The Program

Chapter 43

Linderman’s cell phone rang at 6:00 a.m. It was Moody, calling with an update.

“We started pulling American Eagle’s drivers right after you and I spoke last night,” the sheriff said. “We’re taking them down to headquarters after their shifts end, and interviewing them.”

Fully dressed, Linderman sat on the edge of the bed in his motel room, facing the boxy TV. He’d stayed up all night watching reruns of Flipper and the old Lucille Ball Show. They were mindless enough to stop him from having any more hallucinations.

“Anyone stand out?” the FBI agent asked.

“No, they were all squeaky clean and had air tight alibis. We still have two more shifts of drivers to talk to,” Moody said.

“You’re interviewing the ambulance drivers a shift at a time? Mr. Clean might catch wind of what’s going on, and run.”

“I know that,” the sheriff said testily. “American Eagle runs twenty percent of the ambulances in Broward. We couldn’t pull all of the drivers off the streets without jeopardizing innocent people’s lives. So we’re grabbing the drivers when they finish their shifts. It’s not the way I’d prefer doing this, but I didn’t have any other choice.”

Another setback. Mr. Clean had eluded the law for twenty-five years, and was going to be gone before they got to him. Vick was doomed if he didn’t do something.

“Between you and me, I got a bad feeling about this,” Moody said.

“Why? What did you find?” Linderman asked.

“It’s what we didn’t find. There was no blood in the parking lot at American Eagle, or in Vick’s Audi. We’ve searched the grounds. Nothing.”

“So DuCharme wasn’t killed in the parking lot where you found him.”

“No, sir.”

“Do you think Mr. Clean purposely dumped DuCharme’s body at American Eagle?”

“Yes.”

“So this is all just a smoke screen.”

“Yes, again. But I still have to interview the American Eagle drivers, just to make sure.”

Linderman went to the window of his room and parted the curtain. Outside it was gray with a light mist falling. He could hear the frustration in Moody’s voice. There was no worse feeling than knowing you were being set up, and not being able to do anything about it. “Let me tell you why I’m in Pittsburgh,” he said. “There’s an inmate at Starke Prison who knows a lot about Mr. Clean, but won’t share the information with me. I’m trying to find evidence to nail this guy, and make him talk. I’ll call you if I find anything.”

“Same here. Good luck.”

“You, too.”

Linderman waited until sunrise to drive to the Crutchfield residence. The air was chilly, and reminded him of a fall Virginia morning. He used to live for days like this, rising early to run on the tender paths in the woods near his home, the sound of fallen leaves crackling beneath his running shoes, his breath misting before his face. He often wondered if he would ever return to that life, or would remain stuck in the brutal heat of South Florida, doing penance for sins beyond his comprehension.

The tree blocking the driveway was gone, in its place, a police cruiser. A silver-haired officer stood outside the cruiser, having a look around. Linderman parked behind the cruiser and got out. The officer dropped his hand on his gun like Wyatt Earp.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the officer asked.

“Special Agent Ken Linderman with the FBI.”

The officer reviewed Linderman’s ID with a sheepish look on his face.

“Sorry,” he said. “We got a call from a neighbor last night that there was a person trespassing on the Crutchfield property. They sent me out to have a look around.”

“It sure took you long enough to get here,” Linderman said.

“They don’t pay me to be brave. Was that you?”

Linderman nodded.

“Do you have a warrant to be out here?”

Linderman shook his head.

“It’s probably none of my business, but why were you snooping around?”

“A family was murdered in that house. I know the person who did it. Now I need to find the evidence to prove he did it.”

“Was it Jason?” the officer asked.

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“I went through school with his older sister, Madeline. She talked about Jason. He was a strange one, that’s for sure. You still need a warrant to go on the property.”

“I don’t have the time to get a warrant,” Linderman said. “One of my agents was abducted by one of Jason’s friends. I need to move fast.”

The officer blew out his cheeks. He had red cheeks and a round Irish face, and looked well past retirement age. Either he’d lost his life savings in the stock market and had to keep on working, or he really liked his job. Or maybe it was a little of both.

“My name’s Justin Fitch,” the officer said.

They shook hands. The look in Fitch’s face said he was going to play ball. He watched Fitch walk to the back of his cruiser and unlock the trunk. Taking out a pair of bolt clippers, he cut through the chain holding the gate shut.

“Follow me in your car,” Fitch said.

They parked on the front lawn of the old Victorian house. The swing on the front porch was still moving back and forth, the ghosts occupying it waiting to be set free.

Linderman followed Fitch up the creaky steps to the front door. He prayed that he did not experience any more hallucinations while in the police officer’s company. It was the last thing he needed to have happen right now.

Fitch tested the front door. He placed his shoulder against it, and gave a push. The hinges splintered against his weight, the door swinging in.

“I always figured Jason was up to no good,” Fitch said. “One day during his sophomore year, he came to school and announced that his mother and sisters had moved away to Canada, and left him to fend for himself. It never smelled right.”

“What kind of family were they?”

“Quiet. They mostly kept to themselves.”

They stepped through the front door. The smell hit them like a heavy punch. Dead air, held captive for decades, the rotting essence of life as potent as a toxic cloud. They retreated to the porch and both took deep breaths.

“Sweet mother of God,” Fitch proclaimed.

“We need to open the place, and let it air out,” Linderman said.

“You think there are corpses in there?”

“Could be.”

The porch was wraparound, and they walked around to the back of the house, their feet stepping on warped boards. The back door of the house had a small window, and Fitch punched out the glass with his gun, reached inside, and released the lock.

“You go first,” the officer said.

Covering his face with a hanky, Linderman walked into a large kitchen, and quickly opened the windows that weren’t stuck. The kitchen had a lived-in feel: A stack of moldy dishes filled the sink, the open cupboards lined with cans of food with peeling labels. On the counter beside the sink sat a platter holding the skeletal remains of an animal that resembled a large chicken. He’d killed them during dinner, Linderman thought.

Linderman glanced through the open door onto the porch. Fitch was staying outside. Either the officer didn’t want to come in, or was purposely staying out of the way.

He was starting to gag. He’d read about the long-term effects of breathing bad air. It could cause your lungs to harden, if you weren’t careful.

He didn’t care. He needed to find the dining room, and confirm his suspicions that this was indeed where Crutch had ended his mother and sisters’ lives.

Crossing the kitchen, he pushed open a swinging door with his shoulder, and stuck his head into the next room. It looked like a bomb had gone off inside it. Splintered chairs lay upturned on the floor and several framed paintings had fallen off the walls. There was broken glass everywhere he looked.

He’d found the dining room.

Stepping inside, he let the door shut behind him. The dining room table contained four dusty place settings. A round platter sat in the center of the table that was the right size for a cake. He’d waited until his mother had served dessert, Linderman thought.

He walked around the perimeter of the room, careful not to disturb anything. The walls were filled with gashes and tears. Crutch hadn’t just wanted to kill his family; he’d tried to destroy the room as well. A true rampage.

He halted by a dusty cabinet in the corner. Something was sticking out from beneath. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he knelt down, and carefully pulled the object out. It was a broken baseball bat.

He’d found the murder weapon.

He stood up. An uncontrollable shudder ran through his body. Evil was a strange beast; its presence could be felt long after the animal had left. The dining room was filled with such a presence. Like the spirits outside on the porch, the evil had not left.

He went outside to the back porch and filled his lungs with sweet-tasting air. The mist had turned into a dull, drenching rain that dulled the landscape to the eye. Fitch leaned against the porch railing, holding his hat in his hands.

“Find anything?” Fitch asked.

“Their last meal,” Linderman said.

“That’s a good start.”

“And the murder weapon.”

“Even better. What about the bodies?”

“That’s next.”

Linderman took another deep breath before heading back inside.

Chapter 44

He checked the upstairs first. There were four bedrooms and one shared bathroom with an old-fashioned claw-foot tub. Each bedroom occupied a different corner of the upstairs, with its own distinct view of the grounds. They shared the same decorating scheme, with wallpaper and furniture coverings straight out of a Laura Ashley catalogue. Each room also contained a four-poster bed and matching antique furniture.

He was mildly surprised. He’d half-expected to find the bodies of Crutch’s mother and three sisters lying in their beds with their heads bashed in. He’d seen that before with serial killers, a desire to take the victims and return them to some normal setting, as it to separate them from the horrible violence which ended their time on this earth.

He also checked each of the room’s walk-in closets to make sure the bodies were not hanging from a hook, or the ceiling. He’d seen that as well.

Walking downstairs, he realized that he’d not seen a boy’s bedroom, and found himself wondering where Crutch had slept.

The air had cleared enough to breath freely. He checked the den, living room and a small sitting area, but did not find the bodies. The rooms were coated with a thick veil of dust but still remarkably intact, the destruction contained to the dining room.

The house had to have a basement. In the kitchen he found a door that led down a darkened flight of stairs. Rifling the kitchen drawers, he removed a pack of matches and a box of birthday candles. He lit one of the candles, and headed downstairs.

A mad scrambling of tiny feet heralded his approach. Rats. Stopping at the bottom, he did a slow three-sixty, and took in his surroundings. The space beneath the house was dank and low-ceilinged. On one wall, a washer and dryer. On the opposite wall, a work area with an assortment of hanging tools, and a shelving unit lined with coffee cans containing rusted nails of varying sizes. Beside the washing machine was a door. The words NO ENTRY – THIS MEANS YOU! was printed across the door in white letters, the handwriting child-like. He’d found Crutch’s bedroom.

He tested the door and found it locked. He tried kicking it down and got nowhere. He checked the work area for an appropriate tool. The best he could find was a small axe. The candle in his hand had burned down. He used it to light another, then went to work on the door. The wood was old, and fought him every step of the way.

“Hey, is that you?” Fitch called from the top of the stairs.

“Yes,” Linderman replied, breathing heavily.

“You find something?”

“I think so.”

“I called a judge I know, and told him I had reason to believe there had been a murder on this property. He’s issuing a search warrant right now.”

Fitch had just saved him a lot of trouble and headaches.

“Thank you,” he called up the stairs.

“No problem. Let me know if I can do anything,” the officer replied.

“Do you have a flashlight handy?”

“In my car. You want me to get it?”

“Please.”

Soon Fitch came down the stairs shining a megawatt flashlight. He directed the flashlight’s beam at the door without having to be told.

“You looked kind of funny holding that little candle,” Fitch remarked.

Linderman smiled grimly. It had occurred to him that he was about to witness something that no profiler within the FBI had ever seen before – the lair of a serial killer as a young boy. Serial killers dark fantasies started at a tender age, and became more violent and disturbing as they grew older and matured. Now, he was going to see the things which had affected young Jason Crutchfield, and led him to kill his family. Had Rachel Vick’s life not hung in the balance, he would have been giddy with excitement.

Finally the door gave way, and he laid it across the washing machine.

“You want to go first?” Fitch asked.

“Please,” Linderman replied.

Fitch handed Linderman the flashlight.

“Be my guest,” the officer said.

The room was not what Linderman had expected. Meticulously neat and tidy, there were no visible signs of a diseased mind. The bed was made, the floor free of trash. The shelves were lined with teenage bric-a-brac, including stacks of baseball cards and a pair of ping pong paddles. The room also had many comforts, including a stereo system, a portable TV set with rabbit ears that sat on an upturned crate, and a small fridge.

“You see the bodies?” Fitch asked, standing in the doorway.

“They don’t appear to be here,” Linderman replied.

“Crap – there’s my phone. Let me take this.”

“Go ahead.”

Fitch went upstairs to take the call.

The closet came next. It was a small space with stone walls. A half dozen denim shirts and several pairs of stone-washed blue jeans hung from a metal pole. There was one navy sports jacket and gray flannel pair of pants that looked like church clothes. It was all terribly normal, with no signs of problems.

Something wasn’t right here. Crutch hadn’t gone from a normal teenage kid to a serial killer overnight. It had happened over time, the pressure building slowly, until one day he’d erupted like a volcano, and all the anger inside had spilled out.

He rechecked the bedroom. Jammed in the corner was a desk with a stack of school books. Each book had a paper book cover designed to protect it from use. Written on the cover of the top book were the words SOCIAL STUDIES.

Linderman opened the book to a random page, and found himself staring at a page with the words The Nine Satanic Statements written across the top. He shut the book, and removed the cover. The Satanic Bible by Anton Szandor Lavey. Crutch had been reading about devil worship when he was supposed to be studying history.

He removed the paper covers from the rest of the stack, and checked the spines. Each was a book on Satanism and occult worship.

