First Night of Summer (13 page)

“Hey, you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Just thinking that … I don’t know what to think.”

Charlie thought it best to sum up his intent rather than leave his friend hanging on the report. “Look, I didn’t call so you would go off and worry. I promised to keep you in the loop, and that’s what I’m doing. The FBI informed me, and I didn’t want you to have any more surprises.”

Isaac tried to relax and think positively. “I would rather know. I just … hoped the next piece of news might be that they caught him. I’m ready to pull my hair out here.”

“I know. That’s what we were all hoping.”

“What makes the FBI so sure it’s the same guy anyway?”

“I’m not clued in on everything. Not even close. And I don’t pretend to be. But it does feel the same. This little gal just disappeared. She was last seen walking home from her music lesson.”

“Yeah, but it’s in West Virginia. Why there?”

“Why not? The last one was in Kansas. We’re in New Mexico. He obviously has reasons. One may be as likely as another, but it’s my guess that he wants to spread things out. And it’s working. There’s no way to know where he might live as long as he keeps things scattered across the country like this.”

Isaac leaned over the table. His thumb and pointer finger massaged the pressure points on his nose. “Come on, Charlie. There’s got to be more to it. Just because this guy was in New Mexico and Kansas, why do they think he’s in West Virginia? You said it yourself. ‘These things are rarely, if ever, random.’”

“Well, for starters, the missing little girl fits the profile. Also, a wheelchair from a grocery store was found in the area where she was last seen. The parking lot surveillance tapes were reviewed from that particular store, and it turns out a man in a white cargo van took it. The video is grainy, at best, and they can’t get a close-up to see any details, but the basics are there. Lastly, there have been no other recent abductions in the area.”

He heard everything, but Charlie’s first sentence stuck. “And what profile is that?”

“The lead agent on the case says your girls, the one in Kansas and the girl in West Virginia, have similar physical descriptions. In fact, they’re darn near identical.”

“So what’s the description?”

Charlie didn’t want to explain what these children looked like. Painting a picture made the whole thing very realistic. He, too, loved Caroline, and the idea of someone targeting her because of a physical appearance sickened him. But facts were facts, and Isaac needed to know.

“They’re all blonde, light-eyed, and middle to upper middle class. And they all live in relatively small towns.”

“Yeah? What’s it mean though?”

“Mean?”

What does he mean, “What’s it mean?”

“It means,” he said pointedly, “they’re pretty. They’re good-looking girls with good families and live in towns where people feel safe. This prick isn’t some random asshole taking kids. He has a picture in his head, a picture of what he wants. There’s something about these little kids that he’s after.”

“And their ages?”

“About the same. Seven to nine.”

“What about the van?”

“According to the footage, a Ford is the best guess. Again, the tape is too grainy to see clearly. That’s why this guy always gets in and out so quietly and, seemingly, without anyone noticing him. What’s so out of place about a white cargo van, you know?”

“And that’s it?” Isaac’s tone prodded for more.

“No, there is one other thing.” Charlie tried to calm his friend. “It’s not anything that matters on our end, but …” He cleared his throat. “After they found the wheelchair in West Virginia, the FBI is pretty certain he is luring his victims. They went back over the Kansas abduction and followed up another lead. Again, it doesn’t matter since he confessed in the letter, but he left a puppy in the alley where he took Bailey Davis.”

“How’d they figure that one out?”

“Old-fashioned cop work. An agent found someone who recognized the pup. This person said that a friend of hers had set up in front of a local gas station and given them away to anyone willing to take them. When the agent questioned the lady who had the litter, she said she remembered a man with a white van taking that particular dog. Unfortunately, she can’t remember exactly what he looked like or where the plates on the van were from.”

“Just like that? This lady didn’t see where the van was registered, and now we don’t know anything more about him or his whereabouts than before?”

“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do. This is a slick operator, and even his mistakes seem benign. I’ve never seen or heard of anyone like him. He’s all over the map.”

Isaac stayed silent. Too many thoughts sloshed around for words.

