Blood Stained (11 page)

Least she could do after getting his mom killed.

Chapter 10

Jenna paused at the substation's doorway, reading the plaque dedicating the renovated Dairy Treat to Marion Caine. If Adam Caine had come home, would the locals protect him? Maybe even the local law enforcement?

She swung the door open and stepped inside, ready to trust no one. Hard to do with the scent of french fries and chilidogs perfuming the air. 

The place was pretty much empty. They'd left the plastic booths and turned the counter area into a receptionist's desk. An elderly man wearing a volunteer badge looked up from his Sudoku to greet her with enthusiasm as if she was the most excitement this place had seen in a decade.

Well, not a decade. More like four years.

She flipped open her jacket, a Black Halo leather car coat she'd bought in Century City. The clerk who assured her it would be warm enough for the Pennsylvania winters had been sorely mistaken. Resting a hand on her gun, she said, "Inspector Galloway to see Deputy Bob. He's expecting me."

The volunteer jumped up to personally escort her through the security door to the rear work area.

It also was empty except for one tall man bent over a coffeemaker at the far counter. They'd removed the appliances but left the stainless steel counters along both walls. In the cramped space in the center they'd shoved three desks together, one barren of everything except a phone, the other with a keyboard and old monitor that looked as if it weighed fifty pounds. The third desk held a matching ancient computer, fax machine, and all-in-one printer/scanner. 

Jenna decided to let the locals know she was here on serious Postal Service business and sat at the desk Deputy Bob was obviously using. 

"Good morning," he said, still bent over the coffee maker. Not very good situational awareness, she thought. Until she realized he could see everything behind him reflected in the polished steel backsplash. Just as she could see his amused smile.

"Morning," she replied in a neutral tone. His face in the mirrored surface was kinda cute. Boyish yet rugged with an interesting cleft in his chin and crinkles at the corners of his eyes as if he spent a lot of time staring into the sun.

Hollywood would eat him up. He turned, holding two mugs of coffee in his hands and the view got even better. Six foot, trim, real muscles, not gym-rat ones, warm brown eyes and medium brown hair that she bet got light in the summer.

What was even better was he seemed oblivious to his looks. Now that never would happen back in L.A. 

"Am I in your seat?" she asked innocently.

"No problem." He gave her a mug. "Black okay? If not, we've got milk but no sugar."

"Black's fine, thanks." She noticed he gave her the mug with the sheriff's department logo on it, probably his own, while he kept the plain brown one that looked left over from the days this place was a Dairy Treat. Gotta love small town hospitality.

He leaned against the counter on her side of the small space and sipped his coffee. "How can I help you, Agent Galloway?"

"Actually, it's Inspector Galloway. I'm with the United States Postal Service."

"Postal Service? I thought you were interested in Adam Caine?" he paused, covering his scrutiny with another sip of coffee. "Didn't you say you were coming here with Lucy Guardino?"

"Special Agent Guardino dropped me off." He looked down at the tan linoleum, shifted his weight. Disappointed with a lowly postal inspector instead of a big time, world famous FBI agent, no doubt. "But this is my case. We suspect Adam Caine of violating US Code, Title 18, Section 876."

"And what's that when it's at home?"

"Using the US mail to send threatening communications."

He frowned. "And the penalty?"

"Ten years."

"But he's just a kid. Fifteen—"

"Fourteen years old." She shrugged. "All the more reason to find him, isn't it?"

"You drove all the way from Pittsburgh to see if Adam was mailing letters from here? Hate to disappoint, Inspector Galloway, but we don't even have a post office. Alexandria is the nearest."

"I know that. The letter in question was postmarked Cleveland—the last place Caine was seen."

"So you and Lucy came here—"

"The letter mentioned New Hope. We thought he might return home."

"He's alone? Where's Clint?"

"Apparently Adam ran away from his father ten months ago. Was picked up for petty theft, and when they couldn't locate the dad, they put him in the foster care system. Eight months ago he assaulted a group home worker and fled. He's been on the streets ever since."

