Someone is Watching, page 10
“Given your background, you were naturally sympathetic to her story,” Sam said.
“I hung on her every word and so did my listeners. She was that good. After we’d established a rapport, she asked to meet for coffee and I agreed. I knew it wasn’t a good idea, but I felt sorry for her and she was an expert at using my survivor’s guilt against me. I couldn’t help Riley, but maybe I could somehow help Marie.”
“What happened?”
“The next thing I knew she’d wormed her way into every aspect of my life, trolling for dirt to include in her book. One of my friends became alarmed by her obsessive behavior. She told my brother about Marie and he dug around until he uncovered her real identity.”
“You haven’t had any contact with her since then?”
“Right after the book came out, I took a couple of calls on my show from someone pretending to be a fan. She asked a lot of probing questions and I wondered at the time if the caller might be Marie... Melanie.”
“You didn’t recognize her voice?”
Ellie met his dark gaze and shivered. “Like I said, she was that good.”
* * *
AFTER LEAVING ELLIE’S place that morning, Sam made the two-and-a-half-hour drive back to Dallas to fill out the necessary paperwork that would accompany the friendship bracelet to the crime lab in Virginia. He made a few phone calls, hoping to rush things along, but he doubted even under the best of circumstances that he’d hear anything for a few weeks. He worked at his desk until after lunch and then by late afternoon, he was back in Nance County. Instead of driving to the lake or into Belle Pointe, he took the scenic route out to Cory Small’s farm.
The lush countryside hadn’t changed much in fifteen years. The paved road was shaded by a deep pine forest and scented with honeysuckle that grew in thick hedges along the ditches. Sam lowered his window, letting the fragrant country air wash through his car.
He knew the way despite the passage of time. After the local authorities had requested FBI assistance, Sam had driven out a couple of times with the first Sheriff Brannon and once by himself to talk to Silas Creed’s sister. He remembered Ellen Small as a thin, harried woman with a sad smile and a careworn expression. The son, Cory, had been a senior in high school at the time of the kidnapping. Both Sam and Sheriff Brannon had taken a hard look at the boy, but he’d had an alibi for the night in question and nothing so much as a speeding ticket on his record. By all accounts, he was a good kid and model student, courteous, cooperative and protective of his mother.
As Sam neared his destination, professionally painted signs advertising the farm cropped up on the side of the road. He’d done a little research before leaving Dallas. Cory Small had expanded the business after his mother died, adding a nursery and landscaping service to the vegetable gardens. The farm also offered hayrides, picnics and seasonal berry picking to elementary schools in the area. If parents and school officials remembered Cory Small’s relationship to Silas Creed, they didn’t seem to hold it against him.
A young woman wearing a green logo T-shirt waved from behind one of the fresh produce stands as he turned off the main road. The gates were still open so he drove right through, his tires crunching on loose gravel as he pulled into the parking lot.
He got out and glanced around at his surroundings. The property was beautifully landscaped with lush shrubs and trees and wooden tubs overflowing with flowers. Sam adjusted his tie and put on his suit coat despite the heat. People tended to respond more cooperatively to a professional presentation.
A man watering the hanging baskets gave him a brief nod as he took in the business attire.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Cory Small.”
“He was in the greenhouse last I saw him. Straight back. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
Sam made his way through the maze of plant beds and displays of ceramic planters toward the greenhouse. The doors were open and two women milled about inside, admiring the orchids. Sam spotted a man at the back unloading more plants. He was in his early thirties, average height, lean build, deeply tanned. He smiled and nodded pleasantly as Sam approached.
“I’m looking for Cory Small,” Sam said. “I was told I could find him in the greenhouse.”
“And so you have. What can I do for you today? If you’re looking for an orchid, the cymbidiums just arrived this morning. They’re about as fresh as you can get in these parts. We also have a few exotics, but they’ll cost you,” he warned.
“I’m not here to buy a plant.” Sam took out his credentials. “Agent Sam Reece with the FBI. Do you have a moment to talk?”
The man’s guard went up. The smile disappeared as he straightened, casting a wary glance toward the entrance where customers still lingered over the orchids. Then he scanned Sam’s identification and glanced up with a frown. “Don’t I know you? Yeah, I remember you now. You and Sheriff Brannon came out here to talk to my mother about my uncle after those girls disappeared. You came back the next day by yourself. You asked a lot of questions, as I recall. What’s this about, anyway?” His voice dropped as he tugged off his work gloves. “Have you found my uncle?”
“Silas Creed remains a person of interest and is still at large so far as we know. But there has been a new development in the case,” Sam said.
The man’s expression grew even more guarded. “What would that be?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. Is there somewhere more private where we can speak?”
Cory Small looked as if he wanted to refuse, but then nodded and motioned for Sam to follow him out the back door of the greenhouse. Sam paused as his gaze lit on a black hat hanging from a wooden peg inside the door.
“Is that your hat?” he asked.