“I promise,” Charlie assured, “this is all I know. The West Virginia kidnapping happened on Friday evening. Technically, it takes twenty-four hours before someone can be called a missing person. The FBI got involved on Monday and found similarities worth noting over the next day or two. Now here I am calling you after they called me. To them, I’m just a podunk policeman who’s half a world away. My conversation was blunt and brief.”

Isaac stayed quiet for a moment, thankful that Charlie had reached out. He didn’t want to receive another gruesome picture of a little girl, no matter how much of a clue it could be. Even more, he didn’t want anyone else to suffer pain and indignation.

“What’s her name?”

“Lindsay,” Charlie solemnly said. “Her name is Lindsay Watson from Shepherdstown, West Virginia.”

Lindsay Watson. God help you, baby girl
.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

T
he next morning in Taos, Isaac awoke to the sound of rain dancing off the Spanish tile roof above his bedroom. His head peeked from under the covers. A grin spread across his face as he realized the inclement weather would most likely ground him for the day. He reached for his cell phone on the nightstand and found a text from his patrol dispatch that confirmed his assumption. A thick line of storms had moved in during the night and stopped directly above half the Rocky Mountain range.

He threw on a long-sleeved T-shirt over blue jeans and walked across the terra-cotta floor to the kitchen. His parents’ home had that Santa Fe, Western New Mexico, feel to it, like so many others in the area. It wasn’t as much of a decorating style as it was a lifestyle or culture. The American Indians greatly contributed to the local population, and their influence was everywhere. Tom and Helen’s house was fully modern but filled with Pueblo charm.

On the kitchen counter, he found a fresh pot of coffee with a handwritten note laid across the top of an empty mug.

Good morning! Mom has gone to work out and run a few errands in town. I’m in the shop. Come on out when you’re up
.

Dad

He looked out the bay window that surrounded three sides of a breakfast nook. It gave a panoramic view across the wrought iron fenced lawn, valley, and mountains beyond. But today, the rain obscured anything past the fence.

Tom’s woodshop sat at the back of the driveway, barely out of sight through the haze. Isaac stepped under the porch overhang, slipped on his boots, and popped open an umbrella. After a few paces down the sidewalk, the little barn came into view. It didn’t look like much from the outside, a standard tin structure. The inside, however, boasted a layer of creativity and craftsmanship far grander than the humble exterior.

The building had insulation. It allowed Tom to work comfortably, regardless of the temperature, weather, or season. The main floor, and by far the largest area of the shop, housed work tables, saws, planers, routers, jointers, lathes, and a myriad of other woodworking equipment necessary for the noble art. In one corner, an enclosed office with a large picture window looked into the shop. In the other, a staining room with ventilation fans provided a dust-free environment for wood finishing.

When Isaac was a little boy, Tom had his woodshop in his detached garage—the one behind Isaac and Sarah’s house in Ruidoso—and built much of the furniture for their home. But like most working people, time had parameters, and he was unable to dedicate himself to the hobby as much as he would have liked. Now in the golden years of retirement, the parameters were gone.

In the middle of the floor, on one of the working tables, Isaac spotted a beautiful cedar chest. The rectangular cube consisted of solid walnut raised panels, spiraled corners, and inlaid corbels to support a half-moon, intricately hand-carved lid. Natural wood grain swirled and burst into random patterns of shapes and shades. A coat of lacquer would soon turn the flat sheen into pure radiance.

Tongue-and-groove cedar planks lined the shell, each precisely cut and seated into the next with seamless touch. It, unlike the walnut outside, would remain unfinished and raw to better protect its precious contents from moths and the slow decay of age.

Tom blotted a rag with lacquer thinner and guided it over the chest. It had to be clean, spotless from dust, before varnished.

“Dad, this is fantastic.” Isaac let his hand slide along the edges. They were sanded to a smoothness rivaling a baby’s bottom. “How long did it take?” He kept his eyes on the wood.

“I’ve been at it every day since we got back. Isn’t the color of this black walnut great?”

