Cache a Predator (20 page)

#

I paced the wooden floors in my living room, twirling the bottom of my shirt, my feet clunking on the planks. Now what? The girl was sad. She didn’t like me either. Why didn’t she feel safe? Didn’t she realize I’d saved her? Why wasn’t she happy to be with me?

She sat in a chair near the fireplace and crossed her arms, glaring at me.

“Would you like to play a game?”

“No, I want my daddy.” Tears fell down her cheeks. She sniffled.

“No, please don’t cry.” I’d seen tears so many times before, and there had been nothing I could do. My stomach twisted at the memories. I paced.

Maybe she was cold. “Would you like me to build a fire? Momma always said a fire made everything inside feel better, that it warmed her heart.”

She turned her back to me.

I rubbed my fingers across my lips, over and over again. What should I do? “You’ll be okay now. I’ll take care of you. We could watch TV.”

She stood and stormed across the room to the bathroom. “No. I don’t want you! I want my daddy. You aren’t my daddy.” She slammed the door and turned the lock.

I stomped my foot. I didn’t know how to get it right. I wanted her to feel safe, to like me. She didn’t want to look at me. Pressing my ear up to the bathroom door, I listened. Her whimpering made me cringe. Had I done this to her? No, not me. But someone else. Why then did she want her daddy?

#

Brett pulled up to Ali’s home around three a.m. exhausted. He went to Ali’s because it was closer to the precinct, and he wanted to feel closer to Quinn, to another time when he’d held her.

He needed to shower and change his clothes. Maybe then he’d get a second wind. Thankfully, he kept a spare uniform in his trunk.

Ali’s street was dark and quiet; few homes were illuminated, but he noticed a parked car a few doors down that wasn’t ordinarily there. His heart raced. He thought he saw a silhouette of a person in the front seat. He pulled his cruiser into the driveway, climbed out, and popped the trunk. After gathering his clothes, he headed toward the door and placed his clothes on the porch, ducked behind a few bushes, and examined the car from a distance.

It looked like Mark’s truck, but he couldn’t be sure. What the hell was he doing?

Brett dashed, squatting toward the back of the vehicle. When he was within twenty feet, the engine started and the driver sped away with only his parking lights on.

It sure looked like Mark. Jerk!

Brett reached for his phone and called Clay. “I think Mark was just parked out front. Not sure why he was here. He’s heading east toward Main Street in a white truck. I’m afraid if I go after him I’ll lose my cool.”

“I’m on it.”

Clay’s sirens blared through the phone.

Brett climbed back into his sedan. “I’m going to chase him from behind.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Let me handle this, Reed. Stay put. I’m not that far away, and if I don’t find him we’ll park a car at his house and wait for him. I’ll let you know when I’ve got him.”

Clay had a point. Brett needed to let him handle this. But what if Mark got away? Ugh! Giving up control was not an easy thing, especially when Quinn was involved. “Okay, but call me.”

Brett stepped out of his car and headed back to the porch to gather his uniform, but when he heard a scratching sound coming from the side of the house, he froze. He set his uniform on the front porch again and slowly moved toward the other side of the house—toward the garage in the back. He hid in the shadows with his back up against the house. Where was his weapon when he needed it?

He crept inside the side door to the garage and reached for a shovel that hung on a Peg-Board hook. He held the blade in the air and tiptoed out the garage and along the sidewall toward the noise. He heard another sound and paused, listening, and waited. It sounded like something was dragging toward him. It was moving closer, scraping the ground as it went. What if the guy had a gun? It was better to wait. He forced his breathing to slow, but his heartbeat sounded like drums banging in his ears. He listened. More scraping. Then he heard a whimper.

Max?

Brett turned the corner, the shovel raised above his head, ready to strike. But it was Max. He lay in the grass on his stomach, doing the army crawl. When he saw Brett, his tail thumped slowly against the ground, and he stood.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Brett leaned the shovel against the house and bent to examine the dog. Prickly burs were tangled in his hair around his ears, neck, paws, and abdomen. His back leg was caked in dried blood. Brett scooped him into his arms, and Max yipped. “Sorry, boy. Shhh, let’s get you inside and take a look at you.”

