Gerald had packed a small duffel bag for a few nights, filled up his gas tank, and parked his vehicle a mile from Jamie’s house at a local gas station. He read the latest Lee Child novel as he waited for his boss’s man to update him. There was no way he was going near Jamie’s home after the break-in that morning. Thankfully, his boss always knew someone, somewhere. And to get one of the cops, who was currently keeping an eye on the Jacobs home for twenty-four hours, to give an update of any movements at the home took a simple phone call.
Something was going to happen, he could feel it. Sure enough. Just as Child’s Jack Reacher character was about to raise bloody hell on four beefy idiots with his bare hands, Gerald’s phone rang. According to the source, Michael Brody’s black gas guzzler had pulled up to Jamie’s house with her in the passenger seat. It’d parked at her home for ten minutes until the two of them emerged with Jamie carrying a small suitcase. And the SUV was headed his way.
Gerald reluctantly closed the novel, carefully marking his place. Were they headed to the airport? He was prepared if it came to that. Brody’s SUV blew past the gas station, and he pulled out after it. The SUV passed the airport exit and continued east on the highway, following the Columbia River through the gorge where the river cut through the Cascade Mountain Range. Gerald kept his gaze glued to the Range Rover, ignoring the wide blue river on his left. The river was the northern boundary of Oregon, separating it from Washington. On his right were towering steep cliffs with the occasional waterfall.
To Oregonians, the Columbia River Gorge was one of nature’s miracles. Gerald ignored it.
Hours later the cliffs eventually became flatland. The sights grew drier and browner. They crossed over into what Gerald mentally classified as redneck country. The eastern side of the Cascade Mountain Range was home to ranchers and cowboys. How far east were Brody and Jamie going? Boise? Montana? He believed it wouldn’t be too much farther. If they were going as far as Boise or more, it really made more sense to fly.
About fifty miles before the Idaho border, the SUV exited the main highway. A series of dusty two-lane roads and ninety more minutes of driving placed them in a tiny country town. Gerald stopped at the single-pump gas station to fill up and kept an eye on Jamie and Michael’s vehicle down the street. It’d pulled up to the sheriff’s building and they’d gone inside.
Fuck, it was hot. Gerald stretched the kinks out of his back as the attendant filled his vehicle. Hopefully this was nearly the end of the journey. Why’d they stop at the sheriff’s office? Did they not know exactly where they were going?
He had a hunch Chris Jacobs was hiding out in this shitty little town.
He noticed the attendant eyeing the tattoos peeking out on his wrists. Gerald tugged at his sleeves, hating to pull them down to hide the color. The guy probably thought he was nuts for wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans in this heat. The shirt was athletic fabric, the clingy, stretchy kind that wicked moisture away from the body and showed every sculpted muscle of his arms and chest. It really wasn’t too bad in the heat.
He pretended to make a phone call and held the phone to his ear for a few seconds.
“Shit. What the hell?” he said, loud enough for the attendant to hear.
“Problem?” the kid asked. He looked like a typical country boy. Tanned skin, dingy cargo shorts, and a T-shirt that had been white at some point. He just needed a grass stem hanging out the side of his mouth or a tobacco can ring in his back pocket.
A brief flash of the teen boys from his childhood hit his brain. This kid would have been one of the popular kids. Normal looking, confident. The kind who made fun of Gerald, the freak. Gerald stood straighter, expanding his chest. It was one of the reasons he stayed in top physical shape. It was a confidence builder. And his tattoos gave him confidence. Sometimes he wanted to shed his clothes and show his colors to the world, but that wasn’t their purpose. They were for him. They allowed him to look at his body with pride, boosting his morale. In private moments, his victims had seen his skin of many colors. It’d intimidated them, helped them recognize his power.
Gerald held up his phone. “Keeps going to voice mail. I’ve called five times.”
The kid nodded. “That sucks.”
“Well, hell. I drove all the way from Boise today to buy a truck from a guy, and now I can’t even reach him. He’d told me to give him a call when I got to town, so he could give me directions. I told him I had a GPS, and he just laughed. Said his address doesn’t work on those things. That common out here?”
White crooked teeth grinned at him. “Totally. A GPS can get you to Demming, but none of the mapping companies are going to waste time with the local addresses when there’s one house every twenty miles.”
Gerald looked over the tiny town. “I guess I’ll sit and wait somewhere and hope the guy gets back to me. I hope he doesn’t think that I changed my mind.”
“Who’re you buying a truck from?”
Yes! Gerald gave the kid a surprised look. “You think you might know him? This area that small?”
