“My boys are in the field,” Diane replies. “Where else would I be?”
“At home reading a book,” I suggest. “At the movies; bowling; Zumba classes … anyplace but the office. Someone on this team has to have a real life.”
“This is my real life. Besides, I don’t bowl … or Zumba.”
“I’m worried about you, Diane,” I say, but she just laughs. “So what’s this interesting tidbit?”
Her tone changes instantly. “I know how he picks his victims,” she replies.
My pulse quickens and I feel the sudden rush of adrenaline. “Hang on, Diane.” I wave Jimmy and Walt over and search for the speakerphone button on the keypad. “Go ahead, Diane. You’re on speaker.”
“As I was saying, it occurred to me early this afternoon that the kidnap sites are sporadic: Susanville, Red Bluff, Oroville, Crescent City, even Medford, Oregon. His range is maybe a hundred and fifty miles in every direction, with Redding as the hub.”
“So he’s a delivery driver of some sort,” Jimmy offers.
“Or a forest ranger,” Sheriff Gant says. “Maybe a logger or a hunter. Most of the area you’re describing is covered in national parks and national forests. You’ve got Shasta National Forest, Trinity National Forest, Lassen Volcanic National Park, Six Rivers National Forest, Klamath National Forest, and the list goes on. You can’t go anywhere in this part of the country without tripping into a national forest or park.”
“Or he reads the newspaper,” Diane says patiently.
“What do you mean?” I say, leaning into the phone.
“Our victims were all pictured—pictured, mind you, not just named—in various newspapers and weeklies in the months prior to their disappearance. All but one: Valerie Heagle.”
“The first victim,” Jimmy says.
“Correct. Other than her, I have photos of all of them within weeks or months of their disappearance: Jennifer Green out of Crescent City, Tawnee Rich out of Susanville, Leah Daniels out of Eureka—she was singled out for her volunteer work with dementia patients. Some reward.”
“So of the eleven victims, you found ten,” Jimmy muses. “Lauren Brouwer included?”
“Lauren had her fifteen minutes of fame five months ago when she won a local writing competition—it had something to do with the personalities of dogs. Three months later she vanished.”
“That’s good work, Diane,” I say.
“Well, someone has to do some honest work around here.” I can almost feel her sarcastic grin on the other end of the phone and can’t help smiling myself. “Oh, one more thing,” she says as I’m about to disconnect. “I’m sure you geniuses have already figured this out, but the bodies recovered so far have all been found in Shasta, Trinity, or Tehama Counties—if we exclude Nevada—and not one of them more than seventy miles from Redding.”
“So he likely lives or works near Redding,” Jimmy says, “but he’s willing to range farther afield when he finds a victim he wants.”
“That was my assessment,” Diane replies.
“I like it,” Jimmy says. “It makes a bit more sense now, and your newspaper theory explains his erratic pattern. Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Her voice is heavy with feigned hurt—the old fraud. Jimmy gives me a grin. In the background we can hear her typing away, scouring the Web, continuing the hunt, kicking over one digital rock after another in search of the next clue. She loves piecing things together before we do—piecing the puzzle, she calls it. “Now, if you don’t mind,” she adds, “I’m late for my Zumba class.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
June 29, 6:15 A.M.
There’s a buzzing in my head, some kind of alarm, persistent and irritating. Heather’s gone—though she was just here. She was wearing royal blue and her long hair was swirling and lifting from the wind as it dipped in and out of the sunroof in my Mini Cooper … and the ringing, ringing, ringing won’t quit. Each shrill intonation is like a crowbar on my eyelids, prying and pounding and prying again until I can’t take it anymore.
“Hello,” I grumble into the phone, barely lifting my head from the pillow. “Walt? Whoa, slow down! Which … no, don’t tell them anything … I know … How many?” Sheriff Gant is spitting mad and yelling through the phone, then apologizing for yelling, then yelling some more.
“I’m sorry, Steps,” he says, pausing for breath. “I don’t mean to yell, but this is going to make things a lot more difficult, and quick. If I get my hands on the rat-bastard that did this—”
“It’s all right, Walt,” I interrupt. “It’s not the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. Let me grab Jimmy and we’ll be down there as quick as we can.”
“Yeah, I tried calling him first, but there was no answer.”
Glancing at the clock, I say, “He’s probably in the gym. I’ll track him down. This is your show, Sheriff, but it would be a lot easier if you didn’t talk to anyone until we can come up with a game plan.”
“I’m not talking to anyone,” Walt grumbles. “I might yell at a few folks, though.”
Jimmy blows a gasket when I tell him.
He’s just finishing his workout routine and insists on hopping in the shower for a minute. Even at that, he’s dressed and we’re on our way in fifteen minutes. It’s a short drive to the sheriff’s office and we’re soon pulling into the parking lot. Lining the street are news vans from CNN, Fox News, and KRCR News Channel 7 out of Redding. As we park the car, a van from KRON out of San Francisco pulls up and parks behind the others.