Читать книгу Taken - Lori L. Harris - Страница 8

Chapter Three

Time unknown

Jillian raced for the trees. Rain pummeled down. She plunged into the woods as a shotgun exploded behind her, leaves shredding less than a foot away. A second round quickly followed. Without looking back she careened forward, dodging trees, her feet slipping on wet leaves, her hands out in front warding off small branches.

There was not time to think about what she’d just done, about the sister she’d left behind. There was survival.

Seconds later she heard the men crashing after her, one following in her wake, the other off to the right, as if trying to block access to the road.

A wasted effort. If the area was remote enough that they hadn’t hesitated to use a shotgun, even if she reached the road, she was unlikely to find immediate help—the only kind that was going to do her or Megan any good.

For now she’d stick to the woods, hope to either lose or outrun them. But where was she? How far from where they’d been kidnapped?

She fell several times, but came up like a sprinter out of a starting blocks, attacking the gauntlet of oaks and pines and the leaf-covered stumps. She was gasping for air now, her lungs aching. How much longer could she continue the grueling pace? How much farther could she go?

Blocking out those thoughts, she substituted others. Keep moving. Stay ahead of them. Don’t look back.

There finally came a point when she couldn’t do any of those things, though, and like an animal run to ground, she collapsed.

Fear spiked through Jillian as she lay heaving, the rain slashing through the tree canopy, reaching her, splattering her chilled skin. Minutes crept by as she listened, as she prayed, and as she considered what she was going to do if she actually had outrun them. She couldn’t waste time stumbling around these woods, hoping to find a house.

Which left only one option—the road. Jillian stumbled to her feet, stood there unsteadily, briefly staring back the way she’d come. Once satisfied that she wasn’t being watched, she turned and headed in what she hoped was the direction of the road.

But even when she reached the narrow and unlined pavement, she remained hidden in the bordering trees, recalling how the woman she and Megan had tried to save had exploded from similar woods.

The kidnappers weren’t dumb. They’d know that sooner or later she’d have to make for the road.

Was that how they’d caught the other woman? By waiting for her to go for it?

Jillian’s fear was so strong that even when she saw the headlights of an oncoming car, she found it difficult to get to her feet.

What if it was a trap? What if instead of being rescued, of helping to save Megan, Jillian was about to be captured again?

Realizing that there was no other choice, Jillian raced onto the road and into the path of an oncoming car.

Tuesday, 2:18 a.m.

RICK BRADY AWAKENED abruptly, momentarily disoriented. As the phone rang a second time, he rolled toward it, squinting at the clock as he went.

It was after two in the morning. Who would be calling?

When he’d been with Charleston PD, it wasn’t unusual to be called out in the middle of the night sometimes. And because he had, back then, he’d slept where he could easily reach the phone. But he’d been a civilian for nearly five years now, long enough for the habit to die.

He was still attempting to free himself from the sheets when it rang a third time, and he suddenly encountered something warm and solid stretched out next to him.

“Move it, Bax,” Rick mumbled.

The eleven-year-old male golden retriever that had been sleeping with its head on the second pillow grumbled, but didn’t get out of the way until forced off the bed. As soon as his paws hit the wood floor, though, Bax was on the move, bounding back onto the mattress and heading for the warm spot vacated by Rick.

Having finally located the phone among the pile of law magazines, Rick took a few more seconds to clear his head. He ran a hand over his face and squinted at the caller ID.

“PRIVATE.”

The phone rang a fourth time. He hit the talk button. “Rick Brady.”

“Detective Nate Langley with the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office.”

The name wasn’t one Rick recalled from his years on the force.

Propped against the headboard now, he did a quick mental scan of his current client list but came up empty. Not because those that he represented were incapable of murder, but because most of them were already behind bars for that particular felony. That was the up side of handling death-penalty appeals. Rick always knew where to find his clients. Unless…

Had one of them escaped?

“I know it’s late,” Langley said.

“What can I do for you, Detective? I assume this has something to do with one of my clients.”