He put the books back into the stack the way he’d found them. The room would need to be photographed by a CSI exactly as he’d discovered it.

A book bag lay beneath the desk. It was black and had escaped his attention. He pulled the bag out and opened it. It was filled with spiral notebooks, the words SOCIAL STUDIES, ENGLISH LIT, MATH, SCIENCE written on the covers.

Crutch’s school notes.

Diaries and personal writings said more about a person’s mind state of mind than anything else. He was finally going to get to the root of what had driven Crutch over the edge. He started with the notebook that said ENGLISH LIT.

The first twenty pages were notes about the novels of Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck. Then the notes stopped, replaced by drawings of a crouching, devilish figure with pointed ears holding a sword dripping with bright red blood. Every remaining page of the notebook contained the same drawing.

The other notebooks were identical. After about twenty pages, the school notes ended, and were replaced by the devilish figure.

The notebooks went back into the bag. He placed the bag on the bed so the CSI team wouldn’t miss it. Behind the bed was a black wall with a peculiar shadow. He leaned in for a closer look.

Not a shadow, but a drawing. The same devilish figure, only much larger, almost human size. It’s texture looked odd, and he ran his finger across the outline.

It had been burned into the wall.

He heard a noise and spun around. His flashlight’s beam captured the man standing on the other side of the bedroom. It was young Crutch, holding a baseball bat.

It felt like a dream, and maybe it was, Linderman running up the basement stairs after Crutch, knowing he couldn’t change what was about to happen, but still wanting to try. Thinking perhaps that it would still lead to saving Vick, not knowing why.

He froze in the doorway to the dining room. Crutch’s mother and three sisters sat at the dining room table, chatting amicably while enjoying dinner. Crutch stood at the head of the table, yielding the bat, screaming like a banshee.

Linderman blinked, and everything changed.

The four women lay dead on the floor in their own blood. Crutch was bashing the furniture and the walls with the bat, gnashing his teeth like a lunatic. He somehow looked bigger and more menacing than he really was, the veins on his neck bulging like a weight lifter.

Linderman blinked again.

The dining room was now empty, the dead women gone. Linderman went to the window and stared out onto the front lawn. Crutch was dragging his mother’s lifeless body across the grass by the armpits. Taking her away to be buried.

He ran outside the house and down the creaky steps. He had to see where Crutch was taking his mother’s body. That was why he had come here. To find the bodies.

Halfway to the barn, he stopped running. Crutch and his mother had disappeared in the downpour.

“Hey, are you okay?” Fitch called out.

Linderman stopped and turned around. Fitch stood on the porch with a worried look on his face.

“Do you have cadaver dogs?” the FBI agent asked.

“The department’s got two good ones.”

“Get them.”

Chapter 45

“Wake up. Breakfast time.”

Wayne Ladd’s eyelids snapped open. Renaldo stood in the open doorway, wearing his trademark gym shorts and no shirt, his upper torso glistening from his workout. His eyes were smiling, and he almost looked happy.

“What’s on the menu?” Wayne asked.

“Scrambled eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast. I squeezed some fresh orange juice, too. I also bought some strawberry preserves.”

Wayne heard his stomach growl. Despite everything that had happened, he had not lost his appetite. The meals Renaldo were cooking for him were delicious, and gave Wayne something to look forward to, his day a mindless repetition of watching sick porno movies and listening to loud music.

Wayne tossed back the sheet and threw his legs over the side of the bed. The room where Renaldo made him sleep was no bigger than a closet and without windows. Like a prison cell, only worse, his lack of contact with anyone but Renaldo driving him crazy. A naked lightbulb dangled from the ceiling, and could only be turned on from the hall.

Renaldo sniffed the air. “The toast is burning.”

“Better not burn the house down,” Wayne joked.

“Put some clothes on and join me.”

Renaldo pushed himself off the doorframe and walked away. Wayne sat motionless for several seconds, expecting his captor to come back and padlock the door, just like he had every time when Wayne was by himself.

Only Renaldo didn’t come back and shut the door. Wayne nearly pinched himself. Was he dreaming? It felt way too normal – being woken up, the smell of breakfast, the way Renaldo had addressed him. Like his old man used to do before he died.

Wayne got up and started to get dressed. He looked for his clothes, which he threw onto a chair each night before going to sleep. They were gone. In their place was a brand-new pair of chinos and a navy polo shirt that still had the tags on them. He unfolded the clothes and held them up for inspection.

“Oh, wow,” he said.

It had been a long time since he’d worn new clothes. Most of his wardrobe were hand-me-downs from his brother. Not that he’d ever complained, but wearing his dead brother’s clothes had started to be a drag. He needed to become his own man.

He tore off the tags. Renaldo had paid full-price for the threads. It made him want to like the guy, only he couldn’t get the head in the refrigerator out of his mind.

“You coming?” Renaldo called from the other side of the house.

“Just getting dressed. I’ll be there in a second.”

Wayne slipped on the clothes. They fit. He wasn’t supposed to feel happy – he was a prisoner – yet he couldn’t help but smile. The clothes were way cool.

Wayne walked down the hall to the kitchen, smelling breakfast. In the kitchen he found Renaldo standing at the stove, doling out the food onto a pair of plastic plates. His captor nodded approvingly as Wayne entered.

“The clothes look good on you,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have,” Wayne said.

The remark drew a blank stare. The humor was lost on him.

“Where did you get them?” Wayne asked.

“The men’s shop at Dillard’s. They have nice things.” Renaldo handed Wayne a steaming plate and a tall glass filled with orange juice. “Have a seat at the table. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Wayne moved into the adjacent dining area, which consisted of a round table with four high back chairs. A blond-haired woman sat at the head of the table, facing him. Small and pretty, she was securely bound to the chair, and had a wild, helpless look. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, only a gag ball prevented the words from coming out.

Wayne gasped. “Who’s that?”

“Your new girlfriend,” Renaldo said.

Wayne’s plate hit the table with a soft thud. He took the chair next to the captive woman, and tried not to make eye contact. He wanted to help her, but had no idea how to accomplish that. She was in just as bad a situation as he was. Probably worse.

No longer hungry, he moved his food around the plate. The silverware was made of transparent plastic. Renaldo still didn’t trust him with anything sharp. He was still being tested, and needed to watch everything he said and did.

Renaldo sat down so he faced the woman, and started to eat. A mountain of scrambled eggs filled his plate along with a towering stack of bacon. He washed down a mouthful of food with orange juice and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Who is she?” Wayne asked.

“Her name is Rachel,” Renaldo said. “I met her last night. I thought she was very pretty. She reminded me of an actress in the movies. I couldn’t remember her name.”

Wayne lifted his eyes to stare at Vick. She did have a face out of the movies. Not just pretty, but genuine. In a small way, she reminded him of his girlfriend Amber.

“Reese Witherspoon,” Wayne said.

Renaldo slapped his hand on the table. “That’s the one. She was in the movie with the little dog. They could be sisters, yes?”

Wayne nodded woodenly. He saw tears well in the corners of Vick’s eyes. She had to know she was fucked.

“Yes,” the teenager said.

“Have you tried the OJ? I squeezed it myself. It’s very good.”

Wayne lifted his glass of orange juice and took a long swallow. It was a strange combination of sweet and tangy. His heart was pounding against his rib cage, his mind racing. He had to help this poor woman, only he didn’t know how.

“How did you meet her?” he asked.

“She was looking for me,” Renaldo replied.

“What do you mean? Is she a cop?”

“FBI agent. She and her partner thought they could capture me, only I turned the tables on them. It’s too bad you weren’t there.”

Wayne drained his glass. The drink was having a strange effect on him. He no longer felt scared or intimidated by the situation. If anything, he felt empowered, and ready to take on the world. It was a wonderful feeling, and he heard himself laugh.

“Is something wrong?” Renaldo asked.

“I just think it’s funny that you put a gag ball in her mouth,” Wayne said. “What are you afraid of – her talking you to death?”

Renaldo roared with laughter. “Very good!”

“Why don’t we untie her, and let her run around the house. Then we can try and catch her. It would be fun.”

“You mean like a game,” his captor said.

“Yeah. First one to catch her wins a prize.”

“What would it be?”

“I don’t know – you still got the head in the fridge?”

Renaldo let out another roar. “Very good, but I have a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

Renaldo went to the kitchen, and returned with a plastic pitcher of OJ. He came around the table so he was behind Vick, and with his free hand, removed the tie holding the gag ball in her mouth. Vick spit the ball onto the table and glanced fearfully at Wayne.

“Open your mouth,” Renaldo said.

Vick shook her head defiantly. Renaldo grabbed her by the back of her hair, and jerked her head back. He brought the pitcher directly over her face.

“Do it, or I will break your neck,” Renaldo said.

Vick parted her lips. Renaldo poured the OJ in a long stream into her mouth, then grabbed her jaw and forced her mouth shut.

“Swallow it,” he commanded.

Vick gulped the liquid down while twisting violently in her chair. Renaldo released his grip on her, and returned to his chair. He resumed eating his breakfast.

“What did you just give her?” Wayne asked.

“The drink is spiked with drugs and vodka,” Renaldo said. “She’ll be out soon.”

“Was that in my drink, too?”

Renaldo nodded. Wayne tried to protest, but the words wouldn’t come out. His tongue had grown thick and the room was spinning. He was going to pass out, and he had the foresight to move his plate before resting his head on the table.

Chapter 46

Linderman had to wait for the cadaver dogs.

The dogs were on the other side of the county with their police handler, trying to find an Alzheimer’s patient who’d slipped out of a nursing home and ambled off into the woods. Wearing a bathrobe and slippers, it was assumed the patient had crawled into a cave or a hole when it had grown cold, and died from exposure. Now his body needed to be found and put to rest.

Linderman had still asked the trainers to hurry. He was running out of time.

He stood on the front porch with Fitch and watched the never-ending rain. Fitch had a habit of taking off his hat whenever he was standing still. It added gravity to his words, even though he rarely spoke.

“I know it’s none of my business, but would you tell me what happened down in the basement earlier?” Fitch asked.

“I saw Jason Crutchfield,” Linderman said.

Fitch did a double-take. “You mean a ghost?”

“I don’t know what it was, but I saw him.”

“That’s downright spooky.”

Linderman thought he heard a noise and shifted his attention to the road. Being an FBI agent had a lot of pluses. For one thing, people rarely questioned his sanity, even at times when it probably should have been questioned.

“Were you aware that Jason was involved with Satanic worship?” Linderman asked when he realized it wasn’t a car.

“That’s news to me. How did you find that out?”

“There’s evidence of it in his bedroom. He quotes the laws from the Satanic Bible in his notebooks. There was also a creepy cartoon character he drew over and over. It’s burned into the wall of his room by his desk.”

“Burned? Are you sure?”

That was a good question. Linderman wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t real anymore, the two sides of his brain melding into one, the hallucinations blending into what was absolute and concrete. He said, “Maybe I need to look again.”

They entered the house and headed downstairs to the basement. Linderman wondered how long Crutch had lived in this black hole as a boy. A year? Two? Had he been banished here for a reason? Or had his mother and three sisters just wanted him out of the way, their lives inconvenienced by the presence of an adolescent boy?

They entered Crutch’s bedroom. Holding Fitch’s flashlight, Linderman pointed the beam at the wall behind the desk, and the menacing character with pointed ears materialized before their eyes. Fitch ran his fingertip across it.

“You’re right – it’s burned into the concrete.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“No, sir.”

Linderman took one of the spiral notebooks off the desk, and headed upstairs. Stopping in the kitchen, he flipped the notebook open to the middle. Both pages were consumed with drawings of the same character burned into the wall. He photographed the character with his cell phone, and emailed the image to FBI headquarters with the request that the analysts in D.C. run it through the bureau’s image data bank.

The FBI had many unique data bases for catching criminals. There were data bases for DNA samples, fingerprints, facial recognition, known aliases, and reoccurring images in violent crimes. Linderman was hoping that the image he’d found in Crutch’s room had appeared in other crimes, and might lead him to understand its significance.

Five minutes later, he had his answer.

The image was the symbol for the Pagan Motorcycle Gang, and was of a mythical figure Surtr, or “the black one.” That was all the information the bureau had.

He called Vaughn Wood in Jacksonville. The Pagans were one of the motorcycle gangs that Wood had run with during his Little Jesus days. Linderman hoped Wood could shed more light on the image’s significance.

“You back in South Florida?” Wood asked by way of greeting.

“I’m in Pittsburgh. You heard about Vick.”