"Doesn't sound like Clint. He loves that boy. You sure he's okay? He's a long-haul trucker. Maybe something happened to him on one of his runs and the poor kid doesn't even know."

Jenna bristled. She still had no clue where Clinton Caine was and didn't care. Adam was her case. Her fugitive.

"Inspector Galloway, seems to me—"

She felt like an old school marm, the way he kept using her title. When she did the math, she knew he had to be around her age, though he seemed so much younger. Innocent? Naive? It was appealing yet annoying at the same time. "Jenna. Call me Jenna."

"Yes, ma'am. So, Jenna, I'm guessing you think Adam coming home has something to do with what went on around here four years ago."

"So, Deputy Bob." She stopped. "Is that really your name? Or are you like the school cop who works with kids and that's what they call you?"

"No, ma'am. My full name is William Bob, but that's my grandad and my dad's Billy Bob—"

"Your dad's name is Billy Bob?" Good God, she'd driven over the mountain and into an episode of
Hee-Haw
.

"And proud of it. There's been a William Bob in our family since before the Revolution. We were one of the first settlers here."

She held up a hand in truce. "You didn't want to be Willy Bob?"

"Ah no, ma'am. Not in my line of work. Didn't seem fitting. So everyone calls me Bob."

"Deputy Bob."

"Just Bob is fine, ma'am."

"Then I'm just Jenna."

He smiled, dipped his head. "Yes, ma'am. I mean Jenna."

"You worked the original New Hope case four years ago."

He looked away, swept a finger across his brow as if expecting to find a hat there, glanced across the room to the hooks beside the door where a lonely tan Stetson hung. "I'd just started with the sheriff's. But I wouldn't say I 'worked' the case. More like accidentally fell into it."

"What happened?"

"Well, ma'am, I'd only been patrolling on my own without a training officer for a few weeks. Which is why they assigned me this side of the county. Nothing much happens except the occasional traffic incident. Except that day the sheriff himself—this is the old sheriff, Sheriff Dobbs, you understand—gave me a special assignment."

"What was that?"

"Seems a woman was trespassing on the Harding’s property. Got Mrs. Harding all upset. And her husband, well, he's a bigwig down in Washington, and about the richest guy around these parts. When he's upset, the sheriff and county commissioners, they get upset. So now it was my job to escort this woman to the county line and make sure she didn't return."

"And the woman was?" Jenna asked, although she had a good idea.

"Luc—er—Special Agent Guardino. Ma'am."

"So you all had no idea there might be something going on here in New Hope?"

"No, ma'am. See, all we knew was something bad happened to Mrs. Harding when they still lived in DC. Felt bad for her. But it was years ago and far away. You think Kurt Harding would have gone to all that trouble to build her that fancy house up on the mountain? Bring her here if he knew those terrible things started right here in their hometown? Talk about bad luck."

Jenna didn't believe in luck. Good or bad. She made a note to check out the Hardings' history growing up in New Hope. 

"There's no way Kurt Harding could have been involved? The killer could have had an accomplice." Maybe that was who had sent the letter. Angry with Lucy for not giving him due credit for the New Hope case. 

"Lucy thought of that. Checked him out even after everyone else said the killer died. Well, asked me to, since she was officially off the case by then. But he had alibis."

"So Harding was the only victim with any ties to New Hope?"

"That we knew of at the time. Until we found Rachel Strohmeyer. See, the Strohmeyers are Mennonites from down the valley and Rachel had met an English boy—that's what they call us—while working at her folks' produce stand. College kid from Penn State. Liked to come up here and go spelunking. Real smart boy, knew everything about rocks and geology and prehistoric times. But her parents didn't approve. Anyway, when she vanished, they just assumed she'd run off with him. We looked for her, but she'd just turned eighteen, so…"

"You didn't look very hard."

"Wasn't anywhere to look. No clues at all." He shifted his duty belt, redistributing the pressure points from the various equipment. "Wasn't until Lucy got Kurt Harding all riled up. Folks talking again about what happened to Mrs. Harding back when she lived in DC. The FBI being here and all, that got folks really excited. Then someone overheard Lucy talking to the sheriff—the old sheriff, not the new one—about her theory there were more women all taken by the same man. Rumors began spreading… Well, that's when I escorted her out of the county. Except we didn't actually make it."