There was a pause. “No. I’m actually looking for some help with a case.”

Rick remained silent, waiting for the detective to go on.

It took several seconds for Langley to take the hint. “Eight years ago your father was the lead detective on a case. The Midnight Run Murders.”

“Go on.”

“Is it true that even after his retirement, he continued to investigate? And that since his death, you’ve been doing the same?”

“Where is this conversation headed?” Rick abruptly swung his legs over the side of the bed and dragged the sheet across his lap. “And why call me at—” he eyed the clock “—two in the morning to ask?”

“There’s been another incident.”

Incident? It was an odd word choice. Especially when used in the same conversation with the Midnight Run Murders. His father had been obsessed with the case.

“And you think there’s a connection?” It had been over six years since the official investigation of the Midnight Run Murders had ground to a halt and the case had gone cold for everyone but his father.

“I wouldn’t be calling you if I didn’t think there was a connection.”

Hearing the irritation in Langley’s voice, Rick found it more difficult to hold on to his own. “Any survivors?”

“One. She managed to escape. The rest appear to be headed south.”

A witness? The last time there had been one, too. Unfortunately, she hadn’t lived long enough to tell the cops anything.

Rick crossed to where he’d left his jeans hanging over a chair back. “Can she talk?” Holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder, he kicked his way into his jeans.

“Yes.”

“Did she get a look at her kidnapper?”

“Make that plural, and yes.”

There was a slamming sound on the other end of the line, like a car door being closed. Then the sounds of shouting in the background, of wind briefly hitting Langley’s cell. “Hold on.” The cell’s receiver was momentarily covered as if Langley talked to someone, then he was back on the line. “Are you still there?”

“When did it happen?” Rick fastened his jeans.

“Around midnight. Listen, Brady. I don’t usually

contact civilians, but given your background…” He paused for several seconds, as if uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “Right now I’ll take help from anywhere I can get it.”

“What kind are you looking for?”

“I’d like to get copies of everything you have. Any notes your father produced after he left the department. Anything you’ve turned up since your father’s death.”

He rarely discussed his interest in one of Charleston’s most notorious murders—mostly because he believed that it was that same interest that had gotten his father killed. And while Rick wanted to find those responsible for his father’s murder, he wanted to live long enough to do something about it.

“I can send a patrol officer by to get them,” Langley offered.

If there hadn’t been lives on the line, Rick might have refused Langley’s request. For more than twenty-five years, Rick’s father had been a cop with the Charleston County Sheriff’s Office. When he’d needed his fellow officers the most, they’d let him down. Men he’d worked side by side with hadn’t hesitated to accept that Jim Brady, suffering from cancer, had put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

Rick knew better. Jim Brady had never been a quitter. For nearly sixteen months Rick had been trying to get the investigation reopened.

Maybe now someone would be willing to listen to him.

Rick grabbed the sweatshirt from the chair back. “Don’t bother sending anyone by. Where do you want me to deliver them?”

“The station.”

Tuesday, 2:42 a.m.

AFTER HANGING UP with Langley, Rick had reconsidered what he’d just agreed to and decided the deal was too one-sided. Langley got copies of nearly eight years of investigation notes while giving up nothing in return. The way Rick figured it, a little reciprocity was in order.

Which was why he’d decided to drive out to the scene and deliver the records directly to Langley. Even if that hadn’t been the case, though, once he’d made a call to one of his contacts at the sheriff’s, and learned where the crime had occurred, there was no keeping him away.

As Rick’s SUV coasted to a stop behind a line of police vehicles, he saw the rack lights of a single patrol car strobe through the trees off to the left.

Two black-and-whites passed him going fifty or sixty, heading north, their lights flashing, their tires turning the moisture on the road into a fine mist that trailed behind. There was no traffic at this time of night, which wasn’t surprising since this narrow secondary road saw limited use even during daylight hours.

