Kidnapped, page 26
part #10 of Riveting Kidnapping Mystery Series
Fifteen feet from the side of the shed.
The dog bayed and clawed viciously at the glass, rattling the window.
The figure reached the threshold. The mouth of the shotgun peeked out of the doorway.
Five more feet.
The barking intensified.
The man’s foot landed on the lawn.
Adrenaline drove Anna to the shed wall, where she landed harshly. Rennard reached her at the same time and trained his gun at the tiny building’s corner. Anna tapped him on the shoulder and hiked her thumb.
The clerk completely exited the slanted-roof shed and crinkled his brows at the barking dog. A tactical shotgun hung heavy in his hand and panned across the yard. Cords of muscles rippled the back of his shirt, and sweat glistened his reddening neck.
“What is it, boy?” he asked the animal. Slobber slung on the window as the beast bit air and snarled.
The grass crunched beneath Anna’s foot as she approached the opposite corner of the shed. The clerk distanced himself from the small building and paused at the sight of Rennard’s vehicle. Before he twisted around, Rennard left his hiding spot and aimed the pistol at the clerk’s back.
“Drop it,” the agent demanded with cool confidence.
The clerk’s muscles tightened, but he didn’t move. The howling dog clawed at the glass as if digging a hole.
“You heard him,” Anna said, stepping out from the other side of the shed and aiming her gun at the clerk.
“This is private property,” the clerk said with his back to the both of them. “You’re trespassing.”
“What’s in the shed?” Anna asked.
“None of your business.”
Rennard stepped up. “Actually, it is our business. Put down the gun.”
Anna maneuvered around the front of the shed, keeping her pistol trained on the man with the shotgun. She glanced back into the little wood room. A high-powered flashlight with a round bulb blasted light across the plywood floor. Shelves mounted on the walls held hand tools and a radio.
“You don’t have the right to go in there,” the clerk barked.
“Drop the weapon,” Rennard growled. “Or we will have problems. You and the FBI. You don’t want that crap show, trust me.”
Anna slipped into the shed. Aside from the tools and radio, there was nothing inside. The floor creaked under her feet. The floorboard wobbled. Anna felt a crease on the plywood with her finger and pulled up the splintery slat. Dug about two feet deep was an Army surplus crate five feet long. A heavy-duty lock hanging from its latch. Anna exited the shed as the clerk kicked the shotgun back to Rennard.
“Turn around,” the agent commanded.
With hands up, the clerk spun around with hands raised. His black eyes burned with anger and his jaw clenched.
Anna kept her gun aimed. “Give me the key.”
“You don’t have the right to do this,” the clerk growled. His thick neck was blood red in rage.
“Then let’s skip the BS,” Anna said, ignoring his comment. “You sold that assault rifle from the picture I showed you. To who?”
The clerk ground his teeth.
“Selling illegal arms is a felony offense, and that charge could be lessened if you give us something,” Anna bargained.
The clerk shook in anger, and like someone toggled a switch, the anger swiftly turned to desperation. “I want to make a deal.”
“You’re not in the place to negotiate,” Rennard said bitterly.
Anna lowered her gun. “Let’s hear him out.”
The clerk took a breath and spoke directly to Anna. “I tell you about the guy who I sold it to, and we all forget about today. I sure as hell know that holding a civilian at gunpoint isn’t legal.”
“In court, who do you think the judge will believe? An FBI agent or an arms dealer?” Rennard said.
“You don’t know what I have or what I am,” the clerk said. “The crates remain sealed, and the sales records are unchecked. You screw me, and I’ll drag this investigation on for years.”
“Tell us who you sold the weapon to, and if the information is solid, we’ll oblige. Agreed?” Anna offered.
The clerk grumbled and said, “How can I trust you?”
“You can’t,” Anna said honestly. “But we can’t trust you, either, so that’s where we stand.”