The kid shrugged and glanced at the ticker on the gas pump. “I know most folks.”
“The name’s Chris Jacobs. Sound familiar?”
One eyebrow rose a bit. “Yeah, I know him. Didn’t realize he was selling his truck. That thing’s a piece of shit. Why’d you drive so far to buy that?”
Gerald tried to look concerned while inside he was shooting off fireworks. “You think it’s a waste of money? I’m just looking for a beater vehicle for my nephew to drive to school.”
“Oh. Yeah, it’d be fine for that.”
“You know where I can find him?”
The pump turned off, and the kid clicked the handle a few times, topping off the tank. He slammed the handle back in the holder and punched a few buttons on the pump. “Sure. But you better keep trying to call him. Chris doesn’t like surprise visitors. He nearly shot my buddy, Justin, when he cut through his property going after a coyote. I’ll write the directions down for you. If he’s not home, you could stop by the bakery and ask. Old Juan, the baker, is about the only guy Chris ever talks to. He might know if Chris is out of town for some reason.”
Gerald hid his excitement as the attendant scribbled on the back of his gas receipt with a grimy pencil. Only in a small town does everyone really know everyone else. And willingly give you directions to where they live.
Now he could get down to business. He pictured how to end Chris Jacobs’s life as impatience rushed through him. He imagined Chris fighting for air with Gerald’s hands around his throat, knowledge of his killer’s identity visible in his eyes. Or Chris seeing the spray of his own blood on a wall from Gerald’s knife to the neck. The two men had a history together; it was time for the climax.
Chris studied his monitor in the dim light. Four camera views showed different angles of his home. Three outside and one in. He’d thought about investing in some motion detectors to trip the cameras, but there were too many small critters wandering around. The black-and-white images were still. No one had gone near his home.
Brian made a small sound in his sleep. It was a good noise. A contented noise. It was an adventure for the boy to spend the night above Juan’s bakery. It was one of Brian’s favorite places to buy a treat, so sleeping above the little shop was even better. The boy definitely had a sweet tooth. Juan created some incredible baked goods. Chris loved the smell and the taste of the baked breads, but he could do without the sweet, dessert-type foods.
He hadn’t eaten sweets in decades.
Sweat beaded down his back, and feeling slightly nauseous, Chris ran a shaky hand over his mouth. No cakes. No frosting. Not for him. He closed his eyes, breathing deep.
He remembered being back in the hospital. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. According to his parents, he’d spent months getting well enough to be released. To him, the time was a big haze. Doctors, nurses, police, detectives. He’d spoken to none of them and looked away at their questions. He couldn’t even face his parents. He knew he looked bad. The burns ran up and down his face, and his hair had been pulled out in places. Later, he’d learned that both his cheekbones and his nose had been broken, probably more than once.
Although most of the hospital days were a complete fog, there were some clear memories. Jamie. He remembered the first time he saw her. Her green eyes wide in wonder as she stared at his bandages.
And he remembered the Twinkies. They’d been in a small gift basket. His hospital room had been packed with bouquets and balloons and gift baskets. Gifts from people he’d never met. People who’d read about his plight in the paper. People who’d prayed for two years for all the kids to come home safely. He was an answer to that prayer.
One gift basket had caught his eye during one of his foggy moments. Individually wrapped cellophane Twinkies filled a red toy bucket, clear wrap fastened with a red bow at the top. It’d sat across his room nearly hidden by balloons, but it stood out like a spotlight to him. He’d stared at it, unable to get himself out of bed. He’d drift off to sleep, but the bucket was still there each time he woke. Sometimes moved to another tabletop to make room for more gifts. When he finally woke with a nurse in his room, he’d pointed at the bucket. Shock had crossed her face. He’d never made eye contact with any of his caretakers before, but he was making contact now. He pointed again. And met her eyes.
“You want to see your gifts?” she’d asked, excitement in her voice. She reached for a stuffed animal. Chris shook his head and pointed again. She hesitated and placed the animal back, trying to follow his line of sight. “You want the red bucket?”
He nodded.
“I’ll let you look at it, but I don’t think you should eat any right now. I can ask a doctor later if you can have one.” She lifted the bucket and peered inside.
Chris emphatically shook his head. No way would he eat a Twinkie. The nurse faltered at his head movement, assuming she’d grabbed the wrong gift again. He gestured for her to bring it closer. She set it on the bed next to him, and he reached for the envelope. Correction. He tried to reach for the small envelope. His hands wouldn’t obey his brain.