“Saw it on the news this morning. I thought I was going to puke. Are you having any luck finding her?”

“I’m chasing down a lead right now. I need for you to tell me about the Pagan Motorcycle gang’s association with Surtr, the black one.”

“That’s an odd request.”

“I’m at Crutch’s family home. There’s an image of Surtr burned into the wall in Crutch’s bedroom, and Crutch’s highschool notebooks are filled with drawings of him as well.”

“Well, that explains a lot of things.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that Crutch went over to the dark side a long time ago. Surtr is an evil god from Norse mythology. He looks small, yet can spring up at any time, and become a jotunn, or a giant. According to mythology, at the end of the world Surtr will wage war and defeat all the gods and burn the world with fire.”

“So he’s a killer.”

“An evil killer, without pity for human life. He’s also a cannibal and a vampire. The Pagans worshiped Surtr and considered him the embodiment of everything they stood for. Part of joining the club was swearing your allegiance to him.”

“So Crutch is possessed by Surtr.”

“I wouldn’t use the word possessed.”

“Why not?”

“I have to go back to my experience with the Pagans. Those boys were evil because they wanted to be. They wanted to hurt and kill people.”

“So they were evil before they found Surtr.”

“That’s right. I did a lot of soul-searching when I ran with the Pagans. I came to realize that good and evil are impulses buried within a person’s soul. You can choose to be good, or choose to be evil. It’s a free choice.”

Impulses. The word made Linderman think back to his meeting with Crutch in the chaplain’s study. He had wanted to kill Crutch for the things he’d said about Danni, and that impulse had tripped him over to the dark side. It had let him think evil thoughts, while also seeing a dark side to himself which he hadn’t known existed. There was no way to explain the things which had happened to him.

But there was an escape. He would stop thinking about revenge and retribution, and go back to the man he’d always been. He was not a killer, nor was he an avenging angel. He was an FBI agent, and had sworn to carry out the law. That man.

“This has been very helpful,” Linderman said.

“Glad I could help,” Wood replied.

The back door opened, and Fitch stepped into the kitchen.

“The cadaver dogs are here,” Fitch said.

Chapter 47

Linderman ended the call and followed Fitch outside. A long bed silver pickup was parked in the yard. In the back of the truck were a pair of dog crates containing two eager German Shepherds. Beside the truck stood a barrel-chested, shaven-headed African-American man dressed in battle fatigues. In his hand were a pair of long leashes.

Fitch made the introductions. The handler’s name was Raheem Gleason, only everyone called him Doc. The dogs names were Tuffy and Bones.

“Did you find the elderly man you were looking for?” Linderman asked.

“Sure did. My dogs are the best,” Doc replied.

“Was he dead?”

“Naw, he was still kicking. So, how many bodies are we looking for?”

“Four,” Linderman said.

Doc scowled. “Who the hell is going to dig “em up?”

Fitch fidgeted uncomfortably. Linderman had assumed that the officer had called the Oakmont Police Department and asked for an excavation team to come out after he’d requested the cadaver dogs. That was the order of go when searching for corpses. Fitch pulled out his cell phone, and walked out of earshot.

“Dumb ass cops,” Doc muttered under his breath. He opened the crates and leashed his dogs. His personality changed as they jumped to the ground and glued themselves to his legs. Like a proud father showing off his offspring.

“I always wondered when I’d get a call to come out to this place,” Doc said.

“Why’s that?” Linderman asked.

“Jason Crutchfield was warped. One time in highschool he offered to write a term paper for me if I’d let him tie me up to a chair. I said no thanks.”

“Smart move.”

“You have any idea where the bodies are?”

“All we know is that they’re somewhere on the property.”

Doc walked around to the side of his pickup and opened the door. He returned holding a handful of white flags similar to the ones used by the power company to mark the location of underground wires. He handed the flags to Linderman.

“What are these for?” the FBI agent asked.

“This place used to have lots of animals living on it. Horses, dogs, even a couple of cows, if I remember right,” Doc explained. “More than likely the family buried them on the grounds when they died. My dogs will pick up those scents as well, and we’ll have to mark them for the excavation team.”

Linderman blew out his cheeks. He’d searched for bodies before, and knew how frustrating the process could be. This was a new wrinkle, and would be time-consuming.

Time was the one thing he didn’t have much of, and he asked Doc if there was any way they could speed up the process.

“Sure there is,” the handler said. “Make an educated guess as to where you think Crutch buried the bodies after he killed them. We’ll start there first.”

It sounded like a smart idea. Linderman walked around the house to the front lawn, and stood with his back to the house while gazing into the yard. It was still raining hard, the drops bouncing off the harder surfaces like tiny projectiles. His eyes fell on the pasture beside the barn. Surrounded by rotting three-board fencing, it looked to be about two acres in size. It felt right, and he pointed.

“Let’s start there,” he said.

“I’m game,” Doc said.

Tuffy and Bones didn’t waste any time. Within a few moments of hitting the pasture, they found a spot and began to paw violently at the ground.

“Flag it,” Doc said.

Linderman stuck a flag into the spot. The grass was knee-high and soaking wet. No sooner had he brushed off his hands when the dogs had found another spot a few feet away.

“Flag it,” Doc said.

Linderman did as told.

“Here’s another,” Doc said.

Within five minutes, he’d run out of flags, and the pasture resembled a mine field. He asked if there were any more inside the pickup truck.

“They’re behind the driver’s side,” Doc said. “This isn’t normal, you know.”

“Not even for a farm?” Linderman asked.

“I’ve searched for bodies on plenty of farms. I’ve never seen anything like this. You’ve thrown thirty flags, and we haven’t done half the damn pasture.”

“What do you think it is?”

“It’s a god damn cemetery, is what it is,” Doc said.

Linderman trudged out of the pasture toward the house. There was not enough time to dig up whatever was buried out there. He met Fitch halfway.

“The excavation team is on their way,” Fitch said.

“We’re going to need them,” Linderman said. “We’ve found over thirty graves and aren’t close to being done. I need you to do some digging, and see if there were a rash of unsolved crimes back when Crutch lived here.”

“You mean homicides?” Fitch asked.

Linderman shook his head. The graves in the pasture were not human – the police would have been all over those crimes by now – nor did he think they contained the remains of other humans whose graves might have been robbed, since that kind of crime was also vigorously pursued by the law. That left only one thing, and it played in perfectly with what he knew about Crutch’s twisted adolescence.

“Missing pets,” he said.

The six-member excavation team arrived around the time Linderman had run out of flags. Each member wore a black plastic Tyvek suit that tied around their necks, goggles, a surgical mask, and latex gloves. Their two vans were filled with equipment, including shovels, sifters, and a ground-penetrating radar machine, or GPR, that would let them see what was lying beneath the earth before having to dig it up.

Linderman stood by the rotting fence with Doc. He was soaked to the bone and his back was aching from bending over. Tuffy and Bones had rubbed their paws bloody and were lying at their feet.

“I wish they paid me by the flag,” Doc said.

The excavation team wheeled the GPR around the pasture. The machine was the size of a vacuum cleaner and about as nimble to move around. Linderman guessed the team would try to find the largest set of remains first, in the hopes it was a body. His hunch was proven right when they halted at one of the flags, and he heard a member call out, “We got a big one.” The area around the flag was sectioned off with string, and a plastic sheet was placed on the ground for the remains. Then the team started to dig.

The grave was shallow. Soon bones started to come out. Linderman walked over to see what they’d found. He’d pinned his badge to his jacket and did not bother to introduce himself. He was too damn tired to speak.

The captain of the team said hello. Tired and wet, and the job had only started. He pointed at the collection of bones lying on the sheet.

“Looks like a big dog. Fitch told me you were in a rush.”

Linderman grunted in the affirmative.

“I hate to tell you this, but we won’t stop once we have all the bones,” the captain said. “We’ll have to keep digging to make sure there isn’t a body buried down further. It’s a common trick – killers like to cover their victims with an animal corpse.”

“How far down?” Linderman asked.

“At least a few more feet.”

Linderman glanced at the army of flags sticking out of the ground. This could take forever, and even then, there was no guarantee that he’d find what he was looking for. His shoulders sagged as the last of his strength ebbed from his body.

“Are there any more excavation teams who could help us?” he asked.

“There’s one in the next county, but they’re on a job. I’m sorry.”

Linderman walked out of the pasture, knowing it was over. He couldn’t rush the process, nor did he have any more options at his disposal. He had tried and he had failed, no different that his efforts to find Danni.

He ducked into the barn. He wanted to get out of the rain, and be alone. He found a stool and sat down in the center aisle, staring into space.

Fitch appeared, soaked to the bone.

“I was looking for you,” Fitch said.

“You found me,” Linderman said.

“Is there anything else I can do? Anything at all?”

“I wish there was.”

Fitch pulled out a pack of cigarettes. They were all wet. He tried to light one up but could not get it going. In disgust he tossed it away.

“They don’t pay us to be heroes,” the officer said.

“Yes, they do,” Linderman said.

Chapter 48

Vick did not want to die.

That should have been obvious, only Vick knew that it wasn’t. Many women abducted by serial killers chose to die before their ordeals were over. They provoked their captors into killing them, not wanting to be raped, beaten up, or subjected to endless torture or humiliation.

Vick was not one of those women.

She wanted to live, even if damaged. There was too much left to see in the world, too many things left to do. She was too young, as corny as that sounded.

Living was winning.

She’d read that in the newspaper. She thought Elizabeth Smart had said it. Smart had endured being tethered to a tree in a Utah forest while a crazy man raped her multiple times a day while his equally crazy wife watched. Now, Smart was a free woman and attending college, while her captors were confined to mental institutions.

Living was winning.

Naked, Vick hung by her wrist’s from a hook in the ceiling inside a small bedroom. Incense was burning and a pulsating rap song was playing on a hidden stereo system that sounded like Kanye West. In the corner, Wayne lay passed out on a water bed. Mr. Clean sat next to Wayne, shaking the teenager’s shoulder.

“Wayne, wake up,” Mr. Clean said.

“Let me sleep,” Wayne mumbled.

“You can sleep later.”

“No, now.”

“Suit yourself, my friend.”

Mr. Clean stood up and flexed his muscles. His olive-colored skin was smooth and pretty to look at. He could have had all the woman he’d wanted, had he been a normal guy. But normal was not part of the program. The sound of his knife tearing her clothes had snapped Vick awake a few minutes before. As her clothes had fallen, Mr. Clean had kissed her nipples while staring into her eyes.

“Suck them harder,” Vick had told him.

Mr. Clean had liked that, and so he had.

Vick was a survivor. She would somehow live to tell about this, even if it meant doing things that had seemed out of the question only a few hours ago.

Living was winning.

“Are you ready to fuck me?” Mr. Clean now asked.

“Oh, yes,” Vick said.

Mr. Clean dropped his gym shorts. He had nothing on underneath. He stroked himself while staring at her. It didn’t take long before he was ready.

She forced herself to smile. She had to forge a bond with him, and get him to like her. It would numb his desire to kill her, and buy her precious time.

He untied her wrists while poking her with his erection. It was something that a kid having sex for the first time might do. Vick lowered her arms and rubbed her palms together to get the life back.

“Go lie down on the bed,” Mr. Clean said.

“What about the boy?” Vick asked.

“I’ll move him.”

Vick leaned into Mr. Clean and kissed him on the mouth. His eyelids fluttered almost imperceptibly. Suddenly, he pushed her away.

“On the bed – now,” he demanded.

Vick lay down on the bed and felt the water swish beneath her. Mr. Clean grabbed Wayne by the legs and gently pulled him off the bed until the teenager was lying on the floor, still passed out. Mr. Clean climbed onto the bed and straddled her.

“Are you ready for me?” he asked.

Vick nodded. Faking it had never been her strong suit, but she was going to try like hell to make him happy. It was the only thing she could think of. He caressed her face with the side of his hand. His fingers touched one of her ear rings.

“I want these,” he said.

Vick swallowed hard. The ear rings had been her mother’s. Rarely did she take them off, their presence a constant reminder of a woman she barely knew. She unscrewed the backs, and gave them to him.

Mr. Clean got off the bed, and removed a glass jar from the night table. The jar was filled with women’s jewelry. His trophy jar, she guessed. He dropped the ear rings into it.

“Hey – what’s going on?”

Wayne had pulled himself off the floor, and stood on wobbly legs. The drugs had done a number on him, and he looked messed up. His eyes danced as he looked down at Vick lying naked on the bed.

