Her Silent Cry

Thirty-Seven

Josie stepped outside the tent, pressing her phone to her ear as she paced. As she waited for Trinity to answer, she looked over toward the carousel where food and coffee tables were still set up. There were still some volunteer searchers lingering. Josie recognized Ingrid Saylor standing near the Komorrah’s Koffee table, talking with the tweed suit guy. Josie searched her brain for his name. Bryce Graham. A few feet from them were a few volunteers who had brought their own search and rescue dogs, including Luke. He waved to her, but she turned quickly away from him and hurried out of the park toward her car.

Finally, on the eighth ring, Trinity answered with a breathless hello.

Josie said, “I am one hundred percent sure this kidnapping is about Amy.”

“A kidnapping? Not an abduction?” Trinity said.

Josie made a noise of exasperation in her throat. “What’s the damn difference?”

“Well when you say abduction, it sounds like some sexual predator took her, but when you say kidnapping, it makes me think of someone taking her for ransom.”

“What difference does it make?” Josie grumbled. “Either way, I have to find Lucy Ross as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” Trinity conceded. She must have heard Josie’s frustration in her tone because she didn’t push for Josie to give her or inadvertently reveal any information about the case that she could use in a story. Instead, she said, “You said you think this case is about Amy.”

“Yes. This is about Amy. Someone is doing this to hurt her.”

“Nice, quiet Amy whose life is as boring as the day is long?” Trinity said.

“Yes,” Josie said. “Tell me you got something. Anything.”

“I got a yearbook photo. That’s it so far. I’m on my way to the library now. Still no return call from Renita. I’ll send you the yearbook photo though.”

A few seconds later, Josie’s phone buzzed. She held it away from her face so she could pull up the text that Trinity had just sent with a photo of a young teenage girl, the name ‘Amy Walsh’ printed beneath it. Josie studied it. The photo was grainy, showing a girl with dark, curly hair and a shy smile. The resemblance to Amy Ross was thin, at best. She heard Trinity’s voice coming from her phone. “I haven’t met her in person. That’s her, right?”

Josie stared at the photo for another beat. “I suppose if she cut, dyed and straightened her hair. I’d hate to think I still looked like the girl in my yearbook photo.”

“The FBI is right on my heels,” Trinity said. “Have they turned anything up?”

“I don’t think so,” Josie said. “I’ll have to talk to Agent Oaks. I’m headed over to the Ross home now. Let me know if you find out anything else at the library or if you get in touch with Renita.”

“You got it,” Trinity said before hanging up.

Josie took another moment to look at the yearbook photo of Amy Walsh. She tried zooming in, but it only made the photo blurrier.

“Boss.” Mettner strode up behind her.

Josie didn’t bother to correct him this time. “What is it, Mett?”

“The teams found a hunting cabin in South Denton that was broken into. Gun safe was breached, and the guns were stolen.”

Josie took one last look at the photo and sighed. “Let’s go,” she said. “I’ll call Oaks on the way there and update him.”

South Denton was mostly comprised of strip malls and other squat, flat-roofed buildings including a self-storage facility and a car rental agency that broke up the otherwise thick foliage of the area. There were a few houses flung far and wide. Since it was a commercial district, many had been turned into businesses: a diner, an antiques store, a used-book store. At the very edge of town were several single-lane winding roads leading into the mountains. Josie and Mettner followed one of them two miles into the woods until they saw two Denton police cruisers at the end of a gravel driveway which was marked only by two standing red reflectors on either side of it. Josie parked behind one of them and she and Mettner walked up the driveway toward the small cabin. It was a rectangular, single-level structure, its siding made of faux logs, its roof made of red corrugated tin, peaked to allow Pennsylvania’s winter snow to slide off. To the left of the small porch was a square of grass and then several feet from that a stone fire pit surrounded by outdoor lawn chairs. In one of the metal chairs sat a short, rotund man with white hair. Two uniformed officers stood in front of him, one talking while the other took notes. The owner of the cabin, Josie guessed. Officer Hummel stood on the porch, dressed in his crime scene garb, consulting with another uniformed officer holding a clipboard.

