Blood Reckoning, page 11
“We’re seeing the multi-generational impacts of alcoholism and drug-addiction, the breakdown of the family, and, of course, the impacts and amplifications of social media.”
I think about Mason Hayes and Easton Stevens.
“I seem to be dealing with so many more cases of narcissism, anti-social tendencies, or at least an extreme form of selfishness—particularly among young men.”
She nods. “So much unchecked, toxic masculinity,” she says. “Entitled males whose wounded parents don’t parent, don’t enforce any rules or consequences—and it stretches across all races and socio-economic groups, from frat boys, to rednecks, thugs and gangbangers. It’s an epidemic. And now in many cases there aren’t functional grandparents to help because of their own issues and addictions. And it’s not just the kids I work with. I’ve gotten involved with many men who have some of these same disorders.”
“Do you think one of them could be who attacked you last night?”
She shrugs. “I guess it’s possible, but . . . I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“Do you think the same person is responsible for everything—the stalking, the harassment, the attacks?”
She nods. “Yeah, I guess I do. Haven’t really considered it could be more than one person.”
“You sure you have no idea who it is?” I ask.
“Have you been assigned to my case?”
“It’s still Arnie Ward’s case,” I say. “I’m just helping out—seein’ if a new set of eyes might see something that’s been missed.”
“Bringing in the big gun,” she says. “I’m honored.”
“Arnie’s our most senior investigator,” I say, “I’m just—”
“Everyone knows you’re the . . . You’re in a league of your own. Solved some high-profile cases.”
“All those investigations involved teamwork too. It’s how all cases are closed. And that’s what we’re doing with yours. I hope I can contribute something so we can end this nightmare for you.”
“I’m just hopin’ y’all can catch him before he kills me.”
“We will,” I say. “If you help us.”
“What else can I do?”
“We need you tellin’ us everything,” I say.
“I am.”
“Every time we ask you if you know who it is, you change the subject. I asked you if you were sure you didn’t know who it was, and instead of answering you asked if I had been assigned to the case. I noticed you did the same type of deflections in your other interviews.”
“I don’t know who it is.”
“You have no idea?”
She hesitates. “If I knew who it was, why wouldn’t I tell you?”
“I can think of a few reasons,” I say, “but asking me a question instead of answering mine is just more deflection.”
“I don’t know who it is,” she says. “I’m sorry. I wish I did. And I’ve got students coming in for a support group. Can we talk more later?”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
“Got any thoughts on the Olivia Nelson thing?” Arnie asks.
“Yeah,” I say, “but none you haven’t had.”
“Let me hear them anyway.”
“Who would have both the number of the landline and her cell phone number? Who would use both?”
“Her ex-husband.”
“Who could get into the house without having to break in?”
“Her ex.”
“Why does he let her live in his parents old house?”
“In order to be able to stalk her?”
“Why won’t she tell us who it is?”
“That’s the part I can’t figure out,” he says.
“Is her mother still alive?” I ask. “Does she have any siblings.”
“Yeah. Until I talked to them, her mother and younger sister knew very little about what’s happening to her.”
“Either he’s threatening them . . .” I say. “Or . . . this is all part of some sick dynamic between her and her ex and some part of her—probably a deeply subconscious part—doesn’t want it to end. Or—”
“Hadn’t really considered that second one,” he says.
“Or . . .” I say again, “she’s making it all up.”
“All of it?” he asks. “She choking herself and stabbing herself in the hand?”
“It was her left hand,” I say. “Nothing’s happened to her so far she couldn’t do herself. And his escalation doesn’t make sense. He breaks in and attacks her—more than once. Tells her he’s going to rape and kill her but doesn’t do either?”
“Definitely doesn’t add up, but . . . I never considered she was doing it to herself. I mean . . . claiming you’re getting obscene phone calls or someone is following you to get some attention . . . that’s one thing, but punching yourself in the eye, choking yourself with a stocking so tight it can’t be seen, and stabbing yourself in the hand . . . that’s . . .”
“I’m not saying she’s doing it,” I say. “Just sharing my thoughts so far with you. And even if she is doing it all . . . it’s entirely possible she doesn’t know she is.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
When I arrive back at the landing, I find Anna waiting for me.
I’m so happy to see her the thing Shakespeare said about happiness comes to mind. Altering the line slightly in my mind, it comes out something like this—I were but little happy to see her if I could say how much.
I pull up, park, and leave the truck running. She gets in with me.
“Hey,” she says in that sweet, loving, caring way that conveys so much more than a mere greeting. “I had a little free time before picking up the kids and thought I’d check on my baby.”
“I’m so glad you did.”
We lean in and hug each other, holding on for a long moment.
When we let go, we sit in silence for a while.
The quiet is nice, and her presence is healing.