“You going to screw her?” the teenager asked.

Mr. Clean grabbed his erection and waved it in front of the boy’s eyes.

“Yes!” he said gleefully.

“I thought she was my girlfriend,” the teenager said.

Mr. Clean frowned, not sure what to make of this statement.

“She is,” Mr. Clean said. “But I get to do her first.”

“I don’t want sloppy seconds,” the teenager said.

“But…”

“You said she was mine. That means I get to do her. Doesn’t it?”

Mr. Clean visibly deflated. His erection went away, and his eyes fell to the floor. Vick wondered how many people had ever spoken to him like that. Probably not many. Yet Wayne had gotten away with it. He had control over his captor.

Wayne took off his clothes and climbed onto the bed. He was already aroused. He had a teenager’s body, with a flat stomach and small, hard biceps. A few strands of hair were growing on his chest, in their center, a small mole shaped like a heart. She did not believe in signs, yet for some reason, the mole gave her hope that she might get out of this alive. As he lowered himself on top of her, she let her lips brush gently against it.

“You going to fight me?” Wayne asked, his voice suddenly harsh.

Vick shook her head.

“I didn’t hear you,” the teenager said.

Vick tensed up. Wayne sounded as threatening as Mr. Clean. She stared into his eyes and saw a dark, simmering expression that had not been there before.

“No,” she whispered.

“Good. Now spread your legs.”

“Please be gentle.”

“Do it,” he said, raising his voice.

Anything was better than being raped by a serial killer, she thought.

She let Wayne enter her, then wrapped her arms around him. She quickly got into his rhythm, her hips moving in sync to his body’s thrusts. It was pleasurable, and she let her lips brush against his soft chin.

The bedroom door clicked shut. Vick lifted her head. Mr. Clean was gone. It was the opportunity she’d been praying for, and she grabbed Wayne’s head with both her hands, and pulled his head down close to hers.

“What are you doing?” the teenager said.

“I talked to Amber,” Vick whispered.

Anger flashed through his eyes. “Shut up!” he said.

“She told me everything.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know about Adam…”

“I said, shut up!”

“… and the bayonet.”

Wayne slapped her in the face, snapping her head to one side. Vick’s head fell back on the bed, and she tasted the warm blood in her mouth. She was too late. Mr. Clean had already changed him.

“Don’t open your mouth again,” Wayne said.

Shutting her eyes, Vick prayed that he would finish quickly.

Chapter 49

The lightning was the final straw.

It lit up the gray sky and shook the property with a crash of thunder. The excavation team scrambled to the safety of their vans, while Doc threw Tuffy and Bones into the pack of his pickup, the animals cowering in fear. The search was on hold until further notice.

Linderman stood inside the barn, cursing. He should have quit right then, and caught the next plane to South Florida. If nothing else, he could help the police hunt for Vick, and perhaps pick up a trail which they’d missed.

But something told him to stay here, and give this a final shot. The bodies of Crutch’s mother and three sisters were somewhere in that pasture.

He walked over to Doc’s pickup and tapped on the window with his wedding ring. The window came down, Doc sitting at the wheel with Tuffy in his lap.

“What would you do in my situation?” Linderman asked.

“If at first you don’t succeed, ask for help,” Doc replied.

“Any suggestions?”

Doc took his wallet off the seat, removed a worn business card.

“These guys are good,” Doc said.

The card was for NecroSearch, a non-profit organization out of Colorado that specialized in finding clandestine grave sites, its members a Who’s Who of criminologists and scientists. The company logo was a human skeleton inside a coffin-shaped box.

“I’ll give it a try,” Linderman said.

He called from the barn. The company founder, Dr. Max Hellinger, answered the phone. Pavarotti’s rendition of Nessun Dorma was playing in the background, the sad lyrics mixing perfectly with the downpour. Linderman identified himself, and told the good doctor the problem he was facing.

“Let me be sure I understand your situation,” Hellinger said. “You have a pasture filled with graves, and you need to quickly determine which graves contain those of a woman and her three daughters.”

“Correct,” Linderman said.

“An interesting dilemma. The first thing I would need would be a profile of the killer. What can you tell me about him?”

“Our killer was a teenage boy named Jason Crutchfield. He was seventeen at the time of the killings. Physically, he’s rather small, and slight of build. He bludgeoned his family to death in the dining room, and dragged their bodies outside to bury them.”

“This pasture with the graves – how far is it from the house?”

“Approximately two hundred yards.”

“Are you standing in it now?”

“No, I’m standing in a horse barn next to the pasture. It’s raining heavily.”

Hellinger paused to digest the information. “The act you just described would take a great deal of physical exertion. Your suspect had to drag four bodies a good distance, then bury them. He would have been high on adrenalin from the killings, but that would have worn off. You can rest assured that he ran out of strength at some point, and dug shallow graves.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“Absolutely. Digging a hole is hard work.”

“How shallow would the graves be?” Linderman asked.

“Depending upon the consistency of the earth, I’d say between eighteen inches and two feet down,” Hellinger said. “That’s usually the norm.”

Linderman found himself nodding. It was going to be easier than he’d thought. The shallow graves in the pasture would be human, the deeper graves of animals.

“Would you mind holding the line?” Linderman asked.

“Not at all.”

He hustled across the yard to the vans. A window lowered to reveal the team’s captain eating a thick ham and Swiss sandwich.

“What’s up?” the captain said.

“I’ve got a question,” Linderman said. “How many shallow graves did you find when you scanned the pasture with the GPR machine?”

“Define shallow,” the captain replied.

“A foot and a half to two feet deep.”

“None,” the captain said.

The answer stunned Linderman, and a sickening feeling came over him. Had they just spent the past few hours looking in the wrong place?

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” the captain said. “Rule one of looking for a body – check the shallow graves first. Most killers don’t dig very deep. It’s too damn tiring.”

His words confirmed what Hellinger had just told him. Linderman slapped his palm on the hood of the van and hurried back to the barn. Standing beneath the eave, he removed his cell phone and said, “You still there doctor?”

“I’m here,” Hellinger replied cheerfully.

“We’ve been looking in the wrong place.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Finding graves on farms or large tracts of land can be challenging.”

“What would you suggest doing?”

“I would try another approach. How long ago did these killings take place?”

“Twenty-five years ago.”

“That’s a long time. Animals often dig up graves, and relocate bones and articles of clothing to their nests. Birds are particularly fond of doing this. I would suggest you climb into the trees and check the birds nests. If you find a scrap of clothing or a bone, you’ll know that the grave isn’t far away.”

“You want me to check birds nests,” Linderman said.

“Yes – is that a problem?”

“We’re having a bad storm.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t’ know what else to tell you.”

Climbing into trees during a thunder storm was a risky proposition, but Linderman didn’t see that he had any other choice. Either he found the bodies, or he went back home empty-handed. He thanked Hellinger for his help and ended the call.

A quick search of the barn turned up not one, but two ladders, both of which were stored above the feed room, just out of reach. He convinced Doc to pull his pickup into the barn, and was able to pull the ladders down by standing inside the bed.

“What are you planning to do with them?” Doc asked.

“I’m going to look for birds nests,” the FBI agent replied.

“Why?”

“Because they might contain clues.”

“During a lightning storm?”

“That’s right.”

“With those? You’re crazy, my friend.”

The ladders were not in the best of shape. The first was made of old wood and had several loose rungs; the second of creaky aluminum, a perfect lightening rod. Would he rather die from a fall, or from two hundred thousand volts passing through his body? Choosing the latter, he hoisted the aluminum ladder onto his shoulder.

“At least wait until the storm passes,” Doc suggested.

“There’s no time.”

Linderman started to walk out of the barn. A blinding white flash accompanied by an ear-splitting crash of lightning halted his progress, and he retreated inside.

“That was close,” Doc said.

“You’re not making this any easier,” Linderman said testily.

“Can I make another suggestion? Why don’t you take a look inside the barn first? There are plenty of birds living year-round in here.”

Doc pointed straight up. Linderman craned his neck. In the dusty rafters above their heads were three large bird nests. The nests were round and heart-shaped, so perfectly constructed that they looked like works of art.

“Give me a hand,” Linderman said.

Extending the ladder, Linderman positioned it against the rafter containing the largest nest. With Doc holding him steady, he climbed up.

He poked the nest with his finger. Empty. He took another step and peeked inside. The nest was made of twigs and colorful scraps of paper. Convinced he’d found something, he pulled the nest apart. But in the end, it was nothing but garbage pulled from the trash, and his spirits crashed.

“Heads up. We’ve got company,” Doc said.

A crow was flying around the bar with a wiggling worm in its mouth. Linderman followed its ascent with his eyes, and saw the crow land on a nearby rafter, and shake itself dry. Done, it jumped into a nest where it was greeted by its chattering offspring. The walls of the nest were multi-colored, filled with tiny pieces of cloth and fabric.

Linderman leaned in, staring.

“Be careful, you’re going to fall,” Doc called out.

Linderman couldn’t help himself, and reached out to touch the nest. The fabric was sparkling with color. The graves were nearby, and he took a moment to look around the barn from his new vantage point. It contained four stalls.

“Let your dogs out of the truck,” Linderman said.

“What about the storm?” Doc asked.

“They’re in here.”

Chapter 50

It was time to get Wayne high.

Renaldo drove the teenager to an abandoned strip center in Lauderdale Lakes a block off Oakland Park Boulevard. The center was a casualty of the economy, the boarded-up stores boarded graying with age, the parking lot a minefield of pot holes. Nature was taking it back, one small step at a time.

Renaldo parked behind the center in the building’s shade and pulled out a small pot pipe. It was already filled with dope. He handed it to Wayne along with a lighter. The teenager seemed to know what to do.

“This is kick-ass stuff,” Wayne said in a high-pitched voice, the dope trapped in his lungs. “You want some?”

Renaldo put the pipe to his lips and took a small hit. He rarely smoked pot or drank, and would not have engaged in this ritual with Wayne, only the Program had demanded that it be done. Each of the Program’s steps was clearly spelled out. Step #7 said that it was important to keep the subject high once he had sex with his victim. By keeping him high, he was less likely to regret what he’d done, or was about to do.

Renaldo handed the pipe back to Wayne.

“Have some more,” he said.

Wayne made the bowl turn bright orange as he took another hit. From the trunk came the sounds of Vick thrashing around. After a few moments the noise stopped.

“Can she breath back there?” Wayne asked.

“Oh, yes. I drilled in air holes. She’s getting plenty of air.”

“You’ve put women in your trunk before, haven’t you?”

Renaldo turned sideways in his seat. Wayne’s question was more inquisitive than an accusation. Like the teenager wanted to know more about the things that he did. It made Renaldo think that a lasting bond was starting to form between them.

“Many times,” Renaldo replied. “I pick up prostitutes off the street, take them to my house, and play with them for a few days. They are my toys.”

“What do you do then. Let them go?”

“Hardly.”

“You kill them?”

“Yes, I kill them. I will show you the films of them dying, if you like.”

“Isn’t that a little harsh?”

“What do you mean, harsh?”

“You know, cruel. Why not just let them go? They probably wouldn’t tell.”

“But if they did, I’d go back to jail.”

Wayne finished the bowl in silence. The car’s interior smelled like an opium den, and Renaldo lowered the windows and flipped on the AC to its highest setting to blow out of the smell.

“You’ve been to jail?” Wayne asked.

“A mental hospital for the criminally insane.”

“Did it suck?”

“They kept me in a straightjacket most of the time.”

“You mind if I roll the windows back up? It’s getting hot.”

Wayne was covered in perspiration, while Renaldo was only sweating a little. He wondered if the teenager was having an adverse reaction to the pot. He rolled the windows back up by pressing a button on his door. The car instantly cooled down.

“When I got arrested, the prosecutor wanted to try me as an adult,” Wayne said. “I could have gone to prison for twenty years. I thought about jail a lot.”

“Would you kill to stay out of jail?” Renaldo asked.

“Yeah, probably.”

Vick had started to thrash around again, causing the car to shake. The desperate sounds were accompanied by a muffled cry for help. Renaldo had put a cloth gag in her mouth instead of using the plastic gag ball, a decision he now regretted.

“You sure she’s okay?” Wayne asked.

Renaldo stared at the teenager for a sign. “She’s fine. Did you like fucking her?”

“She was okay.”

“I was listening through the door when you were fucking her. I heard her say something strange to you.”

“You mean about Adam and the bayonet,” the teenager said.

Renaldo nodded. He did not want to pull information out of Wayne. The teenager had to give the information up. If he didn’t, Renaldo had a problem.

