The Discarded

CHAPTER 13

Abraham sat near the gate, waiting for his flight to DC.

From the moment he’d purchased the ticket, he’d felt guilty. He wanted to be out looking for Eli, but who knew where his friend had been taken by now? The only thing he could think of doing was to go to Eli’s apartment near Washington, DC, to see if he could track down any hint of the information Eli had wanted to give him. Maybe if Abraham knew what it was, he could figure out what had happened to Eli.

It was a long shot, but at the moment his only shot.

The other seats began filling up around him but he barely noticed. All he could think about was how he’d failed his friend.

Shortly after seven a.m., Orlando and Quinn returned to the neighborhood where the Moss Point house was located.

“Which one first?” Quinn asked as they climbed out of the car.

Orlando looked around before pointing at a two-story house to the left of the one where Eli Becker had been taken. “They have the best view,” she said.

She and Quinn had dressed in business suits that morning, knowing the importance of looking the part they were playing. As they neared the front door, they could hear the sounds of a family getting ready for the day — a TV, someone running around, dishes clattering.

Quinn pushed the doorbell button.

A distant, “Ronny, get that. If it’s Mrs. Fuller, tell her you need a few more minutes.”

A set of small feet across a room, followed by the door squeaking open. A skinny boy of around eight stared out at them, then said over his shoulder, “It’s not Mrs. Fuller, Mom.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Orlando said, “We’d like to speak to your parents, please.”

“They want to talk to you,” the boy said, his eyes still on Orlando and Quinn.

A deep sigh preceded heavier steps moving toward the door. A woman appeared, wearing a long faded pink robe and hair that looked like it had been brushed back in a hurry.

“Can I help you?” she asked, not doing a great job of concealing her impatience.

“Ma’am, I’m Agent Sax, and this is Agent Mullins,” Orlando said, flashing the fake FBI badge that was part of her kit. “Wondering if we could ask you a couple questions?”

The woman touched her son’s shoulder. “Ronny, go finish your breakfast.”

“I’m already done,” he argued.

“Then go finish getting ready. Mrs. Fuller will be here soon.”

He left reluctantly.

When they were alone, the woman asked, “What kind of questions?”

“About the house next door,” Orlando said.

“Next door? It’s empty.”

“We believe someone may have been using it in the last thirty-six hours,” Quinn said. “Did you see anyone?”

She shook her head. “Sorry.”

“Maybe someone else in your family saw someone?”

“We were at a marching band competition for the last couple of days. Got back last night.”

They thanked the woman and then tried the house to the right, where an older man named Harold Purdue greeted them in jeans and a tan work shirt. When they asked their question, he said, “Sure, I saw them. Came in night before last. Pretty much stayed inside the whole time until they left yesterday. I called the police because I thought maybe they were breaking in or something, and the cops checked with the Realtor.” He nodded out at the sign in front of the other house. “Apparently all was on the up and up.”

“Do you know what time they left?” Orlando asked.

“Well, I can’t say for sure. They arrived in an ambulance, you know, but it left right after they got there. Yesterday morning there was a van parked out front. Not sure when that showed up. Went out for my afternoon walk. When I came back, the van was gone.”

“And you’re sure they weren’t still in the house?” Quinn asked.

“We watch out for each other here. The Saunders, they own that house — they’re good people. So I figured it was my duty to go on over and say hello. You know, get a good look and make sure they’re not doing anything illegal like. I headed over after the walk but the place was empty and locked up.”

“Two more questions, if you don’t mind,” Orlando said.

“No problem.”

“What time did you take your walk yesterday?”

“Same time I take it every day. Start out at three fifteen and get back here just a hair after four o’clock.”

“And the van — could you give us a description?”

“I could, but I’m guessin’ a picture would suit you better.”

“You have a picture?” Orlando asked.

Purdue smiled. “That’s three questions. But yes, I do. When strangers show up, I like to make sure they’re not going to be a problem. I told you we take care of each other here.”

Purdue’s picture was a bit blurry, but Orlando was able to clean it up enough to determine the vehicle was a white Ford E250 cargo van. She couldn’t improve the resolution enough to read the back license plate, but the vehicle had a few telltale markings they could hopefully use to ID it.