The nurse gently lifted the note and slid out the card. “Looks like it’s already been opened and read.” She scanned the note, a small crease appearing between her brows. “It’s not signed. But some of the arrangements from the public haven’t been signed.” She smiled at him, “They can’t help but send you things. You’ve been missing for quite a while, and they’re happy you’re home.”
Chris did an awkward “hurry up” gesture with his hand, his stomach starting to churn.
She looked back at the note and read out loud: “Get well soon, Chris. Your family is extremely lucky to have you back. I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full until you go home.”
Chris vomited all over his bed.
In Juan’s attic, Chris’s vision blurred. Bile came up the back of his throat, and he lunged for the garbage can. He heaved. And heaved.
I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full.
He heaved again, the nurse’s voice ringing in his memory. He sank to his knees, leaning over the can, waiting for his stomach to hold still. Sweat dripped from his forehead into the can. Chris fell back against the wall, sliding to sit on the floor, the can clutched between his hands.
Fuck.
He hadn’t had a reaction like that in at least six months. The discovery of the children’s remains had brought everything fresh to the surface. He spit into the can, wincing at the acid taste. Not ready to get up, he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He needed a few more minutes. He breathed deep through his mouth in an attempt to not smell his own vomit. That technique semi-worked.
Twinkies. Fucking Twinkies.
His empty stomach churned.
The Ghostman had a Twinkie fetish. Healthy food was rarely available in the Ghostman’s pit, but Twinkies always were. At first the kids were thrilled at the constant supply of the junk snack. But watching the Ghostman eat one…cleaning out the center with his tongue…that was enough to make a kid put the little cake back up. Then later…when the Ghostman wanted the boys to hold the Twinkies in their mouths…
Chris’s stomach found more fluids to hurl into the can.
I hope these Twinkies keep your mouth full.
Fucking nut job. Perverted child abuser. Salty wet tracks ran down Chris’s face.
At that moment in the hospital, Chris had known he could never say a word about his two years with the Ghostman. The Ghostman had found him. And proved that even in a hospital with a cop standing outside the door to keep the media vultures away, the Ghostman could touch him. The note was a reminder directed at his family.
Your family is extremely lucky to have you back.
If Chris told his family anything, the Ghostman would make his threats against their lives come true. His only way to protect his family was to be silent. He made a vow to himself. No matter the cost, Chris would never speak of those days.
Brian sighed in his sleep. Chris had made another vow. His son would never know the touch of a pervert like the one who had owned him. His son would never have his life turned upside down and inside out. Chris had kept that promise. Brian never lacked for company or stimulation. Chris was his best friend, teacher, playmate, and confidant. Brian didn’t remember his mother. Occasionally he asked, but the answer that his mommy was an angel satisfied him. For now. The harder questions would come later.
He blew out a deep breath. His stomach was quieting. He slowly pulled himself off the floor and carried the garbage can to the bathroom. He flushed the contents, rinsed the can three times, and flushed it again. He silently walked through the little room, glancing at his laptop. All quiet at his home. Perhaps he was being too cautious. Too overprotective.
He will never touch Brian.
No. Chris wasn’t overprotective. Until he knew that the Ghostman was dead, he had a son to safeguard.
He reached through the window and placed the can out on the roof. The smell still lingered. He considered closing the window, but the room was too warm. The odor should dissipate. He gazed out over the quiet street and thought about Brian playing with Juan’s dog. Every boy should have a dog. Maybe when things calmed down, he could find a dog. One who needed a good home. Perhaps a rescue dog. It would be a good situation for both of them.
A small sliver of the moon hung low in the dark night. Chris stared. He liked the quiet of this town. He liked the open sky and the open land. He didn’t want to move again. This was the only home Brian had known. He wanted to keep that sense of stability for the boy. But if he felt threatened or unsafe, he and Brian would be on the road before the sun came up. He had a dozen plans in place if he ever needed to leave. It gave him peace of mind to know the two of them could vanish without leaving a trace. He prayed he never needed to implement those plans. He felt good here. He felt like he could breathe. Like he could heal.
Chris stretched, feeling his right shoulder pop. It’d never been the same since the Ghostman’s hands. He massaged the joint as he went to close his laptop. Enough monitoring for tonight. He was about to fall asleep standing up. He put his hand on the lid and froze.
A man was standing outside his home, his back flat to the front wall, peering in a window. The small sliver of moonlight found the gun in the man’s hand. Chris stared at the man’s hair. He recognized the man’s stance, the angle of his face.
It was time to leave Demming.