Garage Sale Stalker (Garage Sale Mysteries) (21 page)

CHAPTER 46

L
ocked in the
basement,
she sat on the bottom stair step to eat her dinner. Putting aside several pieces of her meatloaf for the dog, she realized that despite her efforts to please the man with her good performance, he seemed angrier as the day wore on. Did anger make him even more unpredictable? He was a killer and something would trigger his inevitable attack on her. Would it be frustration about something else that he took out on her?

She needed to get out very soon!

Escape tomorrow in daylight made little sense since she’d be easily visible. If she even saw tomorrow! No, tonight while he slept. She needed the cover of darkness.

She tried to shrug off the triple whammy of physical labor, minimal sleep and emotional stress. The overpowering urge to lie down, shut her eyes and drift into healing sleep made waking up doubtful once her eyes closed. Even with an alarm. She couldn’t escape tonight if she fell asleep! No, she
must
stay awake, whatever it took.

Patting her slacks, she rubbed the lucky frog in one pocket and removed the small clock from the other. She tested its alarm, which worked, but could she stake her life upon its dependability? Setting the alarm for midnight as “insurance” even though she intended staying awake, she hid the small timepiece on a shelf where she could see it but he wouldn’t.

Though captive in the cellar, at least she wasn’t locked in the awful confinement box. She peered inside that prison, unwilling to climb in for a better look. At its door, she noticed an unpleasant smell emanating from inside, probably from the toilet bucket. If her escape tonight were successful, she’d leave that for
him
to empty.

The night light inside the confinement box still glowed so she needn’t get inside to verify the V-shaped nick in the top board of the bench. Definitely where the boys sat in the night stand’s photo. Poor, frightened little guys. Thirty-five years ago, “disciplining” children was considered the prerogative of parents who were barely accountable to society. Even schools meted out corporal punishment then. Kids like these boys hadn’t much chance of rescue, isolated as they were. Had they run away, foster homes and orphanages during that era offered their own documented insensitivities and occasional atrocities. Brutality to children was an issue mostly swept under the rug.

As her fatigue grew, even the basement floor looked inviting. She thought of stretching out, just to relax her aching body for a few minutes, but she knew she’d fall sound asleep. She slapped her cheeks. She pinched her arms. She did some stretches. She stamped her feet.

Then she remembered the three boxes under the stairs. Pulling out the one marked “The Boys,” she opened it and spread the photos side by side. She returned the “schoolhouse” and studied the remaining two.

The young boys together, with the older one’s arm around the younger one’s shoulder, looked much like the night-stand picture upstairs, except they were younger here, maybe three or four. She wished for the magnifying glass or at least better light. Holding the pictures directly under one of the six naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, she counted five fingers on the older boy’s hand and no scar on the younger one’s. Assuming these were the same children, whatever caused those injuries happened after this photo.

Next, she studied the boy pictured in the too-large military school uniform. Based on her children’s sizes, he looked about six or seven. At first she thought he stood at attention, but then his hands would be pressed flat against the sides of his trousers. He stood stiffly with his feet together, but his arms hung loosely in front of him, the hands showing enough below the jacket sleeves to reveal a pencil-shaped scar on his left hand. Again, the younger brother! Was this dress-up or a Halloween costume? She didn’t think kids could attend military school at so young an age.

Placing the photos beside the hatbox, she again lifted out the old, rolled rag. The puckered rubber band fell away as she unrolled the small bundle. So many folds, but when at last the ancient cloth fell open, inside lay a thin, brown shriveled stick about two inches long. But was it a stick? On closer examination, one end had a flat side that looked a little like…

She shrank back, covering her mouth to stifle the scream filling her throat. “Oh,” she cried out to the empty room,
“Oh, no….
”

She stared dumbly at the still visibly intact nail and slightly bent knuckle. Atop the rag lay a child’s mummified finger.

CHAPTER 47

J
ennifer gazed i
n shock
at the wizened finger. What
had
these little boys endured at the hands of their parents? You could never excuse Wrestler’s murderous retaliation, but you could certainly grasp the grisly chain of events pointing him there.