Satellite footage was out. From the research she’d done the night before, she knew two satellites had passed over the Moss Point area the previous afternoon. Unfortunately the timing of their crossings did not coincide with the 3:15-to-4:00 p.m. window Mr. Purdue’s walk had established.

That meant Orlando and Quinn would have to rely on traffic cameras. They concentrated their efforts on the I-10 since it was the only highway out of the area. Any other route and Eli Becker’s abductors would have risked getting stuck in stop-and-go traffic.

Orlando concentrated on the closest eastbound cam to the on-ramp the van would have taken to enter the freeway, while Quinn did the same for the westbound one, each focusing on archived footage from a two-hour window starting at 3:15 p.m.

Ten minutes into their search, Quinn said, “I think I have it.”

Orlando paused the footage on her screen and looked over at his. He pressed PLAY and the cars he’d been looking at started moving again.

After a moment, he said, “Here it comes.”

Right on cue, a white van drove into the frame from the bottom of the screen. He let it play until the vehicle disappeared, and then reversed the footage and paused on the best shot of the vehicle.

“There,” Quinn said, pointing at a dark line along the back fender. “And there.” A dent on the roof line.

Both points of damage matched those on the van in Purdue’s picture.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she said.

Leapfrogging west, camera to camera, they followed the van across the state line into Louisiana. There it transitioned to the I-12 and continued west past Baton Rouge.

“We should have seen it by now,” Quinn said a few minutes later.

Orlando increased the speed of the footage they were looking at, and watched long enough to account for any fuel or food breaks the people in the van might have taken. No sign of the vehicle. They did a quick check to see if it had circled back in the other direction but it made no reappearance, which meant it had left the highway.

She consulted the map. The area looked sparsely populated, no real towns, just farm country. Even better, it had only three potential exits.

A Realtor had been used for the house in Moss Point, so Orlando guessed one was also employed for this next location. A quick search brought up all the real estate companies working in a ten-mile circle — about two dozen.

She and Quinn split the list and began making inquires about houses that might be available for a short lease. The final tally was four.

It was time to head west.

Marguerite sat at the airport bar, drinking water and keeping a watchful eye on the departure area for the flight to Washington, DC. The plane had arrived at the gate ten minutes earlier, and while its passengers were still making their way off, those waiting to board began to stir, several even getting in line.

Abraham, on the other hand, hadn’t moved an inch, his gaze still on the far wall. She figured he was thinking about his missing friend. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He looked almost lost.

Her phone vibrated on the bar.

She picked it up and said, “Yes?”

Abraham wasn’t thinking about Eli. Earlier he had been, but those thoughts had led him to ones about the girl.

Tessa.

She would be eleven now, and likely didn’t even remember him. They’d been together for only a few days, and that was more than half her lifetime ago.

He, of course, could never forget her.

He found himself falling into the familiar game of guessing who she was and why she was so important. He could make up a million answers, but had no idea if any of them were even close to the truth.

I should have never left her.

He hadn’t heard the person take the seat next to him, so he jerked in surprise when she said, “You sure you want to go to DC this time of year? It’s kind of cold.”

His face hardened when he realized who it was.

“Well, look at us,” Marguerite said, “running into each other for a second time in two days.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m just passing on a message.”

“What message?”

“Orlando says you’ll want to stay.”

“Why?”

“She said to tell you she thinks she found Eli.”

They met at a Love’s Truck Stop just west of the Mississippi River. Having traveled farther, Quinn and Orlando were the last to arrive, finding Marguerite, Winger, and Abraham inside the restaurant.

The moment Abraham spotted them, he pushed out of his seat.

“How do you know his name?”

Orlando raised an eyebrow. “Really? You don’t think I could figure that out?”

“Then where is he?”

“Close to here.”

“You’re not lying, are you? This isn’t some trick to keep tabs on me?”

She fingered the collar of his jacket and removed the tracking chip. “I’ve already been keeping tabs on you,” she said, showing it to him. “But no, it’s not a trick.”

“Why don’t we all sit and we can fill you in,” Quinn suggested.

Begrudgingly, Abraham returned to his chair while Quinn and Orlando took the empty ones to his side.

Orlando explained how they had tracked the van and narrowed the possible destinations down to four. “It’s not a guarantee,” she said. “They might not be at any of these places, or they may have already moved on, but it’s better than nothing.”