“Adam’s my older brother,” the teenager explained. “He died in Iraq.”

“Why do you think the FBI agent brought him up?”

“She was – aw, shit.”

A yellow and black banana spider had invaded the car while the windows were open, and had attached itself to Wayne’s shirt sleeve. Wayne lowered his window to let the spider out, only Renaldo stopped him.

“Kill it,” Renaldo said.

“I didn’t want to stain the upholstery,” the teenager said.

“Kill it anyway.”

The spider was soon a memory, its remains squashed against the dashboard.

“Continue,” Renaldo said.

“She was trying to cut a deal with me,” Wayne explained. “I used my brother’s bayonet to stab my mother’s boyfriend. She wanted to implicate my brother in the murder so the court would treat me differently.”

“I didn’t hear her offer to cut you any deal,” Renaldo said suspiciously.

“She didn’t. I figured it out. My lawyer wanted to do the same thing. My lawyer knew that my brother had sent me letters from Iraq that talked about all the killing he’d done, and thought the letters had influenced me.”

“Did they?”

The teenager shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you take her deal?”

Wayne grew reflective. He was different than the first two teenagers Renaldo had abducted for the Program, who were impulsive and hot-headed. Wayne was intelligent, and chose his words carefully when asked a question. Renaldo felt like he was talking to an equal when they spoke.

“I didn’t want her controlling me,” Wayne finally said.

Renaldo felt himself relax. It was the perfect answer.

“Would you rather control her?” Renaldo asked.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“We don’t own her mind.”

Wayne had to think about that. With his finger he scraped the spider’s remains off the dash and dropped them into the ashtray.

“How do you control someone’s mind?” the teenager asked.

“You must make them accept that you are the master, and they are the slave,” Renaldo replied. “It’s not as hard as you think. I will teach you.”

“Sounds cool. The pot made gave me the munchies. Can we get something to eat?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“A burger would be good. And some french fries.”

Renaldo knew of a fast-food restaurant a few blocks away. As he started to drive away, the noise from the trunk resumed. He couldn’t go through the drive-through with that noise, and killed the engine.

“The lesson starts now,” Renaldo said.

He drew the Taurus from beneath the seat. Got out of the car, and went around back with the keys in one hand, the Taurus in the other. Wayne got out as well.

“You going to shoot her?” the boy asked breathlessly.

Renaldo shook his head and tossed Wayne the keys.

“Open the trunk, then stand back,” Renaldo said.

Wayne held the keys with both hands. A little boy now, out of his comfort zone, scared. It was amazing how quickly teenagers could morph back into infants.

“Now,” Renaldo demanded. “Use the big key.”

Wayne scratched the paint around the lock trying to get the key jammed into the lock. His body shook like Jello, his eyelids twittering like a camera shutter.

Finally he got the key in.

The trunk flew open, Vick kicking it with her legs. Wayne took a hit in the chest, and let out a groan. Renaldo had wisely kept his distance, both hands on the gun.

Now he moved quickly, and leaned into the trunk. Vick had managed to bring her tied wrists around from her back to her front, and was using her teeth to gnaw at the knots. In her struggle, she had torn her blouse, and bloodied herself.

Renaldo aimed the Taurus in her face. Vick froze, her eyes brimming with hatred and fear. Wayne leaned in to watch.

“Hit her,” Renaldo said.

Wayne cocked his fist, hesitated.

“What’s wrong?” Renaldo asked.

“I just had sex with her,” the teenager said.

“So?”

“I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem right.”

“Do you think this dirty little bitch cares about you? She’s a cheap whore. That’s why she screwed you, and made you think she enjoyed it.”

Wayne had turned into a statue, his eyes unblinking, his body coiled like a spring. Renaldo watched him out of the corner of his eye. If Wayne didn’t silence the FBI agent, Renaldo would have no choice but to shoot him. He could not have a son who felt compassion for others.

“Do it,” Renaldo whispered.

The punch came out of nowhere, and snapped Vick’s head straight back. There was no mistaking its power, or intent. Vick’s eyes closed, and her body went limp.

Renaldo slipped the Taurus beneath his armpit. He hog-tied Vick’s arms and legs together, slamming the trunk when he was done. Putting his arm around Wayne’s shoulder, he walked the teenager to the passenger door.

“Still hungry?” Renaldo asked.

“Starving,” Wayne said.

Chapter 51

The Florida heat was a shock to Linderman’s nervous system. Sweat poured down his neck as he hurried across the yard with Jenkins.

“You’re going to show him cartoons?” the warden asked, puffing hard.

“That’s right.” Linderman clutched a stack of stiff white composition paper beneath his arm. “I drew them during the flight from Pittsburgh. It’s the best way for Crutch to understand the situation he’s in.”

“That sounds mighty unorthodox. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I do, warden. Trust me.”

While in college, Linderman had interned at his uncle’s advertising agency in New York. His uncle, an artist, would take ad copy written by the agency’s copywriters, and draw cartoons that would tell the story. These cartoons were called a story board, and often determined if an advertising campaign got off the ground.

Linderman had utilized story boards as an FBI profiler. When dealing with a difficult case, he would sketch cartoons depicting how a killer might have murdered and disposed of his victims. The technique had proven helpful in breaking several cases.

They came to a sun-bleached building with a guard posted at the entrance. Jenkins had already explained to Linderman how Crutch had bitten another inmate and killed him. In all his years, Jenkins had never seen anything like it, and hoped he never did again.

“Why did he become a vampire?” Jenkins asked.

Linderman knew a great deal about Crutch’s personal history, yet his penchant for drinking human blood remained a mystery.

“I have no idea,” the FBI agent said.

They went in. The interior was cooler than outside, but only by a few miserable degrees. Walking down a short corridor, they passed a line of cells that made up solitary. Each cell had steel door with a number painted on it. Through the doors they could hear inmates talking to themselves and crying.

At door #6 they stopped. The guard threw back a sliding panel on the door and peered inside. He shook his head sadly.

“I thought I knew this guy,” the guard said.

“Let me see,” Linderman said.

He switched places with the guard. Through the window he saw a windowless room with a naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. A cot was attached to the wall, a thin mattress the room’s only comfort. A true hell hole.

The room had been transformed by a madman’s hand. Every square inch of wall space was covered in grotesque charcoal drawings of human depravity and suffering, the pictures traveling straight up to the ceiling. It was as if the artist had taken Dante’s Inferno and a Nazi concentration camp, and put them in a blender.

Crutch sat on a chair in the room’s center, naked save for a pair of red underwear.

Behind his chair was the largest drawing of all, a life-size rendering of Surtr holding a bloody sword over his head as he waged war on the world and killed all that stood in his way, the landscape around him littered with headless corpses and engulfed in flames.

“Who gave him the charcoal?” Linderman asked.

“We don’t know how he got it,” the guard replied.

“Please open the door.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can’t let you talk to him by yourself this time,” Jenkins said. “He’s too dangerous.”

Linderman did not have a problem with that. He didn’t want to be alone with Crutch, and have a repeat of his earlier experience. With others present, Linderman knew he had a better chance of walking away from the encounter unscathed.

The guard unlocked the door and went in first.

“Put your muzzle on,” the guard said.

Crutch picked up the dog muzzle lying on the floor, and secured it around his face. Once finished, he dropped his hands into his lap.

“It’s on,” Crutch said.

The guard checked the muzzle, then made Crutch stand up to be searched.

“He’s clean,” the guard said.

“Make him sit on his cot,” Linderman said.

The guard led Crutch to his cot. Crutch sat down and began to twiddle his thumbs. Linderman and Jenkins entered, filling the small space.

“Woof, woof,” Crutch said.

Jenkins and the guard leaned against the wall. Linderman dragged the chair in front of the cot, and stuck his foot on it. He took the cartoons he’d drawn, and propped them up onto his leg. The first cartoon showed a crude rendering of a three-story Victorian house.

“Oh, boy, a dog and pony show,” Crutch said.

“Yes, and it’s just for you,” Linderman said.

“How wonderful.”

“This is your family home in Oakmont, Pennsylvania. I went and visited there. The house is exactly as you left it.”

Crutch squinted. His eyes, normally still, darted from side-to-side.

Linderman let the cardboard drop to the floor. Next up was a cartoon of the dining room table with Crutch’s mother at the head, his three sisters occupying the other chairs.

“This is the dining room with your mom and sisters having a meal,” Linderman said. “As you can see, there isn’t a place setting for you. Your mother made you eat your meals in the basement, where she’d banished you. You must have done something truly awful to have gotten her so angry with you. Was it to one of your sisters?”

Crutch cursed under his breath, his eyes fixated on the cartoon.

“You probably enjoyed living in the basement,” Linderman went on. “It was a perfect teenager hangout. But then, the exclusion started to bother you. You didn’t like how your mother and sisters seemed to enjoy your absence.”

Crutch lifted his eyes to look at Linderman. They were filled with pain.

Linderman dropped the cardboard to the floor.

“This next drawing shows you bludgeoning your mother and sisters to death with a baseball bat,” the FBI agent said. “The main course was done, and your family was about to eat dessert. You came up from the basement and heard them talking. Something inside of you snapped, and you decided to kill them.”

Crutch let out a pitiful noise, the last of his resolve slipping away. The drawing landed atop the others.

“This next picture is more a guess than an article of fact,” Linderman said. “It shows you and your mother on the front lawn, with you biting your mother on the neck. I’m guessing your mother ran from the house, and you chased her. You bit her on the neck so hard, your teeth went through the skin and broke her collarbone.”

“You must have found her body,” Crutch mumbled.

“Yes, I did. Was this the first time you ever drank human blood?”

Crutch stared long and hard at the picture of him biting his mother.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“What inspired you to do that?”

“I was angry with her,” he said.

“But what compelled you to bite her?”

“A voice in my head told me to.”

“Had you ever heard this voice before?”

“No, it was the first time.”

The cardboard hit the floor.

“This is a drawing of your mother and sisters bodies propped on the picnic table in the barn,” Linderman continued. “You put the bodies there in an attempt to reenact their last meal inside the house. Why did you do that, Crutch?”

Crutch stared thoughtfully at the drawing. “You didn’t miss a thing.”

“I try to be thorough. Why did you put them on the picnic table?”

“I wanted them to listen to me. They never listened to me.”

“Even when you were killing them?”

Crutch shook his head. The cardboard hit the floor.

“Here is my last drawing. It depicts you burying the bodies in the horse stalls inside the barn. The barn contained four stalls, which suited your needs perfectly. Each body went into a different stall. You wrapped your youngest sister in plastic, yet chose not to wrap your other sisters’ bodies, or your mother’s. Was there a reason for that?”

“I liked my youngest sister.”

“Her body was the least decomposed, and still had pieces of flesh under the fingernails from where she must have scratched you. The FBI is in the process of identifying the DNA, which no doubt will be matched to yours.”

Linderman let the final drawing float to the floor. He lowered his leg from the chair, and brushed off the dirt it had left. Sitting down, he stared intently at the little man who’d caused so much bloodshed and horror.

“I can prove that you murdered your family,” the FBI agent said. “I’ve already spoken to the Oakmont DA, and she wants you to stand trial for these crimes. She’ll seek the death penalty. Pennsylvania is one of thirteen states that still executes people.”

Crutch’s body trembled and his breathing grew shallow. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, and hugged himself. Like so many merchants of death, he was a coward, and afraid of dying himself.

“Are you offering me a deal?” Crutch asked.

“Yes. I need to find Mr. Clean right now.”

“What do I get in return?”

“I’ll tell the DA about the notebooks I found in your bedroom, and how they prove you were insane at the time of the killings.”

“Sparing me the death penalty.”

“That’s right.”

Crutch leaned forward. “What about our original deal? Don’t you want to know what happened to Danni? Or are you willing to sacrifice her to find Mr. Clean?”

Linderman leaned forward as well. So great was his urge to strangle the life out of Crutch that he kept his hands firmly on his knees. “You don’t know what happened to Danni, outside of what you already told me. I realized it earlier. You were lying.”

“No, I wasn’t!” Crutch thundered.

“Yes, you were. You claimed that Simon Skell told you the name of the rich foreigner he sold my daughter to. Skell never would have done that. Skell didn’t confide in anyone, not even the members of his gang. He was too cagey for that.”

“But he confided in me,” Crutch said.

“And risk having you squeal so you could win an early release from prison? I don’t think so. You don’t know the name of the man who has my daughter, and you never did.”

