She blinked rapidly, smoothing down her dress. “I’m gonna call the store.”
The store, a discount grocery three blocks away, was less than accommodating—her manager snapping at her through the receiver of the police department’s phone. His tone changed only marginally when she explained the situation, and by the time the conversation ended, she was close to tears, her strong facade crumbling under the stress. Losing her job wasn’t something they could afford to happen. And losing Annie would be … unbearable. She visited the small unisex bathroom, wiping her eyes with trembling hands and patting her face and neck with a paper towel. She breathed deeply, sending a prayer out for Annie then straightened her shoulders and headed to the small office in the back, where John and her husband waited.
CHAPTER 43
I drive, scarfing down crunchy Cheetos, Twix bars, Twinkies, and sodas. I begin to feel nauseous after I’ve finished about half of the gas station haul. It’s as if all of the junk food has molded together in my stomach and become a rolling knot of carbonation, preservatives and high fructose corn syrup, sending my stomach into irritated spasms. I vow to stick to water and fruit at the next pit stop. I remind myself that there is a greater purpose for this trip, other than my own junk food debauchery. The last thing I need, in the midst of a lethal, perfectly orchestrated attack, is an attack of diarrhea.
My opinion on Jeremy continues its upward ascent when I realize he has satellite radio—a technological wonder that has, apparently, gained in popularity since I last owned a car. I find CNN and keep the radio on it. Their reports on Annie are few and far between. According to CNN, the police have no leads and no idea where Annie could be. I call Mike again.
“What’s up, my evil-avenging angel?” I hear music in the background, a clash of air guitars and screaming.
“What is the scanner saying?”
“They went to Ralph’s house and found nothing. Searched the premises, says he’s there with his wife, but nothing’s out of the ordinary. The cops are keeping a cruiser parked down the street to watch his house all night.”
“Good. So my tip was taken seriously. Did you get the cell number I texted you?”
“Yep. It shows him in the general vicinity of his home address—so it corroborates the police statement that he is at home.”
“So Annie must be at the other house.”
“What other house?”
“I assume you have a copy of his computer clone—the one you sent me.”
“Duh.”
“Scroll through his search history. There are two Craigslist properties that he viewed a bunch of times about a month ago. One of them—the trailer, not the house—he signed a lease on. I think that’s where he has her. No other reason to have it.”
“I see it. I’ve been going through his shit for the last hour. Unless he hunts.”
“What?” I approach a car and put on my blinker, flying past them in the opposing lane. My stress and trepidation over driving took a flying leap out of the truck seventy miles ago.
“You said there was no reason for him to have this second place. That’s true, unless he hunts. This place is smack dab in the middle of a four hundred acre hunting preserve. That’s the only reason the owner can get five hundred bucks a month for this piece of shit. It’s actually a pretty cool piece of property—it has a gutting barn and deer hang, as well as a shitload of blinds.”
“So, we’re talking about an isolated location, with no one around for miles, that is designed for killing and disposing of bodies.”
“Deer bodies. But yeah, when you put it that way, it sounds all psychotic.”
I push harder on the pedal, watching the shaky needle climb past eighty-five. “What came back on guns registered to Ralph?”
“Nothing showed up. But this is Georgia, baby. If someone needs a gun that’s off the books, all you have to do is know someone who knows someone who’s part of the ‘good ole boy’ system.”
“What’s the law on hunting guns—rifles, shotguns—do those require registration?”
“In Georgia? I don’t know.”
“Find out. And let me know if anything comes across that scanner. I don’t care if it’s discussion about Jessica Simpson’s tits. I want to know about it.”
“You’re a lot more fun when you’re naked.”
I grin in the empty truck. “No doubt.”
“Talk soon.”
I hang up, fighting the urge to open up the Snickers bar I can see lying in the plastic bag on my passenger seat. I glance at the GPS’s clock. 7:15 p.m. Ten hours and fifty-two minutes from Annie.
My father was a police officer during one, four-year period in his life. His department made cutbacks and as a new officer, he was moved to the Department of Corrections, working twelve-hour jail-duty shifts among rapists, murderers, and drug dealers. After four years of hell, he quit the force and went into real estate, quickly earning more in one month then he had earned in a year as a public servant. He always said he learned more about human behavior and conflict resolution in those four years, than in all of his other work experience combined. He preached that I could accomplish more with voice inflections and body language than with a weapon. If I was ever confronted, he taught me to hold my ground, meet the eyes of my attacker, and use firm, authoritative language. It is a lesson I have never forgotten.
More than a cop, or a father, he was my friend—someone I could always count on for advice, help, and support. There aren’t enough words in the world to describe how much I miss him.
Now, driving down the dark highway, with a gun beside me, I wish he were here. It would have been really great to have a friend in all of this.
CHAPTER 44: Carolyn Thompson