanted Jane to contact him.

Jane let out a weary sigh. “I can’t call the lab.”

“But you’re working the case, right?”

Jane wanted to be forthright, but knew she couldn’t. “Yeah. But from a different angle. I just can’t call the lab, Charles.”

“Don’t you have friends from the job you can trust who owe you a favor?” Sawyer wasn’t going to let it die.

Jane only had one friend from the job who she could implicitly trust: Sergeant Weyler. But reconnecting with him meant burying her pride. And she wasn’t ready to do that yet. “It’s complicated,” Jane replied evasively.

“Complicated?”
Sawyer’s voice became slightly irritated for the first time. “If you’ve got an inside connection, use it!”

Sawyer sounded like an annoyed father to Jane. “Look, I’m heading into a dead cell zone,” Jane said, lying. “Is that all the information?”

There was a moment of thick silence. “Yeah. That’s all,” Sawyer said, dejected.

Jane knew that Sawyer was a guy who always played by the rules when he worked the job. He may have entertained thoughts that were outside the proverbial box, but he never had the nerve to act on them. Now he was off the job and living the good life. But there were those quiet moments of regret only a cop understands. One of those regrets was not following up on his gut instinct regarding the mysterious particles on the condom because he didn’t feel anyone would listen to him. And here was Jane, doing the same thing to him. She usually didn’t cave into sentimentality, but she did this time.

“What’s the name of the lab and the contact?” she asked reluctantly.

Jane drove back into Oakhurst right before ten A.M. The rain stopped and the clouds parted toward the west, exposing slices of blue sky. She considered going back to the cabin to check Lou’s DMV records, but the idea of dealing with Kit was not palatable at that moment.

Even though it was New Year’s Eve day, the conclave of media trucks had not diminished. The morbid idea crossed Jane’s mind that Oakhurst’s loss of one was also Oakhurst’s gain of many. And with that surge of warm bodies came across-the-board financial rewards. Just ask Barry at The Bonanza Cabins or Diane at The Circle 9 Diner. In fact, Jane was nearing The Circle 9 Diner when she happened to look to her right and see Oakhurst’s latest celebrity, Leann Hamilton, getting out of her mother’s older-model blue sedan in front of The Barbeque Shack. You couldn’t really miss Leann dressed in her nauseating yellow striped uniform. Jane slowed the Mustang and pulled into a parking spot in front of the fast-food joint. She watched as Leann nodded a few times in response to her mother and then closed the passenger door before heading into work. Jane leaned forward on her steering wheel, straining to get a better look at Leann. The kid moved with such tentative steps, you would have thought she was dodging snakes. Part of that hesitation came from her pudgy frame, sadly accentuated by the unflattering uniform. Here was a kid, Jane reflected, who had just been featured on primetime TV the previous night. Where were her friends? Where were the backslappers? Where were the suffering users who suck onto anyone in the public eye? Some of her coworkers, all prettier and thinner than Leann, stood scattered in front of the restaurant. A few were on break, while a couple others wiped the rainwater off the plastic chairs and tables. None of them said a word to Leann as she trudged up the ramp. It was patently clear to Jane that Leann ached to be accepted. It was the way she slowed down as she passed her coworkers, hoping for a friendly glance or a word of encouragement. There was a sentient aura around the girl that cried out for attention.

If it was attention she wanted, it was attention she was going to get. That’s the idea that ran through Jane’s mind as she opened the car door with the intent of talking to Leann. But no sooner did Jane prop the door open than a black SUV with rental plates from Fresno zoomed up in the empty space beside her. Jane quickly pulled back the car door to avoid a collision.

“Fuck!” Jane half whispered, straining to get a look at the driver. She made out the face just as he turned toward her. “Shit!” she said to herself. It was Clinton Fredericks. Jane clumsily turned her body and pretended to be looking for something in her backseat. Clinton emerged from the SUV and walked onto the curb. His prying eyes surveyed the Mustang and the lone driver in it. Jane could feel his presence but maintained her ruse. She decided to cheat a glance toward him and did so precisely as he turned away and jogged up the ramp toward Leann. Sloping as far down as she could in the front seat, Jane watched as the unthinkable took place. Clinton wrapped his arm around Leann’s shoulder in a pseudo-compassionate show of appreciation. Leann looked at him in starstruck wonder. The bloodsucker had poached another victim.