“What’ve you got?” Josie asked him as she and Mettner stepped onto the porch.

Hummel motioned over his shoulder toward the owner and other officers. “Cabin belongs to that gentleman. He lives in town. He hasn’t been out here in over a month. We were doing the checks of all cabins in the area like you said. Found a window broken out back. Called the owner and asked him to come out. He says nothing was disturbed except his gun case. Glass front smashed, guns missing.”

Mettner said, “He didn’t have his weapons in a gun safe?”

Hummel shook his head. “No one comes out here. He thought a curio would be fine. It was locked but like I said, whoever took the guns just smashed the glass in to get to them. The owner says he’s had this cabin for thirty years and never had a problem till now.”

“What kind of guns?” Josie asked.

Hummel looked to the other officer, who flipped a page on his clipboard. Hummel read the notes scrawled there. “A Winchester Model 101, Marlin lever action 30/30, a Remington 700, and a Glock 19.”

Mettner said, “He kept a handgun at his hunting cabin?”

“For him to carry on his belt when working around the property.”

“For coyotes, probably,” Josie said. “A handgun is easier to carry than a rifle if you’re just pulling weeds or sitting out by the fire.”

Mettner nodded.

Josie asked, “You think whoever broke in was staying here?”

“No,” Hummel said, “Like I said, the only thing that’s disturbed is the gun case. We walked the owner through, and he said everything else is exactly as he left it.”

Which meant that there would be little, if any, evidence that would lead them to the person who broke in.

“You think this is our guy?” Mettner asked her.

“Hard to say,” Josie said. “How many break-ins like this do we have each year?”

“One or two at most,” Hummel answered. “And it’s usually teenagers looking for a place to drink. They’re not usually interested in the guns.”

“Well,” Josie agreed. “Hunting is pretty sacred around here. You don’t mess with someone’s weapons.”

Hummel nodded. “You want to have a look around? The team’s in there processing now, but you can go in. There are suits and gloves in the trunk of my car.”

Josie suited up; the uniformed officer with the clipboard logged her in and she went inside the cabin. The place was not much larger than a trailer, its living room and kitchen divided by where the brown shag carpet ended and the tan tile began. Beyond that was a short hallway with two doors. Behind one was a bedroom and behind the other was the bathroom. Hummel was right—the only thing that wasn’t neat and orderly was the living room where the gun curio’s glass had been smashed. She nodded to the two officers inside who were taking photographs of the cabinet and the glass scattered all around it as well as dusting it for prints.

She took a moment to study the room. To her right was a wall with three taxidermy deer heads mounted to it, then the smashed-in curio. To her left was a small living room area with a loveseat sofa and two recliner chairs surrounding a television atop a small stand. If she were a frightened seven-year-old girl in this room with a scary man who was breaking the glass in the gun cabinet, where would she hide?

She got down on her hands and knees behind the nearest recliner chair.

Mettner appeared behind her, also suited up. “What are you looking for, boss?”

“A chrysalis,” Josie answered. There was nothing beneath the chair. She moved over to the loveseat. Nothing. As she lowered her head to the floor and peered beneath the last chair, she spotted a small green object. “I need a flashlight,” she called over her shoulder.

A moment later, Mettner handed her his cell phone with the flashlight app turned on. The beam shone on the green object—cylindrical and slightly curved. “Found it,” Josie said, her heart hammering in her chest. “I’m going to take some photos of this, then I need it processed. I’ll use your phone and you can text them to me. Lift up the chair, would you? Gently.”

Mettner pushed the chair forward, its hind legs coming off the carpet. Josie snapped a handful of photos before telling Mettner to lower the chair. She handed his phone back to him. Scrolling through the shots she’d taken, he said, “She used leaves this time. I don’t think we can get prints from this.”

“That’s not the point,” Josie said. “The point is that we know that there’s a good chance she’s still alive, and now we know this guy is armed with more than a knife.”