"Because you found Adam Caine and learned his mom had been taken."

"Right. At first no one thought they could be connected. Something that happened in DC three years before and Mrs. Caine being carjacked? Sounded crazy. Leaving the boy as a witness, taking her in daylight, it seemed so desperate. Not very smart. And Lucy said this guy was real smart. But anyway, you know the rest. How Lucy and Adam found the cavern entrance and saved those girls and Mrs. Caine, God bless her, died along with the killer."

Way too pat, Jenna thought. And the Caine abduction—desperate was an understatement. It felt different. Melodramatic. Like a magician's patter diverting your attention away from what was really happening. "The killer. You've no idea who he was?"

"No match to the fingerprints we found in the van. Lucy was the only one who could describe him at all, and she didn't get a very good look. The boy was about in hysterics. We couldn't find any missing person reports that matched and no one ever came forward saying they recognized him. Not around here, at any rate. The press flashed the composite drawing all over, but nothing ever came of it."

"What's your theory?"

"Me? I don't know. Sheriff—the new sheriff, old one was voted out not long after—says same as the FBI. Someone found the caves but wasn't local, just smart enough to come here when he needed to use them. I heard they searched other areas with natural cave systems. Down in Virginia and Tennessee. Thought he might have a few hideaways scattered all over."

Possible. Not caves though. He'd make each location special, she imagined. Or maybe Lucy was influencing her imagination. But the living victims had described different locations where they'd been kept prisoner. So if he was smart enough to have several lairs, why not just flee when Lucy began asking questions?

There was something about New Hope. Something that made it different. Important to him. She could almost hear Lucy's voice in her head. Wasn't at all sure she liked it there.

"Hey, Bob. Think I could take a look at the file myself?" She flashed him one of her best smiles, the one that got guys to buy her drinks wherever she went.

"Of course. Let me set you up with the computer. You just make yourself at home, Jenna."

An hour later, fueled by Bob's coffee and snicker doodle cookies he insisted she try, she realized just how messed up a case can get when the press and brass got involved. There was a ton of data and evidence—everything documented in triplicate. But most of it meaningless. Especially when you looked at the big picture and took into account Lucy's original profile. Which no one had bothered to do.

Too busy reassuring the public a heinous killer had been removed from this earth. 

She was certain there were other agendas at work as well. Kurt Harding was a high-powered lobbyist and did his best to keep the story, and his wife's part in it, quiet. 

Plus, she had to admit, the official story that the New Hope Killer—the
only
New Hope Killer—died in that cave four years ago, could very well be the truth. They had no idea. 

No proof. No body. No way to identify the killer other than Lucy's description—which could have fit half the male Caucasian population—and a few smudged fingerprints in a van stolen from a Hagerstown shopping mall. Victim statements vague and contradictory. And reluctant. 

Several of the living victims identified through DNA found at the crime scene had never reported their ordeal to the police. Out of fear, a desire to protect their children, and just plain old denial. 

Two women who had reported their abduction and imprisonment to their local law enforcement never even had their rape kits tested or their cases adequately investigated. An officer in Virginia made a notation that one victim's story was so outlandish and unbelievable, he considered her emotionally disturbed and advised her to seek psychiatric help.

The killer had been taking women for at least a decade. And they had nothing concrete to identify him.

No wonder the brass had been so eager to brush over the fact they had no idea who he was and focus on the fact that he was dead.

Or so they hoped. 

After reading the final victims' statements, Jenna wondered if Lucy was wrong. Maybe the New Hope Killer did have a partner. It just seemed too much for one man to accomplish on his own. 

From the other survivors' statements, the Unsub had also used abandoned houses, packing containers, even an old church to hold his victims. Maybe he created a dramatic ending to his New Hope operation to keep authorities from looking further—maybe he, Jenna's living Unsub, killed his partner down there in the dark? Then the Unsub simply moved on, changed his MO enough that he didn't twing their radar.