Crutch eyelids fluttered and he rocked back on his cot. He had run out of bullets.

“You are very intuitive,” he said.

“I want Mr. Clean,” Linderman said.

“Promise me I’ll be spared the death penalty. I trust you, you know.”

“I’ll do everything to insure you aren’t put to death,” Linderman replied.

“What about Leon, the inmate I killed. Will I be charged for his murder?”

Linderman glanced across the cell at Jenkins.

“No,” the warden said. “It was an act of self defense.”

Crutch nodded, satisfied. “Very well. Mr. Clean is a Cuban ambulance driver named Renaldo Devine. He derives pleasure from dumping his victims bodies in public places, then being available when the 911 call comes in. His name is on the log of every hospital where a victim was brought in.”

“Is that how you found him?” Linderman asked.

“No. The hospitals would not divulge the information. All I knew was that he was an ambulance driver. Broward County has six companies which do this kind of work. I found the names of the drivers on the company’s web sites, and left messages at work for them. I used the name of Mr. Clean’s latest victim, and asked the driver to call me back. I left about a hundred of these messages. Finally, Devine called me back.”

“Keep going.”

Crutch’s eyes narrowed through his muzzle. “Who said there was more?”

“I did.”

“But what if there isn’t?”

“The deal is off.”

“Fucking bastard!”

“Watch your mouth!” the guard warned.

“Very well. Mr. Clean lives by himself in a house on a dead end street in Cooper City. He keeps guns in every room of his house, and has taken many precautions to protect himself. Be careful, or he will surprise you. That’s all I can think of at the moment. Perhaps I can call you if I remember something else of value.”

“You aren’t going to be making any phone calls from this prison,” Jenkins declared.

Linderman rose from the chair. It had been a long, difficult journey, but he had finally learned the truth. He scooped up the story boards from the floor.

“I’d like to keep those, if I may,” Crutch said.

“What for?” Linderman asked.

“You know what they say. All we have are memories.”

Chapter 52

Vick woke up in the darkness, her mouth tasting of dried blood. She ran her tongue over her teeth, and found them all there. So much for small favors.

It wasn’t the first time a man had smacked her in the face. Her father had once knocked out one of her front teeth during a heated argument. He’d later apologized, and offered to buy her a car. But it was too late for apologies. The damage had been done, and she’d left home as soon as she’d been able to support herself.

Thinking about her father brought warm tears to her eyes. He’d been such a bastard that she’d promised herself to never shed another tear over him again. Yet here she was, letting the waterworks flow.

The tears kept coming. Was it really her father she was crying for? Or were the tears for Wayne Ladd? Not the Wayne Ladd who’d raped her and then delivered a right cross to her jaw. No, she was crying for the beautiful teenage boy whose photograph had conjured up heartthrob dreams and fantasies of highschool boyfriends she’d never had. That punch had shattered those dreams while extinguishing a flame deep inside of her.

She heard voices. Mr. Clean and Wayne were having a conversation. She shifted her body and put her ear against the wall of the trunk. She could hear them talking about food, and whether they wanted burgers or Chick Fil-A. How lovely.

They settled on burgers, and went to a drive-through. She listened to Mr. Clean order two double bacon cheeseburgers and two large orders of fries through the squawk box. The cashier repeated the order, his voice crackling with static.

Mr. Clean parked somewhere nearby, and he and Wayne ate lunch. They did not talk while they ate. It reminded Vick of meal time at her home growing up, her fathers and brothers wolfing down their food without making a sound.

She wondered why she was thinking these thoughts. She kept little contact with her family, nothing more than a phone call on holidays and birthdays. Her brothers had never stood up for her, and like her father, she had little use for them. So why were her thoughts fixated on them now? Was she afraid she was never going to see them again?

The sweet smell of marijuana drifted into the trunk. Mr. Clean and Wayne were getting high again. Their voices changed, growing louder and more relaxed. There was no mistaking that a bond had formed between them. Mr. Clean liked Wayne, and treated him like a son. Wayne, in turn, was respectful of his captor, and seemed willing to go along with whatever Mr. Clean suggested. They were a team.

Their talk shifted to how they were going to kill Vick, and dispose of her body. She should have been horrified, but surprisingly was not. She had studied enough serial killers to know how the game was played.

“I want you to kill her,” she heard Mr. Clean say.

“Me?” Wayne replied, coughing loudly.

“You fucked her, you get to kill her,” Mr. Clean said.

“Is that how it works?” Wayne asked, still coughing.

“Yes. That’s how it works.”

“Well, if you say so. When?”

“Once it grows dark.”

“Why wait?”

“Because you must always kill at night.”

“Nobody can see you, huh?”

“That’s right. The night is our greatest asset.”

“Whatever you say.” More loud coughing. “Can we get another burger? I’m still hungry.”

Mr. Clean started the engine. They continued to banter during the ride back to the drive-through, their voices not betraying a care or trouble in the world.

Vick shut her eyes, knowing she was doomed.

Chapter 53

Cooper City was a bedroom community in south Broward County, the pleasant, cookie-cutter developments packed together like cookies in a can. The houses were older and more modest here, and dated back to a simpler time.

Renaldo Devine’s ranch house had been built in the sixties, which qualified it for historical preservation by Florida standards. On a dead end street, it had surveillance cameras posted on the four corners of the house. The padlocked gate boasted a multi-lingual No Trespassing sign.

Linderman sat in a police surveillance van across the street, staring at a live feed of the house on a monitor. He had arrived a short while ago, having been whisked from the airport in an unmarked car. Moody sat next to him, wearing a bulletproof vest.

“You look beat,” Moody said. “Sure you’re up for this?”

“I’ll manage,” Linderman said.

“Here. Put these on.”

Moody handed him a pair of headphones. The police had aimed an electronic eavesdropping cone at the house, and Linderman strained to hear any sounds of life coming from inside. A radio was playing a Spanish station, and the television was on.

He pulled off the earphones. “There’s definitely signs of life.”

“That’s what I thought. I think we better move,” Moody said. “You in agreement?”

Linderman nodded. He appreciated the gesture. Moody was in charge, not him, and the sheriff was only asking because he knew that Rachel might be inside.

Moody called the power company on his cell phone.

“Kill the power,” Moody said.

Outside the van, a transformer sitting atop a light pole made a loud popping sound. The power on the street was now down. Moody had effectively knocked out the surveillance cameras around Devine’s house.

“Time’s a wasting,” Moody said.

They got out of the van. It had grown dark, the blackness made more complete by the lack of streetlights. Parked behind them was a mini-bus with darkened windows. Moody banged on the door with his fist. A ten-person SWAT team piled out. Dressed in bulky Kevlar and clutching automatic weapons, they’d painted their faces black, and looked ready for battle.

“Listen up,” Moody said. “Our suspect is holding two people captive inside the house. Saving their lives is our foremost priority. Any questions?”

There were none.

“Let’s go,” Moody said.

The SWAT team jogged across the street with Linderman and Moody behind them. Linderman had worked with SWAT teams before, and had learned that the best tactic was to stay out of their way, and let them do their job.

Upon reaching Devine’s property, the SWAT team spread out on the sidewalk, and aimed their guns through the chainlink fence at the house. One member of the team was holding a pair of bolt cutters. He approached the gate, then suddenly stopped.

“Something wrong?” Moody whispered.

“The gate’s wired,” the man whispered back.

“Don’t worry. There’s no power,” Moody told him.

“I sure hope not,” the man said.

The man cut the padlock, and let it clatter noisily to the ground. The gate swung open on its own accord. The SWAT team swarmed onto the property without making a sound. Half the members circled behind the house, while the rest went up the path.

Devine’s house had a sagging front porch. As the team stepped onto the porch, hidden spotlights on the house came on, their brilliant white light flooding the yard.

“Take those lights out!” Moody yelled.

Linderman stood on the lawn. One of the spotlights had temporarily blinded him. He went into a crouch, and rubbed frantically at his eyes.

One by one, the spotlights were taken out of commission by the SWAT team, the sound of automatic gunfire echoing across the otherwise peaceful neighborhood. It was dark again, only their element of surprise was gone.

“That’s enough,” Moody shouted.

The shooting stopped. Linderman stood up, his vision slowly returning. From the garage came a loud, engine-like noise.

“What’s that noise?” Moody asked.

“A generator,” Linderman said.

The garage door was locked. Linderman knocked out the glass with his Glock and let himself in. He flipped the switch beside the door, and the interior lit up. A battery operated generator sat in the room’s center, rumbling loudly. A thick black cable was attached to the generator, which ran across the floor to the wall and into the house.

Moody was right behind him, followed by half the SWAT team.

“What’s this?” the sheriff asked.

“Devine rigged the generator to the security cameras, which must be battery operated,” Linderman explained. “When the SWAT team stepped on the porch, the security cameras came on, which in turn flipped the generator on.”

“Why?”

“He’s using the power to do something inside the house.”

“Let’s find out what.”

The SWAT team entered the house through the garage. They moved cautiously, fearing the interior might be booby-trapped, and pointed their guns at every shadow.

Linderman brushed past them. There was no vehicle in the garage. Mr. Clean was not here. That was either in their favor, or it wasn’t.

Linderman canvassed the empty rooms until he came to a study. The room was dark, except for the computer. An older model from Gateway, it sat on the desk, it’s screen brightly lit up. The hard drive whirred noisily.

He sat down in front of the computer, and tried to shut it off. When the computer did not respond to his typed commands, he pulled it away from the wall, and attempted to disconnect it from its power source.

“What are you doing?” Moody asked.

“Mr. Clean is erasing his hard drive. That’s what the generator is for. He must have a lot of stuff stored in the memory he doesn’t want us to see.”

“Can you stop it?”

Linderman found the power cord and wrapped his hand around it. The hard drive had stopped whirring, and he knew it was too late. He ripped it out of the wall anyway.

“What do you think was on it?” Moody asked.

“Devine is ego-driven. He probably stores videos of his crimes on his computer, and watched them to get his kicks.”

“Do you think we can retrieve it?”

Crutch had said Mr. Clean was clever. Linderman hadn’t expected this.

“I doubt it,” Linderman said.

One of the SWAT team members appeared at the doorway. “We found a head in the garbage,” he said soberly.

They followed him into the kitchen. The head of an older black man wrapped in plastic bag sat on the counter on a platter. Two other members of the SWAT team stood around the table, staring in morbid fascination. Linderman wanted to warn them of the nightmares they were sure to have, but didn’t think it would do any good.

“Did you find anything else?” Linderman asked.

“This,” another member said, holding up a manila folder. “It was sitting on the microwave.”

Linderman went into the dining area to get away from the head, and spread the folder’s contents onto the table. The words The Program jumped up at him. He had found the instructions on how to make a killing machine.

He poured through the pages, hoping it might reveal what Mr. Clean had done with Rachel and Wayne. It read like an instruction manual to a washing machine, the words dry and to the point. The last page gave him pause.

Step #7: The Killing of the Victim.

The killing of the victim is the culmination of the Program. Certain details must be adhered to in order to avoid failure and disappointment.

Never forget that this is a new experience for the boy. Before this, his killing has been impulsive, and fueled by an uncontrollable rage burning inside of him. This killing will be different, and will be

controlled.

It must be well-planned, and methodical in its execution. Like a symphony.

The victim you choose is one of personal taste and convenience. Try to pick someone small, who will not give you a hard time. It is important that the boy enjoy himself. A fighting female will not do.

At first, the boy may react negatively to the idea of killing an innocent female. Do not be surprised if this happens, for it is a natural reaction. To prepare him, place him under the influence of alcohol or drugs, so his defenses are down.

The most important aspect of this step is the physical act itself. Study these points, and if possible, memorize them.

* The killing must be violent in nature.

* A knife or bat or even the hands can be used.

* No guns!

* There must be direct physical contact between the boy and victim.

* The boy must help in disposing of the body.

Good luck!

He flipped the last page over. There was writing on the back. A hand drawn calendar, with notations for Step 1 through Step 7 penciled in for different days.

He stared at the date for Step 7.

It was today.

Linderman closed the folder. He told himself to start looking around the house for clues. There had to be a thread here that would tell him where Mr. Clean had gone. A slip of paper in a trash can, or a saved message on the answering machine.

He shook his head. Deep down, he knew it was too late. Mr. Clean was two steps ahead of them. The generator in the garage had shown him that. Vick was a goner.

Linderman felt his shoulders sag as the blackness settled in, its vastness ready to swallow him whole. The day he’d lost Danni had felt like this; the heart-wrenching ache of knowing that no matter what he did, it was probably not going to be enough.