After a moment, the clerk spoke. “It was the guy from the news. The one they call the Butcher of Van Buren. He bought a rifle and the bullets a few weeks back. He wanted something that could saw down a tree, he said. My usuals are hunters or competition shooters looking for some backyard fun, but this guy didn’t look like either. He paid double the list price in cash. I obliged, and we went our separate ways.”
“You have to give us more than that,” Anna said. “Anything about where he was going or someone he worked with.”
“I’m not in the business of asking questions.” the clerk said and then paused for recall. “He was very particular about where we should deal.”
Rennard and Anna traded looks.
“A boat storehouse,” the clerk elaborated. “Near the Arkansas River. I’ll give you the address, and then we’re solid?”
Rennard was about to speak when Anna said, “Deal.”
Rennard agreed. “You have twenty-four hours to get out of the state, or you’re done. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” the clerk said.
Anna took down the address and climbed into Rennard’s car. The clerk watched them from the driveway. Rennard pulled out his cell and dialed a number.
“Who are you calling?” Anna asked as she studied the address.
“The FBI. You think I’m going to let his crime slide?” Rennard chuckled. “Sides, if Cain’s in that warehouse, I’m not going alone. Nice play, though. Let’s see if this takes us anywhere.”
Anna looked out the passenger side window as the clerk headed back inside the shed. He shut the door behind him, cutting off the spilling light.
“Hey, Paul. It’s me, Justin. You wouldn’t believe who I just talked to…” the agent said and peeled away. “… an arms dealer. Crazy, huh?”
The water looked black at night. It flowed in a steady, wakeless rush separating the bright lights of Fort Smith and the dim glow of Van Buren. Bass boats bobbed on the glass surface, but the black sky shrouded the seafaring vessels. Boxed in by a fence with taut lines of barbed wire spread around its top, the cluster of storehouses hugged the river’s surface. They were similar in design: windowless rectangular structures crafted from chipping wood and patched with squares of rippled metal that had rust blisters. Water sloshed under their swinging back gates that hovered over the river, and there was a door on the side of the wall.
Scarabs in the night, black sedans dispersed throughout the private harbor and landed next to the “Unit for Lease” sign. Anna loosened the Velcro on her bulletproof vest and re-tightened it to get clearer airflow through her lungs. Around her, FBI agents stepped out of their black cars and moved toward the building while whispering orders into their earpieces. Anna stayed behind Rennard as they journeyed toward the boat storehouse’s unit five. The rest of the agents swarmed the building. The pistol felt good in Anna’s hands. If Cain were hiding, this would be the place. With quiet steps, they moved to the door.
Bolt cutters snapped the chain and the agents slipped inside. The room had a wooden walkway that formed a U around a body of river water that ran in and out from under the back boat gate. The long columns that supported the front portion of the building were dressed in a rug of algae and visible in the water. Near the back of the room was a closet. The first agent approached, keeping his gun raised. Every step he made was deliberate, and as he went around the top of the U, the agent’s heel crushed a loose floorboard.
Without warning, a loud bang filled the warehouse and rattled Anna. The man who stepped on the floorboard was on his back, screaming and clenching his butchered thigh and groin. The floorboard below him had exploded into jagged shards, and the red body of a spent shotgun shell was visible underneath. Within moments, the injured agent stopped screaming and all was quiet again. His blood leaked into the water, dissipating into red swirls on the dark surface.
One of the agents called it in. Two more braved the untrustworthy floor and dragged their fallen comrade from the building. The next agent that went had a buzzed head and jittery hands. He avoided any partially loose floorboards and reached the door. He gestured for the others to follow. They did while one led and checked the floor for creaks, spotting at least two more shotgun shell traps hardly visible under various planks.
They proceeded onward, backs to the wall, and opened the closet door from its side. Another blast of buckshot blew through the doorway but failed to hit anyone else. Inside the windowless closet was a chair with a shotgun clamped to its seat’s top via wooden blocks. Heavy-duty fishing wire ran from the doorknob to the trigger. They checked the room for more traps but found none. The closet consisted of a chair, tool shelf, and a loose strand of black hair. Anna pinched it in her gloved fingers and held it to the light. It was glossy and curly, just like Keisha Rines’s.