Abraham was quiet for a moment, and then said, “You didn’t have to do this. You could have gone home.”

Orlando put a hand on his. “Of course we had to do this. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. It’s what friends do, what family does.”

He hesitated, then clapped his other hand over hers.

Since the identities of the people who’d taken Eli were still unknown, splitting up so they could check the houses faster was not an option Quinn would even entertain. They headed out together in the sedan Quinn and Orlando were using, leaving Winger’s and Marguerite’s cars at the truck stop.

The first two houses they visited were being used by families who looked like they’d been there more than a day or two. The third had clearly been occupied sometime in the last several days, but from the abundance of cigarette butts and the piles of empty beer cans, Quinn thought it likely the place was being used as a hangout for local teens.

That left them with one final option.

Like the others, it was a farmhouse, in this case set off the road several hundred feet, with a faded white barn in back and a few shade trees in the yard. They couldn’t see, however, any vehicles or signs of life from the main road.

They drove past the long driveway to the end of the field, where a ditch about four feet deep ran all the way back to a small, wild grove about fifty yards beyond the house. Quinn parked their car where it couldn’t be seen from the property, then they all piled out and began working their way down the trench.

Every fifty feet or so, Quinn would pause and check the house. There were still no signs of movement, no light coming from inside. He had hoped to spot the van parked behind the home, but as the back area came into view, all he could see were more grass and bushes and trees.

He gathered everyone together and said, “Orlando and I are going to go over and check.” He could see Abraham opening his mouth to protest so he pointed at him. “You are going to stay here. No argument. You come with us and we’d spend all our time worrying about you.”

Abraham looked none too happy.

“Permission to shoot him if he tries to follow you,” Marguerite said.

“Permission granted,” Orlando replied.

“I’ll stay, okay?” Abraham said.

Quinn and Orlando continued down the ditch until they reached the grove at the back of the field. They moved through the trees until the barn was between them and the house, and then sprinted across the open ground.

Quinn peered through the barn’s partially open door. It was a big, wide, open space holding nothing but dust. They moved to the east side, where the shadows were already deep and black, and headed to the front end. There they stopped and got their first good look at the house.

“Window, second from the right,” Orlando whispered.

Quinn looked where she indicated. It was curtained like the other windows along the back, but the rod holding the drape in place was askew, as if something had bumped it.

“See any movement?” he asked.

“No.”

Staying low, they traversed the ground between the barn and the house, crouched next to the back-door steps, and waited there for some kind of response. When none came, Quinn eased up the stairs and peered through the window in the door.

The room beyond was a kitchen with nothing on the countertops, and no table or chairs in the breakfast nook. The door was locked, so he pulled out his set of picks and remedied the situation in seconds.

He pushed the door open an inch and listened for sounds from inside. After hearing nothing, he opened the door wide enough for them to enter.

A fine layer of dust covered the counters and sink. Their information indicated the house had been rented in the last forty-eight hours, but the occupants had apparently not made use of the kitchen.

Odd.

There were two doors out of the room — one to the left leading into a small laundry area, and one straight ahead that accessed the rest of the house. They moved toward the latter, stopping again to listen.

Quiet came in many forms. The peaceful quiet of people sleeping. The tense quiet of someone lying in wait. The hollow quiet of empty space. Quinn was familiar with all. This quiet was the last. But while he was sure no one else was in the house, there had been those rare times when his senses were wrong, so he kept alert as he eased into the living room, scanning for danger.

Orlando touched his arm and pointed at several places on the floor in front of them. The hardwood planks had received their fair share of dust, too, but in a large section the dust had been disturbed. Someone had been here recently.

There was something else, a smell in the air Quinn recognized immediately. Tangy and metallic.

Blood. And not just a drop or two.

He looked at Orlando again and saw she’d also registered it.

They moved into the dining area and through an opening into a hallway that contained several open doors. The smell was considerably stronger here. Not only that, they could hear something now, low and constant. Almost a hum.

Like the smell, it was a sound Quinn knew.

Slowly, they moved down the darkened hall, checking the first room, then the second, before approaching the last door. As they neared, Quinn noticed something on the hallway wall opposite the room. A dark spot, runny, like someone had dribbled paint against it.

