The Lonely Mile

“Well, I’m more familiar with him than most—at least I am now.” Bill hurried through the whole story despite his impatience, leaving out nothing, beginning with the chance encounter last week in the rest stop, emphasizing the kidnapping of Carli, and finishing up with his deciphering the significance of the green letters barely visible on the repainted side of the I-90 Killer’s truck.

“That explains it,” Blanchard said, snapping his fingers. “I was sure I had seen you somewhere before, I just couldn’t place where. I saw you on the TV news after you saved that young girl.”

“That’s right, and it was that news coverage that resulted in the I-90 Killer piecing together enough information about me to target my daughter. I intend to get her back, and that bill of sale is how I’m going to do it.”

Ray Blanchard placed his glasses back on his nose and peered into Bill’s eyes. “This is a matter for the police. Why aren’t they here requesting this information?”

“Honestly, Mr. Blanchard, I haven’t informed them yet about what I deciphered regarding the guy’s truck. They are busy attacking the case from another angle, and I figured I would determine for myself whether this was a dead end before taking manpower away from other avenues of investigation.”

The man hesitated, and Bill was sure he was going to send him packing, then he leaned back, rolled his office chair the three feet or so to the back wall, and opened the bottom drawer of a small, metal file cabinet. He riffled through papers for a few moments and Bill had to choke back the urge to scream at him to hurry.

Finally he muttered, “Aha!” and lifted a single sheet of computer paper out of the cabinet, placing it face down on the desk between them. “This is the bill of sale I made up when I sold the truck, complete with the name and address of the vehicle’s purchaser.” He sat looking at Bill expectantly, his weathered right hand resting lightly on the paper.

Bill waited and the man made no effort to show him the document. “May I have a look?”

“Maybe. Depends what you’re going to do with it. You wouldn’t be planning to go after this man all by your lonesome, now, would you? I know if it was my daughter the I-90 Killer had taken, I’d be storming his front porch myself. Not that I’d blame you for doing that, but it’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

Bill smiled uneasily. Valuable time was passing and all of this gamesmanship was wasting too much of it. He was tempted to simply rip the paper out from under the farmer’s hand and leave with it—that’s exactly what he would do if it became necessary; he certainly wasn’t leaving this office without the address of the man holding Carli—but he had come this far, so he decided to play along just a little longer and see where it led.

“Of course not,” he said. “Me sticking my nose where it didn’t belong was what resulted in this whole mess in the first place. Once I have the man’s name and address, I’m going to bring that information straight to the lead investigator, FBI Special Agent Angela Canfield.”

“How sure are you that the man who purchased my truck is the man you’re looking for?”

“Well I can’t be one hundred percent certain. After all, maybe the man who bought your truck resold it or maybe it was stolen some time afterward by the killer, but it’s a solid lead and it’s something that absolutely must be followed up on, and the sooner the better.”

“By the FBI.”

“Absolutely. By the FBI.”

Ray Blanchard waited a long moment, again sizing up Bill, giving him an appraising look. Then he stood and said, “Follow me.” He squeezed past Bill and out the office door, turning left and opening a bigger door that led into the massive warehouse connected to the loading dock Bill had seen when he first arrived. Standing in one corner was a copy machine. Blanchard fired it up and ran off a copy of the bill of sale for his old truck, which he then handed to Bill. “Good luck,” he said, “I’ll be praying for your daughter’s safety.”

“Thank you, you may have just saved her life,” Bill answered with a confidence he wished he really felt. “I’ve really got to be going. Every second’s delay in finding her could mean the difference between life and death. Thanks again.” He hustled back into the store, turning in the open doorway and looking back. “By the way, Mr. Blanchard?”

“Yes?”

“Tell all your friends to pray, too.”

The store owner nodded, and Bill hustled through the market, weaving his way around customers, past the register at the front door, and into the heavy, humid air of the parking lot.

***

As the girl’s father drove away, Ray Blanchard watched through his small office window, drumming his fingers on the desk in front of his computer keyboard. Then, frowning, he reached for the telephone on the edge of the desk.





CHAPTER 45


May 28, 3:05 p.m.

BILL LOOKED AT THE information printed on his copy of the bill of sale and noted immediately the address of the truck’s purchaser, a man named Martin Krall. Krall lived in a small town called Mason, New York, located no more than thirty minutes away—or at least he had when he purchased the vehicle. Assuming this man, Martin Krall, was, in fact, the I-90 Killer, there was every possibility Carli was at this moment just a short, half-hour drive from here. He prayed she was still alive.

And chances were good that this Martin Krall guy who bought the truck was the kidnapper—the pieces fit together perfectly. Blanchard had sold the vehicle roughly three-and-a-half years ago. It was currently late May, 2012 , and the first victim—at least the first one who had come to the attention of the police—was kidnapped and subsequently murdered just before Christmas, 2008 . Three and a half years ago.

Bill had seen the I-90 Killer, clear as day, in the rest stop, while he used Allie as a human shield, then again, driving the box truck out of the parking lot there. Assuming he tried to keep to his routine as much as possible when snatching his victims—and one thing the criminal profilers all seemed to agree upon was that he was a creature of habit—that would mean Blanchard had sold the truck at virtually the exact time the kidnapping/murder spree had begun.

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