Cory glanced back, startled. “I’m sorry, what?” His gaze went to the wall and he frowned. “Oh, the hat. It was my mother’s. I can’t remember a time she didn’t have that thing on when she was working out in the sun. I keep it around because she’s still so much a part of this place.” He paused reverently. “I’ve kept all her favorite tools, too. Didn’t seem right to get rid of them.” He nodded to the crowded pegs beside the hat.
Sam took in the memorial as he expressed his condolences. Silas Creed had been depicted with a similar hat on the ceiling of the Ruins. Sam thought about the description Ellie had given of the person she’d seen the day before—average height, slim build. Wide-brim hat pulled down low to hide his features. His gaze went back to Cory Small.
“She’s been gone nearly five years and I still miss her every day,” he said. “Always will, I guess.”
“It’s hard losing a parent no matter your age.”
Cory nodded. “My mother’s life wasn’t easy. I comfort myself that she’s at peace now.”
He stared at the hat for a moment longer, still with a contemplative frown, before he turned to the back exit and stepped outside. Sam followed him out. They walked several yards away from the greenhouse before Cory turned. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here, Agent Reece? If you haven’t found my uncle, what is it you want to talk to me about?”
“As I said, there’s been a new development. Since the case has never been closed, we follow up on every lead.”
Cory ran fingers through his hair as he glanced out over his property. “I’d like to help you. I really would. But I don’t know what more I can do. My mother and I told you everything we could about my uncle after he left town.”
“A lot can happen in fifteen years,” Sam said. “You or your mother never had any contact with Silas Creed after he disappeared? No phone calls or letters?”
A shadow drifted over the man’s features. Something that might have been anger glinted in his eyes. “All these years later and you people are still trying to drag her into that nightmare.”
“I don’t mean any disrespect,” Sam said. “I’m just trying to get at the facts.”
“The facts? How many times do we have to tell you? We never saw or heard from my uncle after that night nor did we help him leave town. If you want to know the truth, we were both glad he was gone. We felt terrible about what happened to those girls—”
“Riley Cavanaugh and Jenna Malloy,” Sam supplied.
The shadow deepened. “Yes. Riley and Jenna. I went to school with them. My mother knew their families. We would have done anything to change what happened. You can’t imagine what it was like for her, knowing her brother had done such a terrible thing. It took years off her life. So, no. I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help him.”
“But you can understand why we’d wonder if you had,” Sam said. “It’s not easy to disappear without a trace.”
“That may be true, but my uncle was a lot more resourceful than most people gave him credit for. He was smart and educated. Brilliant in some ways. Read everything he could get his hands on. Highly functional when he took his meds.”
“And when he didn’t take his medication?”
Cory winced. “He could be volatile. At times, violent. Which was why my mother didn’t want him living under the same roof with us. I think her childhood must have been pretty traumatic before her parents sent him away. The stories I’ve heard?” He shook his head. “After the hospital closed down and they turned out all the patients, she got him a place in town, helped him find work. Saw to it that he had enough money for food and bills. She did what she could and hoped for the best. Then all those stories started getting back to her about how he would stare in people’s windows at night and how he would sometimes stand outside the fence at the elementary school, watching the children play. I don’t know if any of that was true. You know how cruel people can be, especially when someone is different. But the locals didn’t like having him around and that wore on my mother.”
“Was he ever violent with either of you?” Sam asked.
“He never hit us or anything, but he could be scary as all get out when he lost control. He’d get this look in his eyes? I remember once when I was about twelve or thirteen, he tried to chop down our front door with an ax. My mother and I hid in a closet until Sheriff Brannon arrived. Who knows what would have happened if he’d gotten inside? I kept my distance after that night.”
“How do you suppose he was able to take Riley and Jenna from the Ruins all by himself without any signs of a struggle? He wasn’t a big man and yet somehow he subdued three teenage girls and knocked Tom Brannon out cold.”
Cory nodded. “I’ve thought about that. He wasn’t big but he was tough as nails. All that physical labor kept him in shape. He had a truck, too, don’t forget. He could have loaded those girls in the back and driven across the state line before anyone knew they were missing.”
“And then he drove Jenna back to the area nearly three weeks later and let her go?”
“You’re the FBI agent. You tell me how he did it.”
“It’s possible he had help,” Sam said. “It’s also possible Jenna and Riley were held somewhere nearby. This area is rural with dozens of abandoned farmhouses and barns, not to mention basements and storm cellars. We’re talking miles and miles of dense forest. No way to cover every inch of it.”
“Yes, but if they were still in the area, wouldn’t the bloodhounds have picked up the trail?”
“If your uncle was as smart as you say, he would have known how to mask their scent. But that’s a lot for one person to accomplish in a short amount of time. Did your uncle have any close friends or buddies?”
“Buddies? Are you serious?”
“You never saw him hanging out with anyone?”
“People around here thought my uncle a weirdo at best and a psycho at worst. I guess they were right on both counts.”
“He was able to get work so he must have had some interaction with the locals.”