Jane made an undetected exit from the restaurant, deciding that a brief trip back to the Cabins might be a good idea for the time being. But just before the turnoff for the cabins, she spotted the distinctive white Firebird in the left lane, two cars in front of her. Her heart jumped at the chance to finally track the car’s movement.

She switched lanes and trailed the Firebird for less than a mile before he turned left into a residential district. At first, Jane wondered if the boy was headed back to Raven Court to observe Charlotte’s house. But after she turned and followed him, she realized they were nowhere near Raven Court. Jane kept a safe distance between herself and the Firebird. She knew the boy was paranoid and she didn’t want to screw up this golden opportunity.

They drove another block before the Firebird’s brake lights glowed against the wet pavement. Jane hung back, trolling just
enough to keep the car in sight. A delivery truck was parked in the center of the street, just ahead of where the Firebird slowed. Jane watched as the boy swung the Firebird into a driveway. She calculated the well-timed placement of the delivery truck and made her move. Without the boy noticing, Jane slid into a parking spot across the street obscured by the large truck. The truck prevented any clear view of the boy’s actions. But it did offer adequate shielding of her body. Jane got out of the Mustang and circled back to the rear of the truck, where a five-foot stack of boxes stood on a wooden pallet. It was thankfully another source of coverage for Jane. Peeking around the side of the truck, Jane observed the boy methodically getting out of the Firebird and retrieving an empty legal-sized box.

The front door to the house opened. A sturdy woman in her late forties appeared. “Shane!” the woman yelled over to the boy.

“Yeah?” the boy replied in a faltering tone.

“We’ve got more posters coming! Your dad’s bringin’ ’em over. But I want you to eat something hot before you go out again in this weather!”

“I’ll be right in, Mom,” Shane acknowledged, deep in troubled thought.

His mother went back into the house. Jane observed the boy who now had a name.
Shane
. Instead of heading inside his house, however, Shane leaned against the side of his car. He looked cautiously around the area. Jane pulled back just enough so that she could still view the boy. Shane was troubled, but he was also terribly paranoid. The sound of tires rolling down the wet pavement could be heard coming from up the street. Shane saw the vehicle before Jane did. His visibly tense reaction to the car caused Jane to turn toward it. It was the sheriff’s car. Realizing that Jane was in perfect visual contact with Sheriff Golden, she quickly grabbed a nearby stack of delivery papers that hung on the truck’s back hook and pretended to be checking off the data.

Keeping her eyes fixated on the delivery papers, Jane heard the sheriff’s car slow to a creaking halt in the middle of the road,
directly in front of Shane’s house. She snuck a quick glance to the car. She could see the sheriff observing the house momentarily before Jane shifted her focus to Shane. The boy straightened up and put on a determined face in an obvious attempt to shake off his inward struggle. Sheriff Golden opened his car door, worked his gut-heavy frame out of the car, hooked his black booted foot on the inside of the door frame, and looked over at Shane. Jane waited, sensing an Old West showdown.

“Day’s turned to crap, hasn’t it?” Sheriff Golden yelled over at Shane.

“Yeah,” Shane replied in a halting manner as he moved to the rear of his Firebird.

“You puttin’ posters around town?”

“Yeah.... I’m out.”

Sheriff Golden ducked his head into the car. He emerged with a legal-sized box. “Well, son, I’m here to restock you!”

CHAPTER 20

So the mysterious boy was the sheriff’s son. Jane let that little gem of family connections sink in as she drove back to the cabins. From all appearances, Shane was a boy who looked like he had something to hide; a boy who purposely parked on Charlotte’s street, away from the action and watched. Just watched. Then when he got a phone call that night on his cell, he lied about his whereabouts to whomever was on the other end of the line. Jane’s gut started twisting, a sign that her sixth sense was on to something. She wasn’t certain if that “something” was part or all of the puzzle. Just the thought of the son of the sheriff involved in Charlotte’s kidnapping raised a host of ethical issues Jane was too weary to consider at that moment.

