LET ME BREATHE, page 22
But her gut disagreed.
The feeling that she was on the right track urged her forward.
Finding an employee on Savendyne’s roster who shared the same surname as Judith’s sister had boosted Ashley’s belief that the woman’s nephew had returned to Sparks County. Although the man’s name—Moore—was common in the area, she felt the odds ranked high that she’d identified the right person.
But one thing had surprised Ashley. Moore’s record had proved to be squeaky clean. The man didn’t even have a speeding ticket. Although it seemed odd, she reminded herself that before being arrested for murder, the notorious serial killer, Odie Blanchard, had never been charged with a crime. Employed as a firefighter, Blanchard had been a trusted member of his community. The same could be true of Royce Moore.
Even if Moore turned out not to be related to Judith—if the shared name was a simple coincidence—Ashley believed that the woman’s nephew would prove to be the toxic waste killer. All the evidence pointed to Judith’s death as the motive. There was no other logical reason for the killer to recreate the symptoms of ALS in his victims.
Before heading for Royce Moore’s home, Ashley had attempted to determine whether or not an older model blue sedan had been registered to the man. But the DMV database, which had earned the reputation for having one of the slowest servers on the planet, was now down. She had no way of knowing whether he owned the car spotted in the parking lots of the hazardous waste treatment facility or the preprocessing center.
The SUV’s tires hugged the curves as Ashley snaked her way along the side of a mountain, eating up the ground as fast as she dared. She’d isolated Moore’s address from a search of the tax records. He’d purchased the home eighteen years earlier.
Judith’s nephew would have been around twenty years old at the time of the sale. The settlement from Savendyne would likely have been large enough for him to afford to buy the property without a mortgage.
If Moore turned out to be older than forty, Ashley would know that she had the wrong man.
The road straightened as she reached the mountain’s top. In the mirror, she caught sight of Foster’s cruiser as it peeked over the rise. She was glad that Foster had decided to visit Wyatt at the hospital. She believed him to be the most skilled of the sheriff’s deputies. The person that she wanted to provide her with backup.
If she was right and Moore was the killer, their lives could be in danger.
Ashley needed a deputy who could think on his feet. Who knew how to outsmart the enemy.
Just after she passed a dingy white trailer, the SUV’s navigation system warned Ashley that she was nearing the road where Moore lived. Easing her foot off the gas, she watched for the street sign ahead. Her reduced speed allowed Foster to catch up with her.
As she made the turn, the forest parted, and open fields and fenced pasture flanked the roadway. A half-mile later, Moore’s mailbox appeared on the right.
Gravel crunched beneath the SUV’s tires as Ashley rolled up the driveway. A gray pickup rested to the left of the beige vinyl-sided house. Ashley didn’t see the blue sedan, but the modest, single-story home featured an attached garage. The car could be hidden inside.
Ashley hopped out of the SUV as Foster’s vehicle eased to a stop behind her.
She wondered whether Moore had heard them arrive. If he was watching from a window. Ashley wanted to peek inside the garage before heading to the front door, but she feared Moore would catch her snooping around.
Having Foster along as backup carried one disadvantage. His Sparks County Sheriff’s Department cruiser. One glance by Moore would reveal the identity of his guests. Would he willingly answer their questions? Would he flee from a back door?
Or would he greet them with gunfire?
The way Ashley’s luck had been running, she expected the worst.
She waited for Foster to exit his vehicle. He didn’t say a word, but the nod he threw her indicated that he was prepared for whatever they would face. The deputy followed her up the cracked sidewalk leading to the concrete front porch.
Ashley rang the bell. “Mr. Moore,” she shouted. “TBI.”
She realized that Moore probably didn’t draw a distinction between the sheriff’s department and the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation. To most mountain folk, the law was the law. And law enforcement officers weren’t to be trusted.
Receiving no answer, she rang the bell again. Then Ashley pounded on the door.
“TBI, Mr. Moore!”
Silence greeted her.
Moving to the double window on her left, Ashley peered between one of the narrow gaps separating the mini blinds into a living room. The furnishing proved sparse—two recliner chairs and a television. She didn’t see any signs of life.
As she turned away from the window, Foster met her gaze.
“I don’t think he’s home,” the deputy said. “Place feels empty.”
Foster was right. Ashley’s instincts told her the same. Although disappointment flooded her chest, at least they’d have a chance to look around. To see if they could find the blue sedan.
Did Moore own a third vehicle? Or had he driven the car into town? She guessed it was possible that he could have left on foot. It was hunting season. He could have ventured into the forest up the road.
“Let’s see if we can get a look inside Moore’s garage,” Ashley said.
Leaving the porch, she strode back down the sidewalk. She squeezed between the boxwood shrubs planted along the side of the house and pressed her face against the panes of one of the two garage windows.
The crack between the slats of the blinds was just wide enough for her to see a flatbed trailer loaded with a zero-turn mower and lawn equipment. The employee roster she’d received from Savendyne listed Moore’s job title as groundskeeper. Ashley doubted that there would be enough yard work in the late autumn to keep Moore busy. The chilly weather would provide plenty of time in his schedule to commit the murders.