“People gave him work as a favor to my mother.” Cory shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced back at the greenhouse. “Look, this is just a rehash of what we discussed fifteen years ago. I don’t have anything new to add to the conversation so if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get back to work.”
“Just a couple more questions,” Sam said. “You mentioned stories about your uncle that got back to your mother. Is that the reason she brought him to the farm to live?”
“She didn’t exactly bring him here to live. Sometimes he just needed a place to crash when he took a bad turn. She’d let him stay in the garden shed at the back of the property until things leveled out. He had a kitchenette he could use, a bathroom with a shower, everything he needed, and she made sure he had a warm bed and plenty to eat. He’d sometimes spend weeks holed up out there and never talk to another living soul except for my mother. When he got better, he’d go back to his place in town.”
“Is the garden shed still standing?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, it’s in pretty good shape. I recently repaired the roof and added a fresh coat of paint. Sometimes one of my seasonal workers needs a place to stay so I try to keep the place livable.”
“Is anyone staying there now? I’d like to take a look around before I leave.”
Cory frowned. “Why? If you didn’t find anything out there fifteen years ago, what makes you think you’ll find something now?”
“I don’t expect to find anything. Like I said, I just want to take a look around.” Sam gave him a pointed look. “Is there a reason you don’t want me to go out there?”
He shrugged. “Normally, no, but I’ve got the place rented out. I don’t let strangers stay there as a rule but she was pretty persuasive. One of the stipulations of our agreement is that she be allowed to work without interruption.”
“She?”
“Someone from the city. A writer named Melanie Kent.”
Chapter Eight
Sam glanced over his shoulder as he strode along the dirt path. Cory Small had returned to the greenhouse and Sam didn’t see anyone else about. He’d pretended to go back to his car after their talk, but instead had doubled back once Cory was out of sight.
No wonder he and Tom Brannon had had so much difficulty locating Melanie Kent. The reporter had purposefully dropped off the grid while she wrote another book about the kidnapping. What better inspiration than Silas Creed’s former retreat, the place where he’d been holed up when he abducted Jenna and Riley and left Ellie and her brother for dead?
As the structure came into view, Sam paused once more to search his surroundings. Nestled at the tree line, the garden-shed-turned-cottage was quiet and secluded. The charcoal color blended with the deep shade of the woods. Two small windows flanked the entrance and a metal awning over the front door provided protection from inclement weather.
Sam could almost imagine Silas Creed peering out one of the windows, tracking his approach. The hair lifted at the back of his nape. He didn’t believe in ghosts or demons, but in his experience, evil had a tendency to linger in physical places. He tried to shake off a dark foreboding as he walked the perimeter, noting the placement of windows and the rear exit before he came back around to knock. He rapped firmly and the door creaked open. Melanie Kent hadn’t felt the need to lock up, which likely meant she was either inside or somewhere nearby. He toed the crack wider.
“Federal Agent! I’m here to see Melanie Kent. Anyone home?”
He glanced over his shoulder. The path behind him remained clear. He turned back to the door and called out again. “This is Agent Sam Reece with the FBI. I need to speak with Melanie Kent.”
Still no response.
He pushed the door inward and stepped over the threshold. The late afternoon sun shone through the open windows, creating shafts of warm light in the shadowy interior. His gaze swept the room. No red glowing eyes peering around furniture. No lurking silhouettes in darkened doorways.
No Melanie Kent, either.
On first glance, the place seemed almost pleasant in its utilitarian design. The rough-hewn walls had been painted white, but the floor and ceiling beams had been left natural. It was only on deeper scrutiny that one noticed the gloom creeping in from the corners.
Sam took a moment to scope out the place. The kitchenette was located to his immediate left and the living space to his right consisted of a worn chair, a neatly made daybed and a small desk, which doubled as a nightstand. A ceiling fan stirred pages in a yellow legal pad that had been tossed on the bed and the dozens of images that had been tacked to the wall above the desk.
Sam took a quick glance out one of the front windows before he strode across the room to browse the photographs. Melanie Kent had divided the images into two categories—people and places. Sam started with the Ruins. The reporter had shot the crumbling hospital from every angle at various times of the day. The place looked to be in a lot worse shape than he remembered. Most of the front windows were broken and boarded and the roof had collapsed in places. An old wheelchair lay upended in the weeds. Sam studied the exterior shots before following the photographic trail inside where graffiti covered the walls and Preacher peered down from the ceiling. The red glowing eyes beneath the brim of the black hat seemed to pierce right through the camera lens.
Upstairs, the reporter had meticulously documented the shadowy rooms where gurneys and rat-infested mattresses had been piled to the ceiling, and on the third floor, where sunlight glimmered down through the holes in the roof and vines snaked in through jagged windows.
She’d photographed the lake, the Cavanaugh ranch and various locations in Belle Pointe, including the sheriff’s office and the houses where Jenna Malloy and Ellie Brannon had grown up.