Jane pulled into the Cabins just shy of eleven A.M. She had to look twice at the front of the Hop Sing cabin. Lined up in front of the wall were two glass mason jars filled with water and green rocks. A single cobalt blue bottle stood next to the one with rocks and, next to that, a green wine bottle. Upon entering the cabin, Jane’s senses went on overwhelm. The musty scent of patchouli incense gripped her nostrils. Every inch of space was filled with bottles of herbs, bags of tea, and books that ranged from metaphysical to self-improvement. Kit sat cross-legged on her bed as the buzzing sound of Tibetan monks chanted a series of “Om” and “Ahhh” on her CD player. The TV was on, but the volume was muted. Hanging above the television were a string of colorful Buddhist prayer flags. Jane looked at the odd scene, mouth agape.

“Back from your morning constitutional?” Kit offered.

“What in the hell have you done to this room?”

“Well, after my coffee enema, I felt so
perky
. So with nothing else to do, I decided to unpack and make the place more homey.”

“It’s like a New Age nightmare. Do you mind turning off the monks and squashing the patchouli incense?” She grabbed a pillow from her bed—the only area of the room that didn’t have an item on top of it—and wafted the cloying scent out the open door. Kit obliged Jane’s requests. “Remember earlier when I mentioned the words ‘low profile?’ What part of that didn’t you understand?”

“As strong as patchouli can be, I don’t think the scent seeps through the walls.”

“What about the bottles outside the door?”

“Oh, those. Well, I can’t do anything about them. They’re part of my regimen. I’ve got jade soaking in two bottles to make a gem elixir. Jade inspires wisdom during the assessment of one’s problems. I’ve always loved the stone, as I lived in Jade Cove. The colored bottles are solar-charged water. Cobalt is for the nerves and green is an all-around excellent healer. You’re more than welcome to try them. Might be the ticket to cure whatever’s ailing you lately.” The last sentence resonated with a defined cattiness. “I tell you, I have had one
exciting
morning. I watched a scintillating documentary on the Food Network that discussed the history of pudding.
Fascinating!
Then, we went right into ‘Cook, Cook, Cooking with Kevin!’ All I can say is thank God and Barry for TiVo!” If Kit’s sarcasm got any thicker, Jane would need a shovel to wade across the room.

Jane glanced at the bureau where she left her laptop computer. It wasn’t there. “Where’s my laptop?” Jane asked with a suspicious edge.

“Here,” Kit leaned down between the beds and picked up the computer from the floor. “I had to move it to accommodate my herbs.”

Jane crossed to Kit, retrieved the laptop, and noted that it was turned off. She recalled that the last thing she looked up was the MapQuest directions to Lou’s house. “You turn this off?”

Kit looked up at Jane’s towering figure above her. It was done to intimidate, but there wasn’t a bit of apprehension on Kit’s face. “I had to unplug it in order to move it.” Jane considered Kit’s
answer before placing the computer on her bed. Kit could have looked at the map. If the woman was computer savvy—something Jane was not sure of—she could have accessed the history of her web searches that morning and discovered the registry of sexual offenders with Lou’s address. Jane’s preoccupied facial expression caught Kit’s eye. “Worried I saw something interesting on your computer?”

Jane turned to Kit. “I’m not having a pissing contest with you, Kit.” Jane tried to act nonchalant as she maneuvered around the heaps of herbs scattered on the floor and opened her lone piece of luggage.

“For Christ’s sake!” Kit angrily spouted, rotating her heavy frame off the bed. “
What
is going on with you? Ever since we left Cousin Carl’s, you’ve been acting very distant with me. When I hired you, I made it clear that this was a partnership.”

“I had a partner at DH. But it didn’t work out. I found out I couldn’t trust the son of a bitch. And I learned that the hard way—”

“Cut the crap, Jane! We have a finite amount of days to find Lou—”

“What about Trace Fagin? The cops obviously have reason to believe he’s involved in this somehow.” Jane wasn’t sold on Trace Fagin’s guilt, but she figured she would play the Devil’s advocate.

“
Stop it!
Would you
please
just do your job and find Lou Peters?”