“Linderman.”

Moody entered the dining area, cell phone in hand.

“What’s up?” the FBI agent asked.

“We just got a 911 call from the manager of a McDonald’s in Lauderdale Lakes,” the sheriff replied. “A car came through the drive-through and a teenager threw a bag of garbage out his window. One of the employees picked it up, and found a note. It was written by Wayne Ladd.”

“What?” Linderman said.

“He gave us an address, and asked us to hurry.”

Chapter 54

“Why do you want to dump the body there?” Renaldo asked.

“It’s near my highschool,” Wayne replied.

They sat behind the abandoned shopping center. Dusk had turned to darkness, the hot night air murderously still. Renaldo had lit up another bowl of dope. He took the last hit and banged the pipe out in the ashtray.

“Would you like your friends to see the body?” Renaldo asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It would fuck with their heads, you know? Do you see the movie River’s Edge, where a highschool kid offs his girlfriend and shows off her body to his friends for a few days? That actually happened someplace in New York.”

“Would you like to fuck with your friends’ heads?”

Wayne smiled loosely, his eyelids heavy. He looked ready to fall asleep. “You bet. They’re all assholes. They have cars and nice clothes and are always complaining. It would break them out of their comfort zones, you know?”

Renaldo laughed silently. Wayne wasn’t content to just kill the girl in the trunk; he also wanted to hurt his friends. These were all good signs.

“Where is your highschool?” Renaldo asked.

“In Lauderhill Lakes. Get on 41 and head north.”

Soon they were on the road. Vick had regained consciousness and banged around the trunk. As he drove, Renaldo watched Wayne out of the corner of his eye. The boy was cool with it.

“Tell me more about this movie,” Renaldo said.

“What do you want to know?”

“Did the boy who killed his girlfriend keep her in his bedroom?”

“No. He dumped her body down by the river. That’s why it’s called River’s Edge. His friends took field trips to see her. They acted like they were visiting a haunted house.”

“Like it was a game.”

“Yeah. After I saw the movie, I found a story on the Internet about what really happened. It said half the kids in the highschool knew about the girl’s body, but didn’t tell anybody. The principal who ran the highschool freaked out. He brought in a team of psychiatrists to figure out why nobody reported it.”

“Do you think your friends will report the body when they find it?”

“I think they’ll shit in their pants.” Wayne laughed.

Renaldo laughed as well. He could not remember how long it had been since he’d done that.

They came to Wayne’s highschool, which was named after a dead president. It was surrounded by a fence and flooded with low-wattage halogen lights. Wayne pointed at a grassy field next to the property which abutted the football stadium.

“That’s the spot,” Wayne said. “No one hangs around there at night.”

Renaldo spun the wheel and drove down the two-lane road next to the school. He came to the field and pulled his car up into the grass. A chorus of crickets competed with the hiss of traffic from the nearby highway. A good spot, Renaldo thought. He removed the Taurus from under the seat and got out. Slipping the gun behind his belt, he walked around to the back of the vehicle and found Wayne waiting for him.

“Ready?” Renaldo asked.

“No time like the present,” Wayne said.

Renaldo threw him the keys. “Unlock the trunk.”

Renaldo stepped back and drew his gun. He aimed at the trunk using both hands. Wayne unlocked the trunk and opened it. Vick had rolled onto her side, and was writhing frantically from side to side. Her body grew still, and she shut her eyes.

“Take her out,” Renaldo said.

“You’re not going to help?”

“Do as I tell you.”

Wayne dragged Vick out of the trunk, and made her stand against the car. Renaldo sensed an electricity between them as Wayne touched her.

“Do you want to fuck her again? You can if you want.”

“Not here,” Wayne said.

Renaldo pulled away the carpet covering the spare tire cavity. Lying inside the cavity was a knife, a long piece of chain, and a tire iron.

“Pick your weapon,” Renaldo said.

Wayne stared into the trunk. “You’re not going to let me shoot her?”

“No.”

“In the movie he shot her.”

“This is not a movie. Pick one.”

“Okay. I’ll use the tire iron.”

Renaldo removed the tire iron and slammed the trunk. Wayne pushed Vick ahead of him without having to be told. Renaldo liked his enthusiasm. The teenager stopped at a spot near the fence which had a large slit.

“One of my friends cut through the fence so we can slip through during the day,” he explained. He pushed Vick to the ground and held out his hand.

“Give it to me,” the teenager said.

Renaldo slapped the tire iron onto Wayne’s palm. He realized that he was trembling in anticipation. He hadn’t been this nervous since he’d killed his own sister.

Wayne tossed the tire iron from hand to hand. The teen said something under his breath that sounded like a prayer. God doesn’t listen to our prayers, Renaldo nearly told him. We are his bastard children.

“Why can’t I use a gun?” Wayne asked.

“No gun. Hit her in the head. Do it now.”

“Whatever you say.”

Wayne raised the tire iron over his head. He started to bring it down, then froze, his eyes darting through the fence at the adjacent football field.

Renaldo followed his gaze. A group of heavily armed men were on the fifty yard line, sprinting toward them. Above them hovered a helicopter, its bright spotlight sweeping the ground. Police. Renaldo instinctively aimed the Taurus at them.

Something hard hit his hands, breaking several of his fingers. He dropped his gun to the ground and cupped his hands together, the pain shooting up his arms. Wayne stood in front of him, wielding the tire iron for another strike.

“Why did you do that?” Renaldo said.

“I’m not who you think I am.” Wayne raised his voice. “Over here!”

“You little bastard. I will kill you.”

Renaldo rushed Wayne, and sent him tumbling to the ground. Retreating to his car, he managed to open the driver’s door with his broken fingers, and start the engine. His headlights automatically came on. Policemen poured through the fence, their weapons aimed at him. He saw Wayne lying on top of Vick, hugging her.

Bullets hit his windshield, the glass imploding around him. His back tires found the two-lane road. Driving in reverse, he rammed a police cruiser trying to stop him.

He got on the street in front of the highschool. Police cruisers were parked in the road in a giant V, preventing his escape. Uniformed cops huddled behind the cruisers, pointing guns at him. He drove onto the sidewalk, staying low to avoid their bullets. He heard the satisfying thud of a body going under his car.

He headed toward I-595. In his mirror, the cruisers gave chase. He couldn’t outrun the police, but he could lose them.

He could not stop thinking about Wayne, and how he’d misjudged him. Everything the teenager had said to him was a lie. Not his son, but a stranger.

For the first time since childhood, Renaldo cried.

Chapter 55

“He’s gone. You’re safe,” Wayne said.

The teenager untied the ropes holding Vick hostage. She got to her feet, not entirely sure what had just happened, or how the police had materialized out of thin air.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” the teenager said.

“You hurt me,” Vick said.

“I didn’t know what else to do. He was going to kill us.”

Vick looked into Wayne’s face and sensed he was telling the truth.

“How did the police find us?” she asked.

“I tipped them off. I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Only inside, Vick nearly said.

Linderman stood on the other side of the fence, waving to her. The police chopper had landed in the end zone of the football field. She followed her boss into the chopper, and buckled herself into the seat next to the pilot, while Linderman sat in back.

“You okay?” Linderman shouted over the whirring blades.

“I’ll live,” Vick shouted back.

“The kid saved your life.”

“I know.”

The chopper floated into the air. Vick put on a pair of headphones which would allow her to speak to both the pilot and Linderman. Down below, Wayne stood with a group of police officers. He gave a little wave.

“Mr. Clean’s car has been spotted on 595, heading east,” Linderman said through the headphones. “The police are setting up roadblocks and blocking off the entrance and exit ramps. You ready to take him down?”

Vick hesitated. Then it hit her. This was still her case.

“Yes, sir,” Vick said.

Linderman reached through the seats and patted her shoulder. It was as much affection as she’d ever seen out of him, and she found the strength to smile.

“Thanks for the save,” she said.

“I don’t want to lose you Vick. You’re too good an agent.”

Spoken like a true boss, she thought.

The chopper hurtled across the night sky. 595 was directly ahead, its eight lanes of traffic lighting up the sky. The eastbound cars had already stopped moving.

Something was wrong. Vick saw smoke coming out of a parked vehicle. It was where 595 met Interstate 95, the winding overpass several hundred yards long. She made the pilot hover over the spot. A car in one of the middle lanes was on fire.

“That’s Mr. Clean’s car,” Vick said. “Can you drop us down?”

“Let me check,” the pilot said.

The pilot turned on his spotlight and used it to scour the ground. He found an empty field on the same side of 595 as the burning vehicle.

“That looks pretty flat,” the pilot said. “Hold on.”

Vick shut her eyes and grabbed the handle in the door. Looking down while riding in a chopper was a mistake, and caused instant nausea. She felt the craft bump down, and unfastened her seatbelt.

“I need a gun,” she said.

The pilot opened a compartment between the seats, and handed her a standard.45.

“It’s got a hair trigger,” the pilot said.

“Good to know,” Vick replied.

They climbed out of the chopper and ran across the field to the edge of 595. Four lanes of cars headed east on the interstate, all of them stopped. Traffic jams were the norm in South Florida, and dozens of curious motorists had gotten out of their vehicles to check out the burning car.

“Stay in your cars,” Vick shouted to them.

Vick pushed her way through the mob. She entered the two left lanes, and began to hunt for Mr. Clean. Linderman took the two right lanes, and did the same.

They checked out every car, their weapons held in front of them. It was scaring the hell out of people, but there was nothing they could do.

Vick reached the burning car first. The gas tank was open, and had a flaming rag hanging from it. Mr. Clean had turned his car into a giant Molotov cocktail.

It was like a bomb. If the gas tank exploded, other cars would surely follow. Vick had visions of every car in line catching fire, and the interstate being transformed into a giant inferno.

A motorist with a fire extinguisher appeared. Linderman grabbed the fire extinguisher out of his hands, and began to douse the flames.

“Find him, Rachel,” her boss said.

Vick ran around the vehicle, the flames tickling her skin. There were times when she cursed her height. She jumped onto the bumper of a car and looked in every direction. Five cars ahead, Mr. Clean had dragged a female driver from a mini-van, and put the poor woman in a choke hold. He was squeezing her to death, her feet dangling off the ground.

Vick jumped down and sprinted toward him. It was a scenario she’d trained for many times at the FBI academy. Just her and a madman.

Mr. Clean saw her coming. He didn’t look so frightening out in the open. In fact, he looked downright scared.

“Stop!” Mr. Clean shouted.

Vick halted when she was ten feet away. She aimed her weapon at him.

“Let her go,” Vick said.

“I’ll break mommy’s neck,” Mr. Clean said.

Vick glanced at the woman’s mini-van. It was filled with tykes in brightly-colored uniforms. The woman was a soccer mom, and this was her brood. Soccer moms were supposed to be tough, and Vick decided to give it a shot.

“Twist his fingers,” Vick told the woman.

The soccer mom looked at Vick in confusion.

“His fingers are broken. Grab his hand, and twist them!”

“Right,” the soccer mom gasped.

She grabbed Mr. Clean’s forefinger and pulled it straight back. Mr. Clean screamed in pain, and released her. The soccer mom started to beat and kick him. Her kids yelled their approval.

“Get in your vehicle, and lock your door,” Vick said.

The soccer mom backed off. Mr. Clean staggered to the guard rail, clutching his hand. Down below, southbound traffic on Interstate 95 was backed up, the vehicles’ noxious fumes polluting the air.

“Don’t you dare move,” Vick shouted.

Mr. Clean glanced at her. In his face she saw a decision being made. He flipped over the railing and disappeared.

“God damn it,” Vick swore.

She ran to the guard rail and looked straight down. Mr. Clean had landed atop a flat-roofed, eighteen-wheel truck. His legs were moving and his eyes looked clear. The chopper appeared overhead and bathed him in harsh yellow light.

“Stand up and put your arms in the air,” Vick shouted.

Mr. Clean rose uncertainly to his feet. His clothes were torn and the side of his head was bleeding. He’d twisted his ankle, forcing him to hop on one foot. He placed his hands behind his head and squinted at her.

“I surrender,” Mr. Clean called back.

“Don’t move,” Vick shouted back.

“I will not move. You have my word.”

The ground beneath Vic.’s feet rumbled gently. Down below on Interstate 95, the vehicles inched forward in unison. Traffic was starting to move. A slight smile spread across Mr. Clean’s lips. The breath caught in Vick’s throat.

“Jump down from there!” Vick shouted.

“But I will be run over,” Mr. Clean shouted back.