Max relaxed, slapping a wet kiss across Brett’s cheek.

Brett went to the back door that led to the kitchen. He jostled Max in his arms and fumbled in his pocket for the keys. After he opened the door, he carried Max into the house and placed him on the kitchen counter. Maybe it was exhaustion or raw emotion, but Brett couldn’t hold the tears from flooding his eyes.
Quinn, Max is back! He’s back. Now it’s time for you to come home too
. He wiped his tears with the back of his arm. “Where have you been, boy? We’ve been worried.”

Max wagged his tail again, but Brett could tell it took great effort.

“I wish you could talk.” Brett cut the burs out of Max’s fur and washed his leg wound, which didn’t look as bad as he’d originally thought, as the dog could stand on it now. When Brett finished, he lifted Max and placed him on his doggie bed on the floor next to the kitchen table.

“I bet you’re hungry.” As Brett filled Max’s bowls with food and water, the dog scrambled to stand, his legs quivering as he moved. He sauntered over to his bowls and ate and drank like he hadn’t eaten since before he left. Brett remembered the last time he fed him and how Quinn had stood within arm’s reach. Oh, how he wished she was standing there now. Had that only been two days ago?

His phone rang. Clay.

“Yeah?”

Clay said, “We found him at his house, in bed. Said he never left. He said even if he had been parked in front of your house it’s a free country. We couldn’t book him with anything. Sorry, guy.”

Brett swung his fist in the air. “He’s lying! I
know
he’s up to something!”

“I’m keeping Riggs parked nearby in an unmarked car. If Mark’s our guy, we’ll get him.”

Had Mark known where Max had been? It seemed strange that Max showed up when Mark was parked out front.

Chapter Nineteen

A horn honked in the distance. Brett woke with a start. Darn! He’d fallen asleep at the kitchen table, next to Max, who slept on the floor. The computer and the list of deceased men lay on the table next to Brett. He glanced at the clock on the stove: 6:28. He’d slept for two hours. His hands tingled from sleeping in an awkward position. Guilt punched him in the gut. How could he have possibly fallen asleep when Quinn was out there somewhere, needing him? He stood, rubbing his eyes. It felt like someone had thrown sand in them.

Just before he’d fallen asleep, he looked over the list, reading the names and addresses but not seeing them. He couldn’t focus, and he hadn’t been able to make calls because it was too late.

He shook the tingle out of his arms.

Max stirred and hobbled to Brett. He knelt in front of the dog, enveloping his head in his lap and rubbing his ears. “We’re going to find her, boy. We will.”

As if Max knew who Brett was talking about, he limped to Quinn’s room. Brett followed and watched Max sniff her bed, the floor, and the toys on her shelf.

The doorbell rang. Max barked. It was probably Clay. He hoped it was him bringing good news.

Brett hurried to the door and opened it. A tall blond woman stood on the porch with a bald man who held a camera on his shoulder. Not another news crew!

The woman spoke first. “Officer Reed?” Her voice squeaked. She cleared her throat. “Could you answer a few questions for us?”

He didn’t have time for this. He needed to call the station, talk to Clay, get out of there. He started to close the door.

“Wait! You haven’t seen the morning paper, have you?” She handed him a newspaper. “This was in your driveway.”

He took the paper and pulled it out of its plastic wrap, then shook it open to read. On the front page was a photo of him with Quinn. Seeing Quinn’s face made him gasp.
Officer’s Daughter Kidnapped by Sex Offender Mutilator.

Brett stared at the words, his mouth agape. Seeing the headlines made his nightmare even more of a reality. He glanced over the names of the victims, the crimes, and the profile of the perpetrator. The words blurred. He leaned against the doorjamb, overcome with vertigo.

The woman put the mic in front of him, and the camera’s red light flashed. “Why did Child Protective Services take your daughter?”

Brett stared into the camera, his voice barely audible. “Leave me alone.”

“The paper said your wife’s blood alcohol level was twice over the legal limit. Do you expect your wife will be charged with vehicular homicide?”

“What?” His ears buzzed.

“What’s her prognosis?”

“Go away.”

“Will you sue the state for putting your daughter in harm’s way?”

