He drew an imaginary line from the back of the sedan, across Pike Road, and into the brush on the left side of the road, working on the assumption that its trajectory would point to Voloshin’s location when he took the photo. The only thing on the left side of the road was overgrowth and trees, but he had a theory to test and there was only one way to find out if he was right.
Jake took one last quick look around, turned off the engine, slid the keys out of the ignition, and got out of the car. He reached the undergrowth in four feet, then started making his way through the brush, using his arms to shove aside branches and tangled vines. He worked as quickly as possible because he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself. He began to sweat, wishing he’d brought pruning shears.
Jake powered steadily forward, walking a straight line by orienting himself by one of the apartment buildings in the distance, a sandstone low-rise that he kept ahead of him, like the North Star. Twigs snapped under his shoes, and nettles clung to his pants. He consulted the iPhone picture and the sandstone apartments as he kept moving through a grove of evergreens that had grown together in natural tangle.
He passed one tree and behind it found a large area where the grass had been flattened, but it was a large circle, made by resting deer. He kept going, sensing that if he didn’t find anything soon, he’d missed his guess. He fought his way around ivy that clung to one of the evergreens, and suddenly came upon another flat area, but this one had clearly been man-made. Tree limbs had been pruned back, and sucker vines had been cut. The undergrowth had been flattened but the area wasn’t a large circle like deer made. He stood in the middle of the flat area, turned around with his back to the sandstone building, and faced Dolomite Road.
Bingo.
Jake felt his heartbeat quicken. There was a raggedy break through the trees, all the way to the blind curve and to a section of Dolomite Road. If Voloshin had stood in this spot, he would have had a perfect view—the same view as the photos of Ryan and him that had been taken, exactly where the hit-and-run accident occurred.
Jake’s stomach twisted. Voloshin had aimed his camera as if it were a rifle and he’d managed to catch Ryan, Jake, and now, Pam in his crosshairs. And the evergreens would have screened Voloshin from view, and the little pervert would also have been free to spy on Kathleen and photograph her whenever he wanted, especially if he knew her schedule and worked from home often enough that he didn’t have to account to the office for his time. Voloshin had set himself up like a hunter in a blind, waiting for the girls to run by.
Jake looked down, and a few white berries caught his eye, oddly bright in the brownish underbrush. He bent down, moved the undergrowth aside, and picked up the berries, examining them. They weren’t berries at all. He flashed on the photo of Voloshin’s desk, with its bags of Skittles. The white berries were candy, their coating washed away by the rain, probably dropped by Voloshin during one of his stalker sessions.
Jake hurried back the same way he came, keeping the sandstone apartment building directly behind him, moving tree limbs and vines out of his path until he reached the edge of the woods. He stalked through the grass at the edge of Pike Road, hustled to his car, jumped inside, and started the engine. Luckily, there was still no one on the street.
He hit the gas and cruised forward, approaching the blind curve. He glanced over at the memorial as he passed it, sending up a silent prayer for Kathleen, then took a right. His destination was Dolomite Road and it lay just ahead, at a ninety degree angle to Pike. He turned right onto Dolomite, orienting himself, slowing his speed and taking in the surroundings.
The street was quiet and still, with no cars or foot traffic. On its left side was the parking lot that surrounded Concordia Corporate Center, which was screened from the street by thick landscaped hedges and zigzagging evergreens. On the right side of the street were more overgrown woods and trees, the parcel evidently unused.
Jake drove down the street and noticed that the left side of the street stayed the same, with the thick landscaped greenery that screened the corporate center, but on the right side, the woods stooped for a clearing of a few homes, newish clapboard colonials, one of which had a FOR SALE sign out front. He drove to the end of the street, which veered left and led to one of the remote parking lots of the corporate center, where a group of black Goren’s Janitorial vans were parked.
Jake turned around and cruised back up Dolomite Road, heading toward Pike Road. He passed the houses on his left and slowed his speed when he got to the place where he thought the BMW sedan had been parked. He braked, cut the ignition, and got out of the car.
“Sir!” said a man’s voice. “Stop right there! Sir!”
Jake froze. It had to be the police or security for the corporate center. He didn’t see anyone. The voice came from beyond the hedges.
“What are you doing, sir? You hold on! Right there!”
“Okay, sure.” Jake’s mouth went dry, and there was a rustling in the evergreens and movement of the limbs as an older man emerged, dressed in an insulated purplish-blue jumpsuit, with a white patch that read CONCORDIA CORPORATE CENTER. His face was a network of wrinkles, his bifocals slid down his bony nose, and he was as lean and worn as the rake he carried.
“Where do you work, sir? You got the bulletin, didn’t you? I was told all the tenants got the bulletin!”
“I don’t work here.” Jake crossed to his car door, but the old man held up a gnarled hand.
“There’s no more parking back here! I don’t know when you people are going to learn!”
“I wasn’t parking here.” Jake thought fast. “I was thinking about buying that house at the end of the street. Do people park here a lot? Is that a problem? If it is, I don’t want to buy the house.”
“Oh, beg pardon.” The old man seemed to stand down, leaning on the rake. “You don’t want to buy a house on this street, not unless you like a peep show. This is a lovers’ lane, that’s what we used to call it. Everybody comes here to park ’n spark.”
“You mean from the high school?” Jake’s ears perked up.
“Hell, no! I mean our tenants! From these businesses.” The old man gestured back to the corporate center. “They got so many women working here now, and there’s all kinda tomfoolery goes on here at lunch. You’d be surprised what I find in these bushes this time o’ day! Cigarette butts, beer cans, rubbers! Disgusting! They have a damn good time in these cars! Every morning, too, from partyin’ that goes on after work!”
“I bet.” Jake opened his car door. “I’ll be going now. I appreciate your giving me the information. It doesn’t sound like a great place for the kids.”
“No sir, no way! Nice talking to you. Bye now.”
“Take care.” Jake started the engine, steered down Dolomite, and turned right on Pike Road. He felt like he was getting closer to something, but he didn’t know what. He assumed for a minute that it was Kathleen in the photograph of the BMW sedan, because if it hadn’t been, Voloshin would have no reason to put it on his bulletin board with the other photographs of her. If Voloshin had been in his duck blind, watching Kathleen on one of her nighttime runs, he could have discovered that she wasn’t running, but meeting someone on Dolomite Road.