The landing is roped off, crime scene tape flapping in the breeze, and though there is a lot going on down river around the Hayes’ camp and the swamp behind it, there is no activity at the landing just now. Around the perimeter of the cordon, trucks with empty boat trailers and emergency services vehicles sit baking in the ferocious Florida sun.
Beyond the landing, the dark waters of the river bounce and sparkle as the cypress trees lean in as if to watch.
Without me realizing what she’s doing, Anna has turned on some soothing music on her phone and placed it on seat between us.
I reach over and take her hand.
Her elegant, narrow fingers are nearly as long as mine and fit perfectly. Our hands hold our history, both individually and as a couple. Since we first began holding hands, their skin has thinned, the veins beneath become more prominent, and additional scars have appeared, and as a result they have become more nurturing, more healing, more comforting, more reassuring.
Eventually she says, “How are you?”
Her voice is soft and tender.
I shrug and frown. “I’m doing my best to not even think about all the dark possibilities, so I’m mostly struggling with what I could’ve done to prevent her from . . . ever getting into this situation.”
“Being on the river with someone who would leave her there?”
“If that’s what he did,” I say. “Being involved with someone like Mason. And she wasn’t just involved with him. She’s still been seein’ Easton too.”
“There’s often overlap,” she says. “Very few people end one relationship and spend time healing and processing and then when they’re ready and have learned all the lessons from the previous one move onto the next.”
“True, but—”
“Think about all the issues we had with Chris,” she says, referring to her ex-husband.
“Those weren’t because you were still sleeping with him—unless there’s something you need to tell me. And it’s not just that she’s sleeping with two guys who are themselves sleeping with other women . . . it’s the kind of guys they are.”
“The kind who are secretly, selfishly sleeping with multiple women,” she says. “The kind who would leave her on the river.”
“The kind who are so self-absorbed they treat her like a . . .”
“Sex doll,” she says.
“If Mason’s tellin’ the truth,” I say, “and I’m not convinced he is . . . refusing to get in the boat with him, to be discarded after being used, shows she was standing up for herself, demanding better treatment.”
“Yes, it does, and that is a direct result of her relationship with you.”
I shake my head. “I’m not convinced of that, but even if it is . . . It wasn’t enough. I didn’t . . . I failed to . . .”
“You’ve done so much for her,” she says. “More than anyone in her life. You have nothing to feel guilty about. You know as well as I do that there’s only so much any of us can do. You do more than anyone I know. But you can’t fix anyone, can’t make them heal or choose a better way. They have to—and it sounds like she was beginning to do that.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but it’s all for nothing if it got her killed.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
“I’ve got a little more time,” Anna says. “You want to talk through things with me?”
We are still sitting in my truck together, holding hands, listening to peaceful, contemplative music, and watching the river.
“Sure,” I say. “Thanks.”
She knows how much it helps me to say what I’m thinking out loud and to get feedback mostly in the form of questions.
Before I can begin, my phone vibrates.
Glancing at the screen, I see that it’s dispatch.
“Let me take this real quick first,” I say to Anna, as I answer the call.
“John,” Emma Stark, the twenty-something dispatch operator says, “tips are starting to come in. How do you want me to handle them?”
“I’d like to hear them as soon as possible,” I say. “Can you email all of them to me and text or call with any that are urgent or seem the most credible?”
“Yeah, I can do that.”
“What’ve we got so far?” I ask.
“Couple of spottings of her vehicle and of her,” she says. “You ask me . . . they’re not very credible, but . . .”
“Okay,” I say. “Just email them to me and we’ll follow up on all of them.”
“So far the one that seems the most credible is . . . a witness says she saw Carla and another woman havin’ a heated argument at the end of the road on Sunday afternoon.”
“Who reported it, and did she say who Carla was arguing with?”
“Rhonda Suber called it in, but she didn’t say if she knew who it was.”
“Okay,” I say. “Thanks. Text me that one and email me everything—even the ones you call or text about.”
“Will do.”
“Thank you, Emma.”
When we end the call, Anna says, “I’ve got fifteen minutes. Lay it out for me.”
“If just Carla was missing, it might mean one thing, but with her vehicle missing too . . . it changes the possibilities and how we have to approach the investigation. Could she have come out of the swamp and off of the river, gotten into her vehicle, and driven away or . . . Did someone take her and her vehicle? Or do something to her and hid her vehicle? Either way . . . where is her vehicle? We have every law enforcement agency looking for it. If it were on the road, I think we would’ve found it by now.”
She nods and seems to be thinking about it but doesn’t say anything.
“The footprints at the cabin tell us Carla and Mason weren’t the only ones who were there, but we can’t know when the other prints were made. Could be before they were there and have nothing to do with her disappearance or could be after Mason was gone—if he really left without her—and could belong to whoever has her.”