Hastily re-wrapping the finger in the rag, she put the ghastly bundle on the floor beside the photos and fumbled through the rest of the box’s contents. She remembered keys of various sizes lay at the bottom. No clue what the small ones fit, but what about the three large old ones? She remembered keys like these from childhood visits to her grandparents’ house. Maybe they opened the barn or the “schoolhouse” or the front entry or… maybe the basement door?

Taking the three big keys, she crept up the stairs and gently rotated the doorknob. While the knob turned easily, the door held. She pushed gently, then firmly. Locked tight!

She pulled out the three big keys and knelt down to peer out the 3/4 inch crack under the door. Light shone on the other side, but she saw and heard no sign of the dog or the man. The left half of the under-door view faced the opposite wall, about four feet away. The right half view stretched down the dark hallway. Other than the possibly irrelevant 6:00 alarm setting on his bedroom clock and with no other clue to the man’s sleeping habits, she crossed her fingers that he was in bed.

Closing one eye, she peered again into the keyhole. Some light there, but the hole wasn’t empty. After locking the door on the other side, he had no reason to pocket the key with only himself and the dog upstairs, so he’d left it in the lock. She remembered from her grandparents’ house that you couldn’t fully insert a key into one side of such locks with another key engaged on the other side. She needed to bump his key out of the hole to use hers.

Jiggling her key against his would make noise which could attract the man or the dog. Even if the man weren’t near, the dog’s keen hearing would surely prompt investigation, if not a barked alert. If the man jerked the door open to find her at the top of the stairs with keys, she was through! Also the successfully nudged-out key would fall and clatter onto the bare floor. Once it fell, how could she retrieve it if none of the keys in her hand opened the basement door?

She eased her way quietly back down the stairs and looked around. A carton marked “Linens” caught her eye. Opening it, she pawed through sheets and table cloths to find what she needed, pulling out a terrycloth bath towel.

While cleaning the basement earlier, she threw several rusty coat hangers into the trash by the sink. Retrieving one, she tried to unbend it with stiff old pliers found among the tools. Gritting her teeth and using all her strength, she untwisted the hanger’s neck and bent the sprung wire fairly straight, leaving the top in the same shepherd’s hook that hangs over a closet pole.

She pulled her stolen clock forward on its shelf to check the time: almost midnight! She turned off the alarm. Was he asleep?

Collecting the meatloaf saved from dinner, she wrapped the pieces in paper from the corner trash pile, slid the hidden screwdriver into her belt and picked up the towel and hanger. Creeping back up the stairs, she paused at the top to listen. No sound! She poked one end of the towel through the crack under the door. Then she used the coat hanger to push the towel through and straightened it with the hanger until it lay spread out on the other side of the door beneath the key hole.

Retrieving the coat hanger without disturbing the flattened towel, she pushed one end of it into the key hole and wiggled it, flinching at the scratching noise this created. She paused, listening for any reaction on the other side, and hearing none, cautiously jiggled the key again. Squinting into the lock, she saw the hole filled with light! Crouching back down, she peeked out the crack under the door. An irrepressible smile crossed her lips at the sight of the metal key lying on the towel after its silent fall.

Quickly getting to her feet again, she tried the first key from the hatbox, then the second, finally the third. None worked! She needed next to retrieve the fallen key from the other side.

Crouching down with the extended coat hanger, she used it to gently pull the towel, inching it back toward her through the crack under the door.

Her movements froze at the sound of nails clicking on the floor.
The dog!

With shaking hands, she fumbled the paper open, clicked her tongue and pushed a piece of meatloaf under the door. Wet smacking sounds came from the other side as the dog gobbled the piece of food. Slowly, carefully she pulled on the towel again. Looking through the crack, she saw the key coming closer... closer. It was almost under the door, almost within her grasp.

And then, the unimaginable happened. The dog grabbed the towel, as she’d seen dogs at the park grab and shake a toy or a stick, tumbling the key across the floor. Oh my god, she thought, he thinks this is a game!