Most of the properties out this way were relics of the pre–Civil War South, plantations that had once been capable of supporting their owners. The reverse was true now. It was the owners who supported these white elephants. Or didn’t. Many of the properties were vacant, their titles held by corporations, land speculators who gambled that when the last of South Carolina’s coastline was built up, developers would look inland.

As soon as Rick climbed out of the sedan, a heavy wind gust forced his sweatshirt against his chest. The storm that had been sitting stationary out in the Atlantic for days had suddenly decided to make its move.

Closing the car door, Rick aimed the flashlight at a historic marker across the road. Ravenel Cemetery. His father’s body had been found less than a quarter of a mile from where he now stood. Rick didn’t believe in that kind of coincidence.

The Midnight Run Murders had haunted Rick’s father. Just as his murder now haunted Rick. What had brought Jim Brady out here the last night of his life? Had he been following some new lead, or had he been lured out to this remote area? Rick knew he’d never be able to answer that question with any certainty. Just as he knew that no matter how much time passed, he would continue to hunt his father’s killer.

Turning, he walked up the line of cars, crossing in front of the first in the group, a marked cruiser. Crime-scene tape had been wrapped around a century oak next to the dirt drive and then strung across to what was left of a stone pillar. The loose ends whipped in the breeze, as did the branches overhead.

The rookie officer handling the scene log had been staring back into the trees—probably feeling like the lone kid who hadn’t been invited to the party—but when Rick approached, the officer moved to meet him. “This is an official scene.”

From the phone call he’d made to a buddy of his at the sheriff’s office Rick gathered that Langley was a by-the-rule type of cop. Which meant that selling him on the idea that Rick could be a valuable asset to the investigation was going to be tough if not impossible. But that’s what he was going to have to do if he wanted any kind of toehold on the investigation.

But even if Rick wasn’t able to sell Langley on the idea, at the very least he wanted a look at the scene. Which in turn might fuel a new direction for Rick’s own investigation.

“I’m aware that it’s a crime scene.” Knowing the routine, Rick passed his driver’s license. “Detective Langley contacted me. He’s in need of some files that I have in my possession.”

Everyone who showed up at a scene, every officer, every assistant district attorney, every medical examiner went through the same routine.

The officer checked the license, and then swung the flashlight up to Rick’s face to make the comparison. Rick flipped off the baseball cap to make it easier.

“You can put the hat back on, sir.” He lifted the radio to his mouth. “I have Rick Brady out here. Says he has some files for Detective Langley.”

Nearly half a minute went by before there was a response. “This is Langley. Have Brady give you the files. Tell him I appreciate that he drove all the way out here to deliver them, but that I’m a little busy right now.”

The officer lowered the radio. “I guess you heard?”

“Tell Langley I want a face-to-face before I turn over anything. And remind him that he’s the one who called me in the middle of the night.” Rick felt fairly certain that Langley wouldn’t turn him down.

Rick was also hoping that Langley was busy, too busy to leave the scene. The last thing Rick wanted was for Langley to hike out for the meeting.

The rookie relayed the message.

“Send him down,” Langley barked.

The rookie lowered the radio again and passed back Rick’s ID. “Don’t walk on the drive. Keep to the right of it. Clearing’s a good thirty-five yards back in there.” He lifted the yellow tape. “And I wouldn’t expect much in the way of a welcome when you reach it.”

Rick gave a curt nod before ducking under the barrier. The leaf mulch covering the soft ground made the going slick, and with each gust, the surrounding trees shed water from their leaves. He nearly lost his footing on a slight incline. He hated this time of year. The mud and the muck. The wet, gray days. The upcoming holidays where the families of his clients contacted him with tearful pleas.

The rack lights of the car in the clearing were suddenly shut down. It was only then that he noticed the flashlight beams deep in the woods off to his right.

For the past six months Rick’s investigation of his father’s murder had been limited almost exclusively to reexamining previous leads. Police work was like that sometimes, an old lead suddenly providing a new one. But even those had dried up. Tonight might possibly change that. What had taken place in these woods could bring new leads. New hope for finding his father’s killer. And more misery, too, for the latest victims.