“She was here,” Anna said. Is this where Cain had killed her?
The beam of her flashlight cut across a tool desk with a small pencil on it and a coil of dock rope. Droplets of dried blood sprinkled at the foot of the chair. Anna got low and looked around for more clues. Her flashlight caught something at the bottom edge of the seat bottom. Pencil markings on the inner lip of the metal butt. Numbers. Anna gasped at the realization. Yesterday's date. The next was the phrase, “Find the old lady.”
Anna turned to Rennard, who was still recovering from his co-worker’s death. She could hardly believe the words coming out of her mouth. “Keisha Rines is alive.”
25
Da Capo
Quiet overtook the Rines’ house, and though two weeks had passed since Keisha’s abduction, the house still had the same plates on the dishrack, the same ballad on the piano stand, and the same stack of books beside Avery’s recliner. A coat of dust clung to various rewards and trophies inside the large glass case erected in the main hall. The beautiful residence felt unfamiliar during Anna’s first visit, but after the first finger was discovered on the doorstep, the place had the same unspoken qualities as a graveyard. The halls seemed much darker. The stairs leading up to the second floor had an ominous creak, and walking across the flagstone path to the front door made a shiver prickle up Anna’s spine.
With a wrinkled brow, Avery Rines studied the photo. He muttered the words as he read, gulped, and turned his gaze up to Trisha who was leaning over his shoulder. He didn’t need to tell her, but he spoke to enlighten Anna and Rennard sitting on the couch across from them.
“It’s hers,” Avery whispered.
Anna straightened her posture at the revelation. “You sure?”
“I know my daughter's handwriting,” Avery barked. A moment later, he cast down his gaze shamefully. “It’s not a perfect copy, but how could it be? The man—”
Trisha squeezed his shoulder. “We know what the man did, honey. What matters is that our daughter is alive.”
Anna took a breath. Though the den was spacious, it seemed as though the decorated walls were closing in. While Trisha smiled softly and Rennard nodded to himself in victory, harrowing expressions overtook Anna and Avery. They traded a look and shared an unspoken thought. The girl’s alive, but Cain still has her. A sour taste bubbled up in Anna’s mouth, and its potency grew fiercer when she disregarded the small but significant victory.
“What do you think it means?” Trisha asked after a long moment.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Rennard admitted. “Does it mean anything to you?”
Holding each other hand, Avery and Trisha shook their heads.
“Is this old lady helping Cain?” Trisha asked sheepishly.
“That’s our working theory,” Anna explained and forced a smile. “This could be a good thing.”
“How?” Avery asked. His well-structured face was much more sunken than before.
“It means he hasn’t dealt with all the loose ends.” And right now, grabbing for straws is our only option.
Avery chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to convince himself that this could be a lead, not a hindrance.
Rennard scrolled his finger through the notes on his smartphone. “Tell us about the night of the abduction.”
Avery sighed and said the story he’d told a million times. “The three of us were on our way to the car when we got caught up talking. I gave Kei the keys so she could sit in the car. A few minutes later, she was gone.”
If Trisha had any more tears to give, she would cry. Instead, she faintly breathed.
Anna thought about Keisha’s phrase. Find the old lady. “You said you got distracted. By whom?”
“Some woman,” Trisha said. “She said the nicest things about Keisha. If we’d left sooner…”
“Describe the woman.”
“She had red hair, I think, and wore colorful clothing—”
“The woman was heavy set,” Avery interrupted. “I didn’t know her. She was someone’s plus one.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Rennard said as he examined the notes on his phone. “We’ve been through the patron list. Yeah, there were older women, but none wore colorful clothing that night.”
“You ask them about their attire?” Trisha said.
“The more detail, the better,” Rennard explained.