He moved up to the door, checked to make sure Orlando was ready behind him, and then swung into the opening, moving his gun back and forth as he looked for targets.

If dealing with the dead hadn’t been his profession, the smell would have overwhelmed him. The body was crumpled across a gurney that took up the majority of the room. The smell was more blood than rot, which meant the victim hadn’t been dead that long. By the growing swarm of buzzing flies, though, he knew it had been at least a few hours.

He moved to the side so Orlando could take a look.

The dead man couldn’t have been more than forty years old. He was clothed only in a pair of underwear, and while his hands were free, his ankles were strapped to the gurney with leather restraints. He had bruises on his face, shoulders, and legs, all of which looked no more than a day or two old. What had killed him, though, was a gunshot to the forehead.

“Fits the description,” he said.

“Yeah,” Orlando agreed. “Dammit.”

She moved in for a closer look.

“Needle marks,” she said, nodding at the man’s upper arm.

They saw at least four insertion points. Quinn had no doubt something had been pumped into the guy’s system to get him to talk.

“Abraham?” he asked.

Orlando was quiet for a second before she sighed and said, “I’ll get him.”

Quinn heard the back door slam open, and then hurried steps moving through the kitchen and living room.

“Where?” Abraham said outside the hallway.

“Down there,” Orlando replied. “Last door on the left.”

A moment later, Abraham appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, my God,” he said.

As he moved over to the gurney, Orlando entered the room behind him.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Quinn asked.

Abraham dipped his head, covering his eyes with his hand. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s Eli.”

Quinn put a hand on Abraham’s back. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s my fault. It’s my fucking fault.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Orlando said. “You couldn’t have stopped them.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.

“If it helps at all,” Quinn said, “I think he went down fighting.”

Abraham looked at him, brow furrowed.

Quinn gently lifted Eli Becker’s left forearm. “Look at his wrist. It’s all cut up and some of the skin is missing right where the cuff would be.” He set the arm down and lifted the cuff as far as it would go. “See, it’s still closed, but it looks stretched. The other cuff is open. I think he worked the first one free and then undid the buckle on the other.”

“A lot of good it did him,” Abraham said.

“True, but I have a feeling he did a little damage. There’s a large bloodstain on the hallway wall. Fresh. Too far away to be his.”

Abraham glanced back at the hallway before returning his gaze to his dead friend.

“Don’t you see?” Orlando asked. “The way he was killed was reactionary. If it had been planned out, they would have gone with a considerably less messy method and dumped his body someplace it would never be found. If you ask me, they weren’t ready to get rid of him yet. Which means they probably didn’t get out of him whatever it was they were trying to learn.”

“He’s still dead, though,” Abraham said.

No one had a response for that.

Abraham took a deep breath. “We can’t leave him here.”

“No,” Quinn said. “I’ll take care of it.”

Daeng had chosen well.

Instead of finding a building that was part of a new construction project, he’d located a secluded tavern outside the city that was in the process of being totally refurbished. In addition to the interior being gutted, the renovations seemingly included replacing all plumbing and sewer lines, necessitating the removal of large chunks of concrete from the basement floor. The kicker was that the place sat in the center of three acres of tree-filled land, giving Nate and Daeng more than adequate privacy.

As soon as the construction crew had cleared out that afternoon, Nate and Daeng had moved in. Nate selected the largest of the temporary basement trenches, and they began by digging sideways under the remaining concrete floor. After that was braced with two-by-four supports, they started digging a grave that would be at a lower level than the new plumbing.

They had been digging only a few minutes when Nate’s phone rang. While he hopped out to take the call, Daeng continued digging.

“Hello?” Daeng heard Nate say. “Oh, hey….Good. Just doing some prep work. Termination’s scheduled for eleven p.m. We should be done and on our way back by morning….What?.…Um, had to improvise a little….Ground and chemical — why?….Excuse me?….Well, I guess. That’s kind of….No, no. It’s okay….I’ll text you the address.”

A few moments later, Nate hopped down into the trench again.

“That was Quinn,” he said. “We’ll have to dig a little deeper.”

Daeng dumped a shovelful of dirt on the pile. “Why?”

“Apparently we’re going to have an extra body.”