“Do it!” Vick said.

“No!”

“I’m ordering you.”

“I am hurt. I can’t jump,” he shouted back.

The eighteen-wheeler had shifted into drive, and was moving forward with the flow of traffic. Mr. Clean was getting a free ride to Miami, where he’d slip into the vast Cuban community, and resume his killing ways.

“I’m ordering you to jump down!” Vick repeated.

Mr. Clean mocked her with his eyes.

“I won’t tell you again,” she said.

“Goodbye, little girl,” he called back.

She emptied the.45 into her suspect. Mr. Clean dropped to his knees, then fell onto his back, his hands clutching at the bullet holes in his chest. He seemed surprised but not shocked, as if he’d known this was his fate. He died staring at the sky.

She watched the eighteen-wheeler rumble away. The driver was going to be in for a real surprise when he reached his destination.

Linderman appeared, covered in black soot. Her boss looked like he’d been to hell and back.

“Nice shooting,” he said.

Chapter 56

Wayne saw the Audi pull into the parking area in a cloud of dust, and park beside a pick-up truck loaded with hay. Behind the wheel sat Rachel Vick. Vick appraised herself in the mirror before getting out.

Wayne brushed the mare tied in the cross-ties. The stable had eight horses, and this mare was his favorite. She was a quarter horse, which was the fastest horse in the world over a short distance. He’d gotten on her several times and gone galloping across the pasture. It had been like riding a rocket.

Vick came up the path. She still hadn’t spotted him. Or maybe she had, and assumed he was a hired hand. Wayne wore blue jeans and a stiff denim shirt, and could have easily been an employee.

Vick had been on his mind a lot. They’re never really had a chance to talk. He’d considered calling the FBI’s office in North Miami and asking for her, just to see how she was doing. Seeing her now constricted his heart with a strange, purposeless urgency he didn’t quite understand.

“Hey,” he called out.

Vick stopped with a start, and brought her hand up to her heart.

“I didn’t recognize you,” she said.

He started to brush the horse’s tail. “I’ve got a new career.”

“She’s a beauty.”

“You like horses?”

Wayne already knew the answer to his own question. All women liked horses.

“I’ve only ridden once,” she admitted.

“Bet you got thrown.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Most people who’ve only ridden once get thrown and never get back on. I learned that from my riding instructor.”

“You’re taking lessons. That’s great.”

“It’s part of the deal. I work with the horses and also get to ride them. It’s called equine therapy. My doctor says that if I can relate to horses, I won’t go shoot up my highschool after they let me out.”

“Your doctor didn’t say that,” Vick said, growing serious.

“No, but that’s what he’s thinking.”

“That’s not funny, Wayne.”

“Crap. I pulled out a hair.” He pulled a long hair from his brush, and displayed it to Vick. “I’m not supposed to pull out any hairs when I brush their tails. It takes a horse several years to grow their tails. About an inch a month.”

“The same as a human,” Vick said. “Is there someplace we can speak in private?”

“We can use the office. It’s air-conditioned.”

Wayne led the mare into its stall where a flake of hay was waiting in the corner, then closed the sliding door and latched it. “She’s a smart one,” he said. “If I don’t latch the door, she’ll let herself out.”

“Do you like the horses?” Vick asked.

“Yeah. They’re cool.”

The office was a small room across with framed photos of horses and ribbons from shows adorning the walls, the cold air a welcome relief. Wayne sat in a chair while Vick leaned against the desk. From her purse, she removed a handful of papers.

“Do you know what these are?” she asked.

Wayne flipped through the papers. It was a copy of the statement that he’d given to the detective who’d interviewed him.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Why did you lie?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You left out the fact that you and I had sex. Why did you do that?”

“Why should I tell the police about that?”

“It’s the truth Wayne, it’s part of what happened. By leaving it out, you’re contradicting what I told them.”

“You told them we had sex?”

“Yes.”

“You should have lied. It’s nobody’s business but ours.”

“Are you trying to protect me?”

“Yes. Didn’t that guy hurt you enough?”

Vick took the confession back and tossed it on the desk. She looked disgusted with him. Like she’d expected more out of Wayne, and he’d come up short.

“There’s something else that I told them,” Vick said.

“What’s that?”

“That I’m ninety-nine percent certain that your brother Adam stabbed your mother’s boyfriend to death.”

The teenager abruptly stood up, the chair making a harsh scraping sound. Vick stiffened and pointed at his chair.

“Sit down, Wayne. Right now.”

He came forward instead. His hands shot out, and grabbed her arms.

“Why did you tell the police that?” he asked angrily.

“Sit down, Wayne.”

“You had no right doing that.”

“Sit…”

“It will kill her if that comes out.”

“What are you talking about. Kill who?”

“My mother. Adam was her favorite. Did you see how she drinks? She started doing that after my father died. What do you think will happen if the police tell her that Adam was a murderer? It will throw her over the edge. You had no right to do that.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.”

Wayne lowered his arms. He returned to the chair and dropped his head, his eyes glued to the floor. “How did you find out?” he asked.

“I never believed you were a killer,” she said. “I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body. That meant someone else killed your mother’s boyfriend. Since it was Adam’s bayonet, I started with him. I contacted the national Armed Services web site, and requested Adam’s army record. Sure enough, your older brother got a ten-day leave the Christmas your mother’s boyfriend was murdered.”

Neither of them spoke, the window unit humming noisily.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Wayne finally said, his voice barely a whisper. “I picked Adam up at the airport. He’d been drinking on the plane, and was messed up. We came home and mom was passed out on the couch with a black eye. Adam got his bayonet and made me tell him where the boyfriend lived. It was only a few blocks away, so he ran over and killed him. I tried to stop him.”

“So your mother never knew.”

“Shit, no. No one knew Adam was home, so we kept it that way.”

“Taking the blame ruined your life.”

“I didn’t want Adam to go to prison.”

Another silence. Vick picked up the confession from the desk. “You’re going to have to tell the police we had sex, and you’re going to have to tell them about Adam,” she said. “We can figure out a way to break the news to your mother so it won’t destroy her.”

“What do you mean, we?”

“The police and the FBI. They have psychologists who know how to handle situations like this.”

“What good will any of that do?”

Vick crossed the office and put her hand on his shoulder. “It will do two things. It will set the record straight, and it will clear your name. In the end, it will be the best thing for everyone involved. You have to trust me on this.”

“You’re sure this is right?”

“Yes, Wayne. I’m sure.”

He looked up at Vick. Her hand still rested on his shoulder. He took that as a sign that she cared about him as deeply as he cared about her.

“I want something in return,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I want to see you again.”

Vick lowered her hand. He thought she might storm out, and that he’d never see her again. He didn’t think he could deal with that.

“Just to talk,” he said. “You know, over a soda or something.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Wayne.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t.”

“But I care about you.”

“I know you do. You saved my life. I’m never going to forget that.”

“Then why can’t we see each other?”

Vick started to reply, then thought better of it, and walked out of the office. Wayne followed her out of the barn and into the parking lot.

“You leaving?” he asked.

Still nothing. He opened the driver’s door of the Audi for her. Climbing in, she stuck the key in the ignition, the engine hardly making a sound when it came on.

He knelt down next to her window and stared through the tinted glass. Please don’t leave without saying goodbye, he thought.

The window lowered, their faces a few feet apart.

“I’ll do what you asked,” he said.

“Thank you,” Vick said.

“Why won’t you see me again?”

She smiled and shook her head.

“Come on, say something,” he said.

“You’re ten years too late,” she said.

Wayne wasn’t sure he understood what Vick meant. He watched her car until it disappeared, then went back to grooming the horses.

Chapter 57

Vick drove to the FBI’s office in North Miami, and spent the rest of the morning at her computer responding to several hundred emails.

She hoped she hadn’t hurt Wayne, or broken his heart. Despite what had happened to him, he was still a boy, and still innocent to much of the world. She hoped he stayed that way for a long time, and that these dark days were behind him.

At noon, she got an email from Linderman, inviting her to lunch. She knew what that meant – sandwiches at his desk, pouring over a case. They had not had a meaningful conversation since she’d taken down Mr. Clean, and she accepted his offer.

A half-hour later she was in her boss’s office, eating an inch- thick corned beef sandwich from the Jewish deli that delivered to the building. Linderman ate a Reuben dripping with thousand island dressing with his necktie flipped over his shoulder.

“There’s a memorial service for Roger DuCharme tomorrow,” Vick said. “I was planning to go. Care to join me?”

“I’m leaving town,” he said. “I’m taking a couple of weeks off to look for Danni.”

Vick put down her sandwich. The look on her boss’s face was troubled, his eyes without their usual hard focus. Like he’d gotten the wind knocked out of his sails, and it hadn’t come back. The invitation took on a different meaning. He needed to talk. She waited until they were both finished eating before speaking.

“Do you have a new lead?” Vick asked.

“Yes. It came from Crutch. I don’t know if it will amount to anything, but I have to run it down.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Crutch said that Simon Skell had abducted Danni at the University of Miami six years ago. Skell was going to kill Danni, only my daughter established a bond by baking cakes and cookies for Skell. It was something that I could see Danni doing.

“Crutch said that Skell sold my daughter to a man in Florida soon after this. The man purchased Danni to cook for him, and to be a sex slave. Crutch said that Danni understood the arrangement, and had agreed to it. It was the kind of detail that made me think Crutch was telling the truth.”

He spoke with the same flat tone that he used when working on a case, only the pain in his face spoke otherwise. He was hurting deeply inside.

“Have you run a profile through NCIC?” Vick asked.

“Yes. Unfortunately, nothing popped up. But that doesn’t mean this person hasn’t committed a crime in Florida. Many police departments in the state don’t have funding to send their records to NCIC. I’m going to do a road trip and visit police departments around the state, and manually search their data bases.”

“That could take forever.”

Linderman did not reply. He had traipsed through abandoned fields, dug through landfills, and navigated alligator-infested swamps in the hopes of finding some trace of Danni. This was one more journey on that road.

“May I make a suggestion?” Vick said.

“Of course.”

“I think you should take another tact, and scrap this idea for now.”

Linderman clenched his jaw, his fingers drumming the desk.

“What are you suggesting?” he asked.

“Put yourself in Danni’s shoes,” Vick said. “Only one thing is going through her mind during this ordeal. How am I going to escape? That’s all she’s thinking about. It’s what gives her hope, and keeps her going.”

“Is that what you thought about when Mr. Clean held you captive?”

“Yes. Every waking minute.”

Linderman gazed out the window at the neighboring office buildings, his face taking on a faraway expression. It was an angle that he hadn’t considered.

“What else is Danni thinking?” he asked.

“Your daughter may have tried to reach out to you,” Vick replied. “Most people who are held captive do. They try to make phone calls, or get messages out in some way.”

“Like Wayne did at the fast-food restaurant.”

“Exactly.”

“Where would you suggest I start?”

“You said that Danni established a bond with Skell by cooking cakes and cookies for him. Start there.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“I’m guessing your wife taught your daughter how to bake. Lots of homemade recipes.”

“Good deduction. Muriel is a master baker.”

“Ask your wife if there are any special ingredients that she uses in her cakes and cookies, or any special cooking instruments. More than likely, your daughter is having her captor purchase these things for her cooking. Those purchases might lead you to her.”

Linderman squinted his eyes as if seeing something for the first time. Vick glanced out the window, then looked back at him.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“Granny’s special holiday cookies,” he said. “It’s a secret family recipe. Muriel’s mother passed the recipe on to Muriel, who in turn passed it on to Danni. The cookies are made with dark chocolate and caramel, and are out of this world delicious. Danni would have used those to get on Simon Skell’s good side.”

“And her present captor as well.”

“I think so. A gastronome would crave those cookies.”

“Are there any special ingredients that you remember?”

“Yes. A square of toffee is placed atop each cookie. The recipe called for Tom’s Toffee, which is handmade by a family-owned confectionary store in Maine. When Danni was a little girl, she used to go out to the mail box each day when she thought our shipment was coming in.”

“Is the company is still in business?”

“They were as of last Christmas. Muriel baked the cookies for a party. I saw the bag on the kitchen counter, and remembered how Danni used to pine for it.”

“Call them, and see how many shipments they’re sending to Florida,” Vick said. “Your daughter’s captor may be one of their customers.”

The fire in her boss’s eyes was intense. He rose from his chair and came around the desk. Vick rose from her chair as well, and met him halfway. He hugged her so fiercely that she thought he might break her ribs.

“You’re a star,” he said.