Ashley backed away from the window.
“The blue sedan is not in there,” she told Foster.
Side-by-side, she and the deputy circled around the end of the house.
Pastureland edged the rear side of Moore’s property. As Ashley and Foster entered the backyard, a loud whinny called out to them. A sorrel mare stretched its neck across the woven wire fence, begging for attention.
Foster climbed the steps of the wooden deck and Ashley veered toward the pasture.
She rubbed her hand along the bridge of the horse’s nose.
“Hi there,” she cooed.
To her right, skirting the inside of the fence, stood a salt block and a long water trough. Ashley glanced toward the ground.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The red clay dirt surrounding the water trough had grown soft, but not quite muddy. Footprints lined Ashley’s side of the fence.
Cowboy boots.
Although she was no expert, to Ashley the prints appeared to be around a size ten-and-a-half. The same toe and heel shape as the prints she’d seen in Daphne’s family room.
As she pulled out her phone to take photos, Foster sidled up next to her.
“If I was a betting man,” he began. “I’d wager those belong to our killer.”
Ashley agreed.
She heard Foster’s police radio crackle to life.
“…report of a pileup on highway 825 near mile marker 79. At least three fatalities and two with severe injuries. The ambulance is twenty-five minutes out. All units near the area please respond.”
Ashley had seen the highway on the map. It was probably only a mile or two from Moore’s house.
Foster met her gaze, an apologetic look crossing his face. “I’m closest to the wreck,” he said. “The way our patrols are set up, everybody else is at least fifteen minutes away.”
Ashley knew Foster had worked as an EMT before joining the sheriff’s department. His skills could make a world of difference at the crash site.
“You need to go,” she told him. “You might be able to save someone’s life.”
“You’re sure?”
They had no way of knowing where Moore had gone. And it could be hours before the man returned. With no warrant to go inside the house, they’d seen all they could see.
“Of course. We can come back and question Moore as soon as you’re finished. Maybe he’ll be home by then.”
With the deputy leaving, she’d head back into town. Ashley couldn’t risk staying at the house by herself. She needed backup to confront Moore.
The thought of driving over to Savendyne Chemicals struck her. Since it was Saturday, the plant would be deserted. She’d have a chance to snoop around the area where the expansion was being constructed. Maybe she’d discover a clue that could help her figure out the identity of the killer’s next target.
With no one else at the site, it should be fine for her to visit Savendyne alone.
Ashley doubted anything would go wrong.
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
Royce Moore skulked through the gloom, edging his way along the dusty wall of the unfinished corridor that joined the old section of the Savendyne Chemicals building to the area of new construction. He could hear Driscoll’s voice echoing from the adjacent room.
As Moore peeked around the door frame, his pulse accelerated.
Driscoll’s back faced the door. He held a cell phone to his ear.
“It won’t take too long,” the construction foreman said. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”
Ending the call, Driscoll grabbed a thermos from the top of a workbench, lifted it to his lips and took a long drink. He whistled to himself as he replaced the lid.
Although Driscoll was a few years younger than Moore, the man was short and thin. Subduing him would be easy.
Without making a sound, Moore crept across the threshold. He moved in behind Driscoll. In one swift move, he clamped his muscular arm around the man’s throat, cutting off the blood flow to the foreman’s brain with a sleeper hold.
Unconscious, Driscoll dropped to the floor, the coffee thermos rolling under the workbench.
Moore injected a dose of quazodine into the foreman’s upper arm.
Maybe you should kill Driscoll, Judith said.
She was always nagging. Acting as though he wasn’t smart enough to do the job by himself.
Moore shook his head. “Naw. He didn’t see my face. He don’t know it was me.”
Driscoll wasn’t a decision maker. It wasn’t his fault that the plant was expanding. The foreman was just following orders. A pawn in the game.
Just like Judith had been.
Moore wasn’t sure how long Driscoll would be unconscious, but the paralyzing effects of the quazodine would last at least five hours.
Before pocketing the drug, Moore checked the vial. He was starting to run low on the paralytic. But the man who worked at the zoo in Chattanooga had promised to sell him more.
He pulled two long strips of cotton fabric—ripped from a bedsheet—out of the side pocket of his work pants. He balled up one of the strips and stuffed it into the foreman’s mouth. He wrapped the other strip around Driscoll’s cheeks and head.
Once he was sure that the gag was tight enough, Moore rolled Driscoll over on the floor and removed his yellow safety vest. Then he dragged the man across the room into a dark alcove and covered him with a blue tarp.
You forgot his phone, Judith chided, a stern expression covering her face.
“No, I didn’t,” he said. “Just give me time.”
The truth was: he had forgotten. But he would never admit it to her.
Moore fished Driscoll’s cell from the man’s pocket. After switching off the phone, he dropped it next to the man’s body and replaced the tarp.
As he walked back toward the workbench, voices floated toward him from outside the building. He moved to the exterior wall and peered through a cutout, covered by a clear plastic sheet, where a window would go.
