Another cruel game to get their hopes up and then destroy them.
Malcolm halted as he realized they weren’t on the path he’d made to Rowan. His throat started to close as he panicked.
How will I find her?
They hadn’t asked where she was, so they must have found her first. The second man yanked his arm, and Malcolm stumbled along. He looked at the man again, hoping to see a hint that they’d already taken Rowan back to the shed. The man’s face was stony and closed off, and Malcolm wondered if he’d gotten in trouble too.
No one spoke the entire walk. The big man didn’t look back at Malcolm, who could tell he was still angry by his shoulders and stride. Malcolm didn’t dare say a word.
It was nearly dark by the time they got back, but they didn’t go to the shed. Instead, they headed toward a building, and Malcolm thought it was where he had been taken twice before. He’d never seen it from the outside, but it was rectangular and small.
Is Rowan back in the shed or in this building?
The bearded man led them around to the back. Behind the small building was a large wooden box. The man lifted the lid.
“The shed you were in is bigger than you deserve. This is more appropriate for boys who run away.”
Tears burned down Malcolm’s face. He tried to step back, but the silent man had a hold on his arm. The box was about the size of his mother’s Jacuzzi bathtub. He wouldn’t be able to stand.
“Get in.”
Shaking, he peered inside, hoping to see Rowan. Instead, he saw broken chunks of wood and cobwebs in the corners. He wondered if it had been used to hold chopped wood.
The second man shoved Malcolm’s arm forward, and he awkwardly climbed into the box. It smelled like dirt, dusty and old. He sat cross-legged, hoping the lid won’t make him bend his head when he closed it. The two men stared down at him.
“You shouldn’t have been bad and run away,” said the big man as he frowned. “See what you’ve made me do because you need to be punished? I have no choice.” His voice was sad.
“I’m sorry, sir.” It was the first time Malcolm had spoken since they’d found him, and his voice was hoarse.
“Get him some water,” the big man said, and the second one left.
Malcolm closed his eyes as thirst and hunger swamped him, and he swayed in the box. He dreaded the man closing the lid. It would be dark, and he wondered if there were spiders.
“Aren’t you going to ask about your sister?”
Malcolm’s eyes flew open. The bearded man looked very sorry, and Malcolm’s stomach heaved. His mouth went completely dry, and he couldn’t speak.
Something happened.
“We couldn’t tell if it was a bear or cougar that got her, but—”
Malcolm leaned to one side and retched. Nothing came up. His stomach heaved over and over, and finally a tiny bit of bitter fluid came up his throat. He spit it out.
He could see Rowan in his mind, terrified and screaming as she was attacked.
Malcolm heaved several more times, but his gut was empty. He covered his face with his hands and bawled.
I left her and she died.
“You shouldn’t have run away,” he said. “It’s all your fault she’s dead. She was safe in that shed, but you made her leave, didn’t you? She couldn’t have done it on her own with that leg.”
Malcolm fought for breath between sobs and felt as if his tears were drowning him.
“Good thing your parents won’t ever know. They’d hate you forever for leaving their daughter to die. The police would arrest you for taking a little girl into the woods and abandoning her. This is all on you.”
He’s right. I did it.
Malcolm coughed and choked, and the tears kept coming. Something made a wailing sound, and he realized it was him.
“You’re lucky we saved your life today. The animals could have killed you next. We didn’t have to go looking for you. I could have spent my day barbecuing or shooting on my gun range. You should show some gratitude.”
“Thank you. Thank you for saving me.” He wailed and immediately vomited again as the man closed the lid.
I’m going to hell. I got my sister killed.
“Don’t get too comfortable yet,” said the bearded man through the lid. “We got another boy yesterday, and we don’t need two. We’ll have to decide which of you to keep. Maybe have you compete for the honor of being part of our family.”
Visions of Rowan and himself competing assaulted Malcolm’s brain. The fights. The pinching. The rocks.
Her broken leg.
I can’t do it again.
25
It took Evan a few hours to drive from Bend to the Oregon State Penitentiary. He always enjoyed crossing over the Cascade Range from Oregon’s high desert into the greener Willamette Valley. The scenery changed from highways edged with sparse ponderosa pine trees and sagebrush to dense, dark forests of firs.
FBI special agent Mercy Kilpatrick called him during the drive, and he shared his suspicions about a serial killer in his county. She agreed and promised him FBI resources. He asked her to contact Noelle to get plans rolling since he was on his way to the prison. The FBI could speed up the processing of the evidence recovered at each murdered woman’s crime scene and hopefully pinpoint a lead to direct them to the killer.
Before he murdered again.
The number of cases on Evan’s plate had been wearing on him. Noelle had brought some relief, and the FBI would bring more.
But first he needed to do this interview.
Jerry Chiavo was waiting for him. Instead of using the usual visitors’ area, Evan had asked for a small interview room. Jerry sat, the chain from his cuffs looped around the bar on his side of the bolted-down table. Evan had handed over his weapon, passed through two metal detectors and several controlled doors, and listened as a guard told him not to give the prisoner anything or move to the opposite side of the table. The guard left, closing the door behind him, and then stood watching through its large glass window.
Evan was keenly aware of the absence of his gun as he eyed Jerry across the table, even though the seventy-five-year-old man didn’t look like a killer. He looked like an off-season Santa in prison garb instead of a red velvet suit. His hair was white and his nose and cheeks red. But not red in a jolly way—they were red in a poor-health way.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” Jerry’s eyes were sharp, probing.
Evan was surprised the man had spoken first.
He’s immediately taking charge of the interview.
Evan would let him think he had done so—if it meant Jerry opened up more. He set a thick folder on the table and added a yellow pad he liked to use for notes. “It’s been a busy few weeks in Deschutes County. Maybe you’ve heard some of what’s happened?” He raised a brow at Jerry and picked up his pen, ready to write.
“I don’t follow news from over there.”
“Okay.” Evan rubbed his chin, trying to look thoughtful. “Let me back up a bit, then. You were convicted of three young women’s deaths twenty-five years ago. I assume you remember where each body was found?”
“I was told their locations.”
Still won’t admit to their murders.
“You had to be told the locations they were dumped because you weren’t the one who put them there, correct?”
“Correct.” Jerry shifted in his seat, his brows coming together in annoyance. “I didn’t kill those women. All the evidence against me was circumstantial, and their primary evidence was planted.”
“Planted? Who would want to set you up?”
“I suspect the police did it.” Annoyance filled his tone. “This can’t be new information to you, Detective.”
“I was aware your attorney tried to point some blame at the police. It didn’t convince a jury.”
“No shit. But it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” He leaned over, his chains clinking. “The most likely dirty cop is Sam Durette. He was determined to see me go to prison.”
“Why? What was his motivation?”
“Who knows with cops?” Jerry shrugged.
“You’ve had twenty-five years to think about it. Surely you have a better reason than ‘Who knows.’”