Rick had gone only a short distance when he spotted the tarp spread across an area of the drive. He assumed that it protected tire impressions that the scene techs hadn’t gotten around to casting. If the officer hadn’t been watching, Rick would have taken a quick look beneath it. As it was, he kept moving, unwilling to risk eviction for evidence tampering.

After another twenty feet, though, he stopped and looked back toward the main road. The lane curved just enough that the entrance was no longer visible. Nor was the officer.

Rick shone the flashlight beam onto the drive. It appeared as if two vehicles had used the entrance. One set of tracks belonged to the police vehicle. The other was made by some type of truck as it entered and then exited. The dual tires and larger wheel base were right for a delivery type.

He scanned a broader area with the flashlight, taking in both sides of the drive. A few small limbs were scattered about, torn from the tree by the weather or the passing truck. Either way the truck would have to have been on the small side not to do more damage to the low-hanging limbs.

All in all, the vehicle’s size, the dual tires and larger wheel base were right for a delivery type, the kind that had been found at the scene eight years ago.

Rick squatted for a closer look. The tire impressions were still well defined. The tight tree canopy might act as a buffer against a hard downpour, but even if that were the case, the tracks still couldn’t have been there long. Two or three hours at most. Two hours didn’t sound like much time, but in an abduction case it was.

Up until that moment, he’d managed mostly to avoid thoughts about the current victims—because they were faceless, and because he’d been so callously focused on his own agenda. But as Rick got back to his feet, those faces began to take on the features of the previous victims.

He hadn’t been assigned to the initial investigation eight years ago, hadn’t been on the scene when the truck had been opened up for the first time, but he’d seen the photos. He’d seen the faces of the dead women. Five days of heat hadn’t been enough time to dehumanize them.

But it had been long enough to make them unforgettable. Particularly to his father.

Just as Rick reached the clearing, another rain band roared through, the sound deafening. It came at him horizontally, forcing him to turn his back to catch his breath. It continued to pummel his shoulders and blast his bare neck with a knifelike intensity. He waited seconds, and then impatiently faced the deluge again.

The taillights of the patrol car that had been driven in—probably by the first officer to arrive—were a red blur now. Holding on to his ball cap, Rick cut toward the car, figuring Langley would have sought refuge there. No one would be crazy enough to stand out in this when there was shelter.

It wasn’t until he got closer that he saw that there was no one in the car and that the headlights were aimed at a second tarp, this one spread out over a slightly raised area of ground. A crude grave? Or something else?

There had been no attempt to conceal the victims the last time, so if it was a grave, it meant a change in M.O. Or the possibility that the cases weren’t connected. That he’d climbed out of a warm bed for nothing.

And as far as crime scenes went, it was unlikely to produce much in the way of usable evidence. The clearing was mostly deep grass, a few saplings, some crude building rubble left from some sort of structure that had long ago disintegrated. Even if the kidnappers had left anything behind, the rain had most likely taken care of it.

As quickly as it had started, the rain tapered to a drizzle. A generator cranked up almost immediately, replacing the sound of nature’s fury with one that was manmade. Portable floodlights snapped back to life.

As soon as they did, Rick spotted the man on the opposite side of the clearing. Because he was the only officer in the vicinity who didn’t seem to be actively searching the ground for evidence, Rick felt fairly certain that he’d found Nate Langley. He was average height, five-nine or so, and wore a yellow slicker. Rick took in the man’s clean-shaven head, undecided if it was an effort to disguise a receding hairline or an attempt to appear tougher.

A dark-haired woman, soaked with rain and hunched beneath a heavy blanket, stood next to the man. Rick frowned. If she was their witness, the one who got away, she was too old to fit the previous profile. The victims eight years ago had been much younger—fifteen to seventeen.

At Rick’s approach, both glanced in his direction. The man said something to the woman, and she immediately turned and moved away as if wanting to avoid Rick.

But then again, maybe it had nothing to do with him. Perhaps she just wanted to escape contact with another stranger. To avoid yet another set of eyes watching her with speculation.