“What were Mason’s VSA results?”
“Indicate he lied about a lot but seem to suggest he wasn’t being deceptive about leaving her there.”
“Doesn’t mean he couldn’t’ve gone back.”
“True.”
“What else?”
“If Josh Frye is right—”
“Who?”
“The new K-9 officer at Gulf. If he’s right that she went into the swamp . . . Why? Did she go with someone? By herself? Was she chased? Did she really come out or is she still in there? He says she came out, but . . . I’m not sure how much of what he says to believe. He definitely says things with certainty he can’t know. The path he said she took has no signs of violence on it. Neither does the cabin or Mason’s truck and boat.”
“Maybe she came out and is missing for other reasons,” she says.
“It’s possible. It’s what I keep holding onto, but . . . It seems unlikely. Especially with the fire at the McDaniels’s cabin. If someone burned her clothes or his or both, it was to hide evidence.”
“Or maybe the fire has nothing to do with her,” she says.
“Maybe.”
We are quiet a moment.
“I feel like I’m too . . . Like I’m not thinking straight, not processing information or clues like I usually do.”
“Because it’s Carla?”
I nod. “I’ve been trying to compartmentalize and not even think about it being her, but I must not be. I’m just not getting anywhere.”
“It’s still early, and you have very little to go on,” she says. “You’ll get it. You will. I’m gonna go take good care of our children. You do what you need to find her. Don’t think about or worry about anything else. Just focus on finding her. You’re the best hope she has.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
As I head back toward my truck from walking Anna to her car and kissing her goodbye, I look around at the vehicles parked around the landing and wonder again at what happened to Carla’s car.
If it was out on the road, it would have been spotted by now—unless it’s way away from here. Had it been driven out of the area before we ever started looking for it? And if so, by Carla or someone else?
Or maybe it’s hidden in someone’s garage. Did someone abduct Carla and take her vehicle too? Could she be in some sadist’s dungeon right now, her car beneath a tarp in his yard?
If someone took her and her car, he’d either have to have help or have to come back for a vehicle—either hers or his. If he lived close enough, he could walk back to collect the second vehicle. Our canvas of the area hadn’t turned up anything suspicious so far. None of the deputies or investigators conducting the house to house have raised any concerns about anyone’s behavior or flagged anyone who warrants a followup.
But what if an abductor didn’t have help and didn’t live close by? Or what if Mason or someone else did something to Carla at the camp or on the river or in the swamp and had to get rid of her car? What would they do? How would they do it without help?
I hope Carla is somewhere in her car, but with each passing moment the chances of that become less and less likely.
What would someone do to quickly and effectively get rid of Carla’s car?
Driving it down the boat ramp and into the water is the most obvious, but the landing isn’t deep enough. The car would be visible. And even if some part of it might actually be deep enough to cover the top of her car, the boats launching would run into it. This landing is just too small and shallow to—
I stop walking and look over at the narrow dirt road on the south side of the landing.
It runs parallel to the river and leads to the lower landing—an unofficial dirt landing not maintained by the county, one that is large enough and deep enough to hide a vehicle in.
The road and the lower landing have been searched, but the water hasn’t. And unless Carla’s car is somewhere far away or hidden in a garage I’d put money on it being in there.
Of course, there’s another possibility.
Instead of her would-be attacker or abductor driving her car into the river at the lower landing, she could’ve done it.
If her car is there, it may not just be her car.
She might have been chased and drove it in. She could’ve been disoriented and thought she was driving away from Tupelo Creek.
I look around at the landing again, see the members of the media set up on the north side of the yellow crime scene tape.
I want to do a search of the lower landing without them knowing anything about it.
Pulling out my phone, I call Kent Roberts, the member of Search and Rescue who is the best with sonar scanning.
“Can you meet me at the lower landing?” I ask.
“Yeah, sure. Give me a—”
“Don’t mention it to anyone, and come in from the river so the media won’t see you.”
“You got it.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Unlike the upper landing, the lower one is more isolated, overgrown, untouched, natural. Essentially it’s a dirt road that doesn’t end until it reaches the water.
I’m waiting at the water’s edge for Kent when he pulls up.
“Has this landing been scanned?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“Can we do it now?”
“Sure. Get in.”
Kent’s small boat is equipped with sonars mounted on the sides and monitors mounted in the middle. And it’s lighter and smaller than I thought it would be, resembling an oversized, inflatable kayak.
Sonar is a technology that sends a signal underwater then displays a reading by receiving its echo. The echo of the ping is created when the original signal bounces off the bottom and objects in the water column between the transducer and the bottom. It’s used to detect water depth and the presence of objects in the water.
“We want to go upstream,” he says. “Against the current so we have more control over the boat. We want to scan at a speed of between 1.9 to 2.5 miles per hour.”