The dog gave a playful snort, but at least didn’t growl or bark. Could she reach the key with the coat hanger while the towel still distracted the dog? Crouching to peer through the crack, she spotted the key and inched the coat hanger toward it. Miraculously, the hanger’s length reached just far enough so that after several efforts she managed to hook the shepherd’s crook through the key’s loop and draw it slowly toward her.

Just as the key was almost to the door, the dog put his paw heavily upon it, giving a satisfied grunt. With one hand she kept the wire hooked in the key’s loop and with the other hand she put a second piece of meatloaf at the edge of the crack and shot it into the room as one might flick a marble. As the dog dashed after the meat, she quickly pulled in the key.

Before unlocking the door, she had to be sure the dog’s activity hadn’t drawn the man’s attention. She crouched, watching down the hall through the crack beneath the door. She waited. Nothing. Standing up, she put the key into the lock, turned it
very
slowly, pushed gently on the door and felt tears of relief prick her eyes as it slowly swung open.

The dog frisked near her, eager to continue the game. With no idea what signals he was trained to recognize, she put her finger to her lips and whispered, “Shhh.” This seemed to sober him as he followed her across the kitchen. She lifted the window and held her next-to-the-last-piece of meatloaf in his direction.

If she got outside without the dog and shut the window in his face, he’d surely bark wildly. Crazy as it was, with no other choice she could think of, the dog would have to come with her!

She let him smell the meat but didn’t give it to him. “Good dog,” she whispered, climbing out through the window. “Come on. Good dog.”

The animal hesitated, a warning rumble sounding in his throat, but when she held out the meat for him, he bounded through the window to get it. Closing the window, she gave him the snack, patted his head, said “come” and started running across the gravel toward the driveway.

She hadn’t taken ten steps when the parking area abruptly flooded with light.

CHAPTER 48

A
rriving at headq
uarters, Adam
called his police dispatcher contact, Akeesha Williams. Upbeat and alert, she was an excellent choice for her particular job. Nothing flapped her and she was rumored to own a photographic memory, because her recall amazed everyone.

On her shift, she typed many CAD bulletins and messages that appeared on each cruiser’s computer screen. The soft cadence of her distinctive voice gave clear information to patrolling police cruisers when a situation called for voice communication.

“Hello, Akeesha,” Adam said into his cell phone. “Got anything new on the Shannon case?”

“We have one unit following up on a woman in a white Cadillac SUV seen buying gas in Woodbridge. Tipster said she matched the description and looked just like the picture on TV, but they didn’t catch her tag number. They said there was a man in the passenger seat, too. We ought to hear back from them any minute. That’s it for now.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in my office.”

He just sat down at his desk when his phone rang. “Iverson.”

“Detective Iverson,” Akeesha spoke, “We just got another traffic report. Woman in a white Cadillac SUV hit a tree down on Georgetown Pike.”

“Any identification?”

“Not yet, but there’s just one thing….”

“What?”

“She’s dead.”

Adam’s heart sank. This terrible development meant crushing news for some family, hopefully, not the Shannons. If it were Jennifer, he should be the one to tell them, however much he dreaded the task. “Can you put me through to them?”

“Sure.”

He imagined the despair such news would wring from Hannah. Wanting to protect her, he yearned instead to bring her news that her mother was safe. Was that even probable as the trail grew colder with every passing minute and Jennifer’s disappearance—he consulted his watch and did the math—thirty-one hours ago?

A voice crackled into the phone at his ear, “Unit 21.”

“Iverson, here,” he identified himself. “Got an ID on the passenger in the white van?”

“Yeah, it’s,” more static, “Matilda Wong and this scene is a mess. Need anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thanks.”

He hung up the phone and eased back into his desk chair. He heard coughing echo down the hall even before Jake Torres reached Adam’s door.

“Geez, I just can’t shake this cold,” Jake spoke in a nasal voice as he ambled up to Adam’s desk. “No, I won’t infect you, but let me stay long enough to find my last cough drops. I know I have a couple left here somewhere.” He patted and then emptied several of his pockets onto the corner of Adam’s desk. Out came a handful of change, a comb, some paper clips, three wadded up cough drop wrappers, a bolt with a washer and nut attached, a pocket pack of Kleenex tissues, a crumpled piece of paper and a box of breath freshener mints. Jake patted more pockets, stifled another cough, and at last triumphantly produced the two elusive cough drops.

