Bill shivered. This was the guy. He could feel it.
He felt badly about lying to Ray Blanchard and telling the man he would bring the bill of sale directly to the FBI, especially after the farmer had shown faith in him by giving him a copy of it in the first place. By all rights, Blanchard should have called the cops or the FBI right from his desk while Bill sat in his office. And he was probably right. The FBI should be more adept at dealing with a dangerous and unstable serial kidnapper/murderer than the owner of two floundering hardware stores living in a ratty apartment after the dissolution of a failed marriage.
But time was running out and they didn’t have any leads on him after three-and-a-half years, so what good were they, really? Dammit, Carli was his child, and he was going to get her back. Period.
He raced down the back roads to the nearer of his two hardware stores. He had some quick shopping to so before rescuing his child. Above his head, the clouds continued to roil, black and threatening, building to what was clearly going to be an impressive explosion.
CHAPTER 46
May 28, 3:08 p.m.
WHEN THE CALL CAME in, Angela Canfield swore in frustration. Her team was busy scouring the home and property of the murdered bus driver, Leona Bengston, desperately searching for evidence without having any idea what that evidence might be. It was tedious work, repetitive and boring, almost like searching for a needle in a haystack, except without knowing it was a needle you were looking for until you found it.
Without a single promising lead as to the Ferguson girl’s whereabouts, however, it was the most obvious option, Canfield thought. Go back to the beginning of the latest abduction and work the scene. Keep busy. Stay focused. Try to make a break. Given all she knew about the I-90 Killer and his history, she knew what she would find—nothing useful—but until something better came along, it made the most sense and was, therefore, what she would do.
Then her cell phone rang. It was the duty officer at the FBI Field Office in Albany, telling her some farmer’s market proprietor in the local area had called with information regarding the search for the I-90 Killer and insisted on speaking to the agent in charge. By name. Special Agent Angela Canfield, he had asked for. He said it was important. It was about Bill Ferguson. She frowned and took the call.
“This is Special Agent Canfield. To whom am I speaking, please?” She listened for a moment and then said, “No, I haven’t heard from Mr. Ferguson in hours. Why?”
The man on the other end of the call spoke for a couple of minutes, and the frown on Agent Canfield’s face deepened into a scowl as she digested the information. “How long ago did he leave your store, Mr. Blanchard?” She looked at her watch. “Okay.”
“He said he was going to take the information directly to you.” Blanchard told her. He said he had sat in his office for a couple of minutes, picking up the phone and putting it down again, trying to decide whether to check up on Ferguson’s story, before finally calling in what might be the biggest break ever in the I-90 Killer case.
“All right,” Canfield said. “Thank you for your help. But time is absolutely critical. I need the name and address of the man you sold your truck to, and I need it now.” She glanced around at her team as she dug a small notepad and ballpoint pen out of her pocket. Everyone was engrossed in their work, and no one paid the slightest attention to her.
“Okay, go,” Canfield said, holding her pen over the paper. She scribbled the name and address on the top of the page, then thanked Ray Blanchard in a distracted voice before disconnecting the call.
Canfield hurried to her second-in-command, a young agent named Mike Miller. He was movie-star handsome, cool and collected, thorough—the perfect Hollywood vision of the ideal federal agent. When he got a little more experience under his belt, he was going to turn into a fine one, too, Angela thought. She pulled him aside. “I have a lead I need to follow up on. I won’t be gone long, but in the meantime, I’m leaving you in charge here. Keep working the scene, and let me know immediately if you find anything.”
Miller nodded. “Sure, boss. What have we got?”
“Probably nothing,” Canfield lied, shrugging and shaking her head, “but I can’t just assume that.”
“I understand. Who are you taking with you?”
“Nobody. I don’t want to pull another agent off this search.”
Miller looked at her dubiously. She should have been teaming up with another agent, but Canfield knew he wouldn’t push the matter, and he didn’t. “Okay,” he said reluctantly. She smiled reassuringly and clapped him on the shoulder before turning and hurrying away.
The moment she had her back to Miller, the smile vanished, and on the way to her bureau car, Canfield swore under her breath again. Things were already bad and had just gotten immeasurably worse. Bill Ferguson had no idea what he was getting into. And he had a head start on her.
CHAPTER 47
May 28, 3:50 p.m.
CARLI EASED HER GOOD eye open slowly, hesitantly, waiting for the sledgehammer of migraine pain to strike. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, but recalled vividly the intense headache that had threatened to overwhelm her earlier. Sleep had been fitful, an on-and-off dozing filled with bizarre and frightening dream sequences and the occasional hazy interludes of vague semi-consciousness.