Isaac took up another rag, dampened it with lacquer thinner, and went to work on the opposite side of the chest. He knew what to do and how to do it. Ever since he was big enough, Tom showed him how to shape something plain into a thing of beauty. “There’s so much contrast and definition. This is higher quality material than most you get. Where’d it come from?”

“It’s special order. I’ve never gotten this high of grade in this quantity.”

“That must have set you back.” The steady motion of gliding across the wood felt mysteriously relaxing.

“Nah, it wasn’t too bad. The cedar lining is top grade, too.” Tom looked over the open lid and pointed. “See, not a knothole in one piece.”

Isaac took a break from his rag to peek over. “Was that special order, too?”

“Son, everything on this baby was special order. Lumber stores don’t keep wood like this lying around.”

“Does Mom know about it? I mean, is it a present for her, or did she ask you to do it?”

Tom stopped cleaning, and hung his head with a thoughtful expression. “Yes, she knows about it. And no, it’s not for her.”

“Then whose is it?”

He stood tall. His long, thin frame squared as he looked with watery eyes at his son. “It’s for you and Sarah.”

“Dad, this is too much.” He inspected the handcrafted chest with admiration. Every square inch was completely original, designed from scratch by a master’s hand. There was no other in the world like it and never would be. Bewildered, knowing how much money and effort must have painstakingly been poured into it, he said, “Did Sarah ask you to do it?”

Sarah frequently asked Tom for little things here and there. She knew it made him feel good to build things for the family. He had hand-carved the child-sized table and chairs in the twins’ bedroom from large chunks of pine. When Caroline and Josie were babies, he also made their bassinets and cribs. Anytime he needed another project, Sarah was the first person he asked.

“No. This was your mother’s idea. She thought that … because of …” The last thing he wanted to do was bring up bad memories. They were having a great time together, but there was no way around it. “Your mother thought that, because of what happened, you, and especially Sarah, need something nice to keep all your memories in. Caroline’s memories. This is for her things.”

Isaac held his father’s gaze. The lump in his throat rendered him speechless. He could feel tears welling up, ready to spill from the corners of his eyes. If he spoke, his composure would slip. Silence protected what little strength he had.

“We thought it would mean more if I built it instead of buying one. It’s supposed to be a happy gift, not sad.”

Isaac had no more space for the tears. They dripped down his face and stuck to his dark, unshaven beard.

“I tried to have it finished. But since they canceled your shift this morning, we get a chance to work on it together. Maybe you’ll like having a hand in it.”

Tears came harder and faster, and he let go. It was too much to hold back. He hadn’t felt this helpless since the funeral.

Tom stepped around the table and pulled him into a hug. Like any father who loved their son, he wished he could take up the mantle and bear all the pain himself. He wished, as Isaac did, that he could protect his family from all harm and danger.

They held each other until drained. Red-faced and puffy-eyed, they picked up their rags and continued to work. Without a word, stroke by stroke, they prepared a place for Caroline’s material memories to rest.

Chapter Thirty

V
ideo footage of Lindsay Watson played on a flat-screen television. Ricky stared, rapt from the comfort of his living room recliner. The intensity heated him, inside out, as he relived the gratifying event. Images of little girls fed endorphins to his body like flesh to a starving dog. The cravings were insatiable. The beast needed fed, regardless of whom it hurt. Still, in times after his addictive nature had been satisfied, deep down in a hidden part of his mind, he could see all the way back to the beginning.

He wondered if life could be different or if everything were predetermined and people only have the illusion of free will. He imagined himself in a parallel universe, one where a different Ricky made different choices, but the point was mute. Maybe there was another Ricky, and maybe there was not. Either way, he was this Ricky and on his own path. Life is what it is, not what it could be.

* * *

At the young age when he peeped on his neighbors and molested their Barbie collection, he still didn’t know what sex was. But that did nothing to quell the natural instincts in his mind, and vivid fantasies ran rampant. He pretended that the sisters knew he watched them and that they liked it. Conversely, and to his disappointment, it soon became old.