Adam splayed his hands open and drummed his fingertips impatiently on his desk top.

“Hey, buddy,” Jake looked at Adam’s hands. “I never did ask you what happened to your hand.”

Adam glanced down. “It’s a birth defect. I never notice it since it’s been like this since the day I was born.”

“Didn’t affect your getting into the police academy?”

“No. See, my writing hand is my shooting hand. The left hand just goes underneath to steady the gun hand.” He demonstrated this familiar position, simulating the pistol barrel with his right index finger.

Adam started to reach into his desk drawer for something when the phone rang and instead, he answered. “Iverson here!”

Akeesha’s voice came over the line, “The Woodbridge tip didn’t check out for your case,” she said. “Some husband and wife in a
t
an
Cadillac van, not a white one. Sorry.”

“Thanks for the input, Akeesha.” Adam hung up and leaned forward. “Quite a cache of stuff you carry around with you, Jake-Boy. What’s the bolt for?”

Jake talked around the cough drop in his mouth, “Oh, it’s for a drawer at home. Got to match the size and threads next trip to the hardware store.”

“Is this a silver dollar?” Adam examined one of Jake’s coins with interest.

“Yeah, it was my grandfather’s. Check the date: 1928! I carry it for luck.”

“And what’s this, a love note?” Adam smoothed the wrinkled paper out flat and looked at the writing. Suddenly he jumped to his feet.

“Where’d you get this?” he shouted.

Jake held out his hand for the paper, examined it and tossed it back down on the desk. “It’s nothing. That old guy, Whitehead, the one who pesters us with those driver reports, he started to call that in this morning and had a heart attack instead. The big one! It’s just another of his bad driver reports, you know, the address, the tag number.”

Electrified, Adam moved around the desk. “Not just any tag number. This is Jennifer Shannon’s tag number. You got this information this
morning?”

“Well, yeah,” more coughing from Jake until the lozenge took effect. “The medics took him away and we went over to check the house as a possible crime scene and then secure the place because EMS broke the door open to get to him. It was kind of weird, actually. I mean, he basically died calling in this report and I saw it there on his clipboard and I don’t know why, I just copied it down on impulse and then forgot about it.”

Adam snatched up the phone and dialed, “Akeesha?”

“One and the same,” she purred.

“That guy, Whitehead, who calls us a lot.”

“Called us a lot,” she corrected.

“Ah... right. Can you remember a pattern? Did he call in those violations the day they happened or a week later or what?”

Pause. “Very timely, usually right after his encounter but always within a few hours, as I recall.”

Adam brightened. “Okay, were you on when he made that last call?”

“I was and I sent him the rescue bus.”

Adam knew a record was made of any type incoming call and asked, “Would you look up what time that call came in?” He heard her clicking computer keys.

“This morning at 10:45.”

“And did he give the tag number or say when and where the incident happened?”

“That’s a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’? He gave only the first two digits of the license plate before he needed emergency assistance, but he said it happened yesterday around 4:00 and the address was 3508 Winding Trail Road.” She studied her computer screen, “And that partial plate number he gave…actually they weren’t numbers, they were letters: YR.”

As he listened to Akeesha, Adam’s eyes followed the identical address information in Jake’s handwriting on the note before him, except Jake had copied down the
entire
tag number.

“Thanks, Akeesha. You’re the greatest.”

“That’s true,” she allowed with a mischievous chuckle.

In one fluid movement, Adam hung up the phone, snatched something from his open desk drawer and threw it to Jake, who grabbed it in a one-handed catch before identifying it as an unopened bag of cough drops.

Accepting Adam’s gift, a grateful Jake said, “Geez, just what I need! Thanks, good buddy!”

“You’re welcome!” Except for the note, Adam pushed Jake’s pocket contents back across the desk to him. “Now gather up your stuff. We’re going for a ride!”