Brett grabbed hold of the door, using its weight to lean on. “Go, just go! I need to find my daughter.” He shut the door, wishing he could shut out the same questions that drilled through his own mind.

The lady spoke through the door. “The community wants to help.”

He ignored the reporter and stoically walked to the living room. Ali had been drunk? He sat on the edge of the sofa and read the paper. Next to the article about Quinn’s kidnapping was one about Ali. Her wrecked car and the victim’s were also on the front page. It was a miracle Ali had lived. Her driver’s side was practically gone.

Ali had run a stop sign going ten over the speed limit. The victim, Holly Daby, was only twenty-five years old and engaged to be married soon. She and her fiancé were studying to be dentists and were finishing their schooling in Indianapolis. She’d come home to Hursey Lake to visit her family. She died at the scene of the accident.

Brett closed his eyes and pictured the young man waiting at the hospital. He dropped his head into his hands.

Tears stung his eyes. He shook his head and pressed his fingers into the sockets. He wasn’t going to cry. Not now. There wasn’t time. He hurried into the bathroom, but the first things he saw were Quinn’s yellow duck towel hanging on the hook and her Barbie toothbrush in the holder. He stopped and rubbed the towel against his face.
Daddy will find you, baby. He’ll find you.

When he opened the drawer to grab his razor, he saw a tube of Ali’s lipstick. He remembered a time when she’d put it on her lips and then Quinn’s and how they giggled. Memories of Quinn surrounded him. He sat on the stool and wept.

When no more tears would come, he took a shower while listening to his usual AM talk radio station. The announcer discussed how easy it was to get information about sex offenders. A person only needing to do a computer search by state. Indiana was broken down by counties. In one click, search engines brought up the names, addresses, ages, and photos of the offenders.

People were calling in saying how that was a violation of privacy, but other callers disagreed, complaining that all citizens had the right to know who their neighbors were for their safety and the safety of their children. He shouted at the radio and clicked it off, disgusted. “What about those sex offenders who move to a new town without registering?”

After he lathered his body and his hair, his phone vibrated against the countertop. With wet hands, he reached for it. His mother.
Oh, crap
! She’d be frantic. He couldn’t answer now. He’d call her later. Right now he needed to get to the precinct.

#

Brett retrieved the uniform he’d left on the front porch last night and shook it, hoping the wrinkles would fall out. There was no time to press them. He dressed quickly, the damp clothing bogging down his mood even further. When he was ready to go, he opened the car door for Max and helped lift him into the backseat. No way was he going to leave him home alone now. He doubted the chief would mind, given the circumstances, but it didn’t matter because right now he didn’t give a darmn. Having Max nearby made him feel closer to Quinn.

After putting on his flashers, he drove to the station. He was about to call Clay, when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. His mother. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Son,” his father said.

Dad? Brett froze. His father’s voice sounded foreign—older and deeper. Why hadn’t he noticed how it had changed when he called earlier? “Uh, hi.”

“Your mom was worried.”

Nothing about him being worried.
“I’m sure. I haven’t had a chance to call her, you know. It’s been crazy.”

“I know. We read the paper.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I, er, I know … I haven’t been there for you in a long time, but I want you to know that I’m here for you if you need legal counsel.”

What if I need emotional counsel?
Brett heard his mother in the background saying, “Give me the phone.”

She said, “I feel so bad. If we had taken Quinn this wouldn’t have happened.” She sobbed.

“Don’t say that, Mom. Dad’s health is important right now, and you didn’t know this was going to happen.”

“Have they found Quinn yet? How’s Ali?” Her voice sounded shrill.

“No, they haven’t found Quinn. Ali’s condition hasn’t changed. I’m on my way to the station. I’ll let you know as soon as I know something.”

“Your father meant what he said. He wants to be there for you.”

Why? So he can say “I told you so”? So, he can rub it in my face—that I threw my life away by not finishing my law degree?
Would his dad remind him that being a cop didn’t pay the bills, that his life was a mess because of the poor choices he’d made? “Thanks, Mom. That means a lot to me.” He had to say that because that’s what she wanted him to say.

He heard his call-waiting beep and glanced at his screen. It was Clay. “Mom, I have to go. I’ll call you when I know more. I’m on my way to the station right now.”