So why had she been allowed to remain? Why hadn’t she been transported out of here?

Though she didn’t go very far, she didn’t look at Rick again. Instead she stared straight ahead, almost defiantly.

What had she seen tonight?

In spite of her condition—the wet hair, the muddy clothes—she was striking. As she lifted the blanket, using it to wipe the rain from her face, her chin quivered and her hold on the blanket seemed to intensify.

Watching her, he recalled what it had been like to be called out in the middle of the night to preside over tragedy. This was the part of police work he was thankful to have left behind.

These days, by the time he became involved with perpetrators or victims, most of the heartache, the fear, was carefully concealed behind pride or belligerence. The insight left him unsettled.

The man moved to meet Rick. There was nothing welcoming in his face or in the extended hand, just the required professional greeting.

“Detective Langley.” Langley’s hand dropped. “I assume you have something for me. Besides the notes. Something that you felt compelled you to drive all the way out here to deliver personally.”

“Actually, I thought you might have some questions for me. We both know that a favorable outcome is only possible if you move fast. You don’t have time to wade through years of reports.”

Langley cocked his head as he jabbed his hands into the pockets of the slicker. “I won’t need to. At least not tonight. Kenny Lennox is on his way out here. You may recall that he worked the original investigation, right alongside your father.”

“And the case went cold two years later. What Kenny had, what you’ll be using in the next few hours to make crucial decisions, is two years’ worth of investigation notes, of interviews that led nowhere. The information I have is much more current—”

“But no more conclusive. If it was, I wouldn’t have needed to call you tonight, would I?”

Even though Langley looked ready to throw Rick out, Rick wasn’t giving up.

He had positioned himself so that he could watch the woman over Langley’s shoulder. Langley hadn’t even been living in Charleston when the previous murders had taken place. Was it possible that he just hadn’t asked the right questions? That she knew more than she’d already revealed?

He refocused on Langley. “My father believed that there was a Charleston connection. Kenny Lennox didn’t. Last theory I heard out of Kenny’s mouth was the kidnappers were just passing through.”

The woman suddenly took several steps toward where two crime-scene techs spread a second tarp next to the first. Rick knew what was about to happen—if there was a body beneath that pile of dirt, it was going to be dug up.

Did the woman know who was in the grave, then?

When Rick glanced at Langley, he realized the detective was also watching her. As his gaze reconnected with Rick’s, Langley’s face tightened. “I appreciate your bringing out the records and your offer to help, but my men can take it from here.”

“You do realize that the Midnight Run victims were younger than your witness over there? They were all in their late teens.”

Even as he said it, Rick was thinking about an officer who had just walked out of the woods thirty or so feet to the east of them. Langley had his men still searching the woods. Why? What were they looking for? More victims that were still alive? Or more graves?

“I’m aware that the previous victims were in their late teens. And that the crime scene eight years ago was less than a mile from here. And that the spot where your father was found was even less than that.” He wiped at his face. “This is an official investigation. I don’t need you mucking this up to further your own agenda.”

Langley waved over the officer Rick had noticed seconds earlier. “I’ll have one of my men accompany you back to your car to collect those files. I’ll have them copied and get the originals back to you by morning.”

Langley’s cell phone rang. As he checked the caller ID, the lead detective moved away, turning his back in dismissal before actually answering.

The officer Langley had motioned over continued toward them. There was no way Rick was leaving now. When he arrived, Rick held out his car keys. “It’s the silver Explorer at the back of the line. The boxes I brought for Detective Langley are on the backseat.”

The officer glanced toward his superior as if wanting some indication that this was why he’d been called over, but Langley’s back was turned and he was still on the phone.

After several seconds more of obvious internal debate, the officer took the key ring. “Silver SUV, right?”

“Three boxes.”

As soon as the officer walked away, Rick’s gaze swung to the woman. She continued to stare at the tarp.

Was he really the kind of son of a bitch who would use the victim of a crime to further his own agenda?

As it turned out, he was.