“If she never attended the recital…” Avery thought out loud. “Then what the hell was she doing in the parking lot?”
Suddenly, they all knew.
Rennard drove. Anna watched the video footage Rennard had uploaded to his phone via the Cloud. The stationary camera from the pharmacy covered three-fourths of the parking lot, ending its line of sight at the Rines’ BMW backdoor. The video started with Avery, Trisha, and Keisha, dressed fancily, cutting across the lot. The wide-set, homely woman stepped out of a light-colored Volkswagen Beetle parked just out of view of the camera. The footage was monochromatic, but the darkish shade led Anna to believe the woman had red hair. Her dress was bright, flowing, and fit her body type.
She greeted the Rines with a wide smile and mouthed a few words. Bored out of her mind, Keisha skipped to the BMW, where she vanished. The old woman talked for another fifteen minutes before climbing back into her Volkswagen and driving out of view. Anna rewound the footage but couldn’t get a good view of the license plate. Was that intentional, or did she accidentally avoid the cameras? Anna remembered what Kevin from Project Earthhome said about the second person in Cain’s car that sank down the side of the vehicle. In that regard, the large woman in the Volkswagen fit the bill.
“What do we know about her?” Rennard asked.
“Jack all at the moment,” Anna said. “But, your suggestion should provide us with the necessary answers.”
“Some good can come out of the DMV after all.” Rennard and Anna shared a smile.
They went back to his apartment while the FBI cross-referenced the woman’s face through the DMV database. Call it a hunch, but she probably wasn’t in the criminal database, and this could provide them with a name and address.
They looked over the case files on the carpet floor while eating pizza, arguably the most boring food you can get in a historic river town, but Anna didn’t mind. There wasn’t much to do while they waited. Most of the leads were spent, and the boathouse didn’t offer any other new insight other than the fact that it was the only property without one of Cain’s aliases on it. What that meant for the investigation, Anna had no idea. She only knew that Cain had a keen knowledge of the local area and was likely moving from place to place. Her chest tightened. Would he strike again? There was an officer stationed outside of her father’s hospital room, but when Cain was determined, he wouldn’t think twice about killing the guard and her father.
“Wanna talk about it?” Rennard asked, noticing Anna’s sour expression
“There’s not much to say. My father may die, or he may not. Only time will tell.” Anna looked at the munched-on pizza crust on her paper plate.
Rennard slid down from the couch to the floor, joining her on the floor. “I lost my father, too. He was walking home from the store, clenching too many groceries, when some guy tried to rob him. My father fought back and got a broken bottle in his belly. The wound festered in the hospital. He was gone three days later.”
“Sorry.”
“For those three days, I didn’t leave his side. I thought my worry would keep him alive longer.” Rennard paused for a moment. “I guess the point I’m making is that there are some things that are simply out of our hands.”
Anna lost her appetite.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Rennard got the email. Yawning, he printed out the picture of the driver’s license and called Anna into the living room. Wiping the two hours of sleep from her eyes, Anna joined him on the couch.
Name: Stacy Tipton. Age: 64. Eye Color: Green. Hair: Red. Height: 5’ 4”. She had a large head, soft eyes with crow’s feet, a joyous smile, and the demeanor of the sweetest elementary school teacher.
“My childhood fears are finally realized,” Rennard joked dryly.
“I say we pay her visit.”
Stacy’s home was tucked away in a cul de sac behind Fort Smith. It was a simple, single-story home with a brick-and-wood exterior. Several ceramic frogs, turtles, and garden gnomes stood amidst flowers that were bordered by a circle of bricks on the front yard. Near the front door, a multi-colored spindle speared into the grass spun in the wind. Anna and Rennard watched the house from their car. The lights were off and no vehicle occupied the driveway. Clipping their pistols on, Rennard and Anna stepped out and approached. Anna rang the doorbell.
“We can get a warrant,” Rennard suggested as he peeked through the window at the neatly placed furniture and cat scratching post.
