Mike drove the Impala, not knowing where to go, but cleared the town, running on instinct, headed toward Tupper Lake, where Garris had first grown up as John Durie. And where Melissa Clay was buried, his biological mother. It was as good a direction as any; Garris was not at his home; no one knew where he was.
Mike dialed Lena, his cell phone mounted to the dash, using speaker mode. “How did I miss this guy?”
“We missed him,” Lena said, in her own car. “He was hired on a contractual basis,” she reminded. “No civil service exam, background check was clean. He gave an alibi, Mike. We just never checked it because he was nobody to us compared to Pritchard, Fuller, and the rest. It took us by surprise. It took me by surprise.”
Mike slammed a fist against the steering wheel, cursing. He urged the Impala faster.
“Everybody else missed him, too,” Lena went on. “It’s been fourteen years. He looks completely different – he’s going bald, looks older than he is. These caseworkers see hundreds of kids in their careers…”
An idea sliced through his thoughts and he let off the gas for a moment. “He’s tracking them down. He knows their schedules! He knew when Harriet was going to be alone that night. Jesus, Lena, Jesus.”
“Slow down – what are you thinking?”
He hit the gas again. “We need to find out if there’s a caseworker on call today. This guy, Garris – he could fake a call or something; call in a complaint. He’s got Lennox Palmer – I bet he’s got Lennox Palmer somewhere – but he hasn’t done anything yet.”
“Why?”
“First he abducts Corina Lavoie, kills her, and hides her. But he kills Harriet at DSS, leaves her right out in front for someone to find, for all of us to see, and it’s a more violent stabbing. Going back to hiding victims with Lennox Palmer? I don’t think so. He’s working his way toward something, I just don’t know what. But he’s going to try and make it big. He’s got something to show everybody.”
* * *
There was music playing. It was faint, like it was far away, coming from inside the house. Bobbi thought she recognized “Riders on the Storm” by The Doors.
The shooter was standing on the other side of the police car. She could see his feet.
“Hey.”
Trevor. It’s Trevor from work.
“Hey, Bobbi. C’mere.”
She didn’t move. The air was still. Her heart was beating so hard she was afraid she was going to pass out.
Breathe.
“Come on, Bobbi. It’s alright. I want to show you something.”
Frantic piano playing from inside the house – still the same song. Now it was quieting down, and she could hear the rain effect on the track. Then Jim Morrison’s voice floated out, singing something about being thrown into the world like a dog without a bone.
“Come on, Bobbi,” Trevor said. “Up. I’m gettin’ impatient.” His boots crunched gravel again as he started around the car.
She was on her hands and knees. She finally rose to her feet, slow, legs like rubber. Trevor walked around behind the car, stopped a distance from her, leveled the rifle.
“See this?” He dipped his head toward the gun. “This is my new toy. Bought it yesterday. Just had to walk in and plunk down my cash. Instant background check; no problem.”
She looked at his face, willing her mind to work. He looked the same as when she saw him around the office. The big forehead. The dark brown eyes; dark enough that the pupils and irises sort of blended together. That slight furrow to his brow like he was working on a complex computer problem, which usually he was.
But he’d been up to more than just networking their new system, nursing them through their software upgrade. He’d been spying on them. It was the only thing that made any sense – Trevor was the man who had killed Harriet. And Corey Lavoie. And probably Lennox, too.
If so, he had a reason. Or thought he did.
She tried to speak, but her vocal cords weren’t cooperating. All that came out was a weak, whistling breath.
He seemed to be studying her, a bemused look on his face.
Trevor jerked his head toward the house. Anita’s house. How had he gotten here? Why was he here?
“Come on; go on inside.”
Her voice finally cooperated. “I don’t want to.”
“Well, I don’t give a shit if you want to or not, Bobbi. Go on inside.”
“Why are you doing this?”
He blinked at her then turned his attention toward the police car beside him. She could see him working something through. He said, “Come on. This piece of shit has to radio in, do a status check. When he doesn’t, they’ll send out backup. So we got like twenty minutes, maybe a little less if it’s a statie.” He turned back to her. His eyes looked like normal eyes, his face just a normal face. “Get going,” he said, “or I’m going to shoot you in your head, right fucking here.”
“He’s not a piece of shit,” she said, her voice quavering. “His name is Cal Mullins. He has a wife and—”
Trevor raised the rifle, pointed the barrel at her nose. She could almost reach out and grab it – he was just a couple of paces too far.
“Go the fuck. In the house. Right now.”
“No.”
He wanted something from her, she thought, which was why she was still alive.
He stepped closer. “Bobbi, move your fucking a—”
She lunged. With her palm, she drove the barrel up toward the sky and came for his midsection, aiming for his crotch. But the rifle went off, startling her, and she missed him and fell, skidded across the gravel on her hands and knees.
She was quick. Before he knew what was happening, she swept his legs with her own. He was too big to knock down, and only stumbled forward a few steps, his eyes wide, mouth opened in an O.
Get in the car.
The keys were in it. She could leave right now.
But the kids might be here and in danger.
Bobbi scrambled to her feet and ran. She knew Anita had a landline in the house but she wasn’t going in there, not yet. She had her own phone in her pocket as she sprinted around behind the house. The land sloped up into the woods – she could hear Trevor yelling behind her and wanted to find some cover before she called. She clawed and toed the dirt up the embankment, grabbed the trees, dug for her phone, and it fell from her grip.
It tumbled down the hill, toward the yard, back the way she’d come.
She went after it, slipped, managed to grab it. Bobbi jammed her heels into the earth then flipped over and scrambled up further into the trees.
She found a spot where she could hold on and use her phone at the same time. She dialed 911 and waited for the call to go through. From her position on the hill, she could just see Trevor: He was moving alongside the house, doing something with the rifle, pulling a piece of it back, like he was loading another round.
“I’m gonna kill him!”
Bobbi waited, her breathing so fast she was going to hyperventilate. She closed her mouth, pulled the air through her nostrils, willed herself to slow it down, slow it down.
Trevor was getting closer to the woods, starting up the hill.
“Bobbi! Bobbayyy…”
She checked the screen of her phone. The call was still placing. The network indicator said 1X. There was barely any coverage out here; she wasn’t getting through. Bobbi had her arm wrapped around a tree. There were bits of things in her hair and something in her mouth she spat out.
Trevor aimed the rifle. She was confident she could see him but he couldn’t see her, but he was pointing it right at her.
“Bobbi. Come on down! Your phone ain’t gonna work, kid – no towers out here. Or if it manages to get through, they ain’t gonna hear shit. Come on, now. Come on down.”