Gwen, the plant manager, stood next to two older men—bigwigs from Atlanta. Her blonde ponytail bobbed beneath her hardhat as she gestured toward the building, an excited expression plastered on her face.
They were thirty minutes early.
Moore rushed back to the workbench, picked up Driscoll’s white hardhat and shoved it down on top of his head. Then he slipped on the yellow vest. For the benefit of the bigwigs, he added a pair of safety goggles. He figured the two men would only remember his attire and not his face.
As Savendyne’s groundskeeper, Moore was used to the higher-ups looking past him, never making eye contact.
A soft tapping noise drew his attention.
He headed back to the window. The heels of Gwen’s shoes thumped against a wooden ramp as the trio made their way up the foundation to the floor of the building. It was time for him to spring into action. To give his performance.
Tipping the hard hat down closer to his eyes, Moore grabbed a large flashlight from the top of the workbench and then hurried through the building toward the entrance.
When Gwen saw him, her smile evaporated.
“Who are you?” she asked, aggravation in her tone.
The woman galled him with her high and mighty attitude. She didn’t care about the people who worked at the factory. Her only concern seemed to be the fat raise she would get when she transferred to the new plant.
Rumor had it, Gwen was the reason Savendyne had chosen Sparks County for the new facility. But the woman wouldn’t be alive to run it.
“My name’s Tom, ma’am,” Moore lied, hiding his hatred.
“Where is Driscoll?”
“He ain’t gonna be able to make it. He asked me to take over.”
She sighed. “Very well then. We’ll let you know if we have questions.”
Moore translated her words to mean that he wasn’t allowed to speak unless they spoke to him first. He guessed that Gwen considered herself Savendyne’s queen. And the plant’s employees—the people who actually did the work—were her servants.
He followed the plant manager and the two men from Atlanta through the various rooms contained in the building’s new extension. In the areas where there were no windows, he directed the beam of the flashlight just ahead of their path. He listened as Gwen pointed out each section, detailing the equipment that was being installed, and explaining how they planned to make the chemical manufacturing process more efficient.
When the tour was over, Moore tagged along behind the trio, stepping down the wooden ramp. Before Gwen could veer toward the parking lot, he spoke.
“Ma’am, I need to talk to you. In private,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
She turned to face him, irritation in her eyes.
“What is it?”
He glanced toward the men from Atlanta, a silent repeat of his request for privacy.
Gwen nodded.
She walked the bigwigs out to their car, said her goodbyes, and then returned to the base of the ramp.
“What do you need to tell me?” she asked.
“It’s something I need to show you. We got a problem inside the building. A big problem.”
He hoped she wouldn’t ask for details. But if she did, he had a story ready.
She stared at him. “Is it something Driscoll can handle?”
“No ma’am. You really need to take a look.”
For a second, he thought that she might refuse.
“All right,” she finally said. “Lead the way.”
She followed him back up the ramp into the building.
“I ain’t sure how it happened,” he said, launching into the story. “But this mistake is gonna cost us time. At least a month.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He had her attention now.
“No, ma’am.”
He led Gwen to the room with the workbench. A set of blueprints for the project rested on top. He flipped back two of the pages.
“Look right here,” he said.
When she leaned toward the bench, Moore struck.
He grabbed her around the torso, his arms like a vice.
Gwen screamed as he injected her with the quazodine.
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
Still sorting through the facts of the murder investigation in her mind, Ashley wheeled the SUV down the access road leading to Savendyne Chemicals. Her gut screamed that she’d guessed right about the killer’s identity. She felt certain that Royce Moore was Judith’s nephew. And that he had murdered Hannah, Trina, and Daphne.
Judith had raised Moore, so they’d likely been close. Her death must have hit him hard. Especially since he’d been forced to watch as she wasted away. Unable to move, her mind still fully aware, still able to feel pain.
Ashley loathed Moore for the murders. And she hoped that he’d be sentenced to life in prison. Or even be handed the death penalty. But she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the child he’d once been. The child that had to suffer through the horrific effects of his aunt’s disease.
In his twisted mind, Moore could believe that murdering the people responsible for bringing the new chemical plant to Sparks County might actually save lives. If he thought that he could halt the facility’s construction, he would be able to prevent other workers from being exposed to toxic chemicals. Could avert the future employees’ development of debilitating symptoms, similar to those his aunt had endured. And even prevent their deaths.
Reaching the fork in the access road, Ashley veered to the right toward the sprawling building’s main office. As she’d suspected, the parking lot that fronted the office lay empty. She hoped that meant she’d be able to poke around uninterrupted.
Slowing the SUV to a crawl, she studied the building’s silhouette, the towering storage tanks and metal piping dark against the azure sky. She guessed that she’d find the new construction at the rear of the plant.
Ashley circled around the front end of the building. The wide parking lot narrowed to a single lane road that stretched along the right side of the plant. Up ahead, she could see another parking area and three dump trucks sitting in a row. She realized that she must be nearing the construction zone.
