“Thanks,” she said, turning back to Christine.
“Danny’s and Matthew’s bodies were cut badly, weren’t they?”
Before, Christine had probed for all the grisly details to enhance her articles. Now she needed to know for herself.
The straightforward Maggie O’Dell looked uncomfortable, even a bit flustered. “We’ll find Timmy. In fact, Nick has already called Judge Murphy. We’re getting a search warrant, and we have a suspect.”
The reporter in her should have been asking questions. Who was the suspect? What was the warrant for? But the mother in her couldn’t shake the image of her small, fragile little boy cringing in a dark corner somewhere all alone. Could they really find him before his soft, white skin puckered with red gashes?
“He bruises so easily.”
Christine felt the tears welling up in her eyes again, the intense panic gnawing at her insides. Maggie watched from the other side of the room, respecting the distance, for which Christine was grateful. She wouldn’t break down, not now, not in front of this woman who had endured a madman slicing up her body. This woman who apparently had drained all emotion from her life and replaced it with strength. Yes, that’s what Christine needed to do. Crying certainly wouldn’t help Timmy.
She swiped at the few tears that escaped down her cheek and stood up feeling a new energy, despite the violent gnawing in her gut.
“Tell me what I can do to help,” she said to Maggie, ignoring the tremor in her voice.
Chapter 59
Thursday, October 30
Sunlight streaked in through the rotted slats, waking Timmy up. At first, he didn’t remember where he was, then he smelled the kerosene and the musty walls. The metal chain clanked as he sat up. His body ached from being curled up into the plastic sled. Panic filled his empty stomach. He needed to stop it this time, before it started the convulsions again.
“Think of good things,” he said out loud.
In the sunlight he noticed the posters that covered the cracked and peeling walls. They looked like ones he had in his room back home. There were several Nebraska Cornhuskers, a Batman and two different Star Wars. He listened for sounds of traffic and heard none. Only the wind whistled in through the cracks, raiding the broken glass.
If he could just reach the window, he was sure he could pull the boards off. The window was small, but he could fit through and maybe call for help. He tried to shove the bed, but the heavy metal frame wouldn’t budge. And he was weak and light-headed from not eating.
He stuffed a few of the French fries into his mouth. They were cold, but salty. Under the crate he found two Snickers bars, a bag of Cheetos and an orange. His stomach felt a little sick, but he devoured the orange and candy bars and started on the Cheetos while he examined the chain that connected him to the bedpost. The links were metal with a paper-thin slit in each, but it was impossible to pull any of them apart, not even to slip just one through the slit. It was useless. He wasn’t strong enough and, again, he hated how small and helpless he was.
He heard footsteps outside the door. He scrambled up into the bed, crawling beneath the covers as the locks whined and the door screeched open.
The man came in slowly. He was bundled in a thick ski jacket, the black rubber boots and a stocking cap over the rubber mask that covered his entire head.
“Good morning,” he mumbled. He set down a brown paper sack, but this time didn’t remove his coat or boots to stay. “I brought you some things.” His voice was soft and friendly.
Timmy came to the edge of the bed, showing his interest and pretending not to be frightened.
The man handed him several comic books, old ones, but in good condition. In fact, Timmy thought they were brand new until he saw the twelve-cent and fifteen-cent prices. He also handed him a stack of baseball cards, secured with a rubber band. Then he started unpacking some groceries and filling the crate where Timmy had found the candy bars. He watched as the man pulled out Cap’n Crunch cereal, more Snickers bars, corn chips and several cans of SpaghettiOs.
“I tried to get some of your favorite food,” he said, looking back at Timmy, obviously wanting to please him.
“Thanks,” Timmy found himself saying out of habit. The man nodded, the eyes sparkling again as though he was smiling. “How did you know I love Cap’n Crunch?”
“I just remember things,” he said softly. “I can’t stay. Is there anything else I can get you?”
Timmy watched him extinguish the kerosene lamp and felt a twinge of panic.
“Will you be back before dark? I hate being in the dark.”
“I’ll try to come back.” He started for the door then glanced back at Timmy. He sighed and then dug in his pockets, finally pulling out something shiny.
“I’ll leave my lighter, just case I don’t get back. But be careful, Timmy. You don’t want to start a fire.” He tossed the shiny metal lighter next to Timmy on the bed. Then he left.
The panic stirred again in Timmy’s stomach. Maybe it was all the junk food he had eaten. He hated being trapped, but at least if the man didn’t come back he couldn’t hurt him. He had the entire day to plan his escape. He picked up the lighter and ran his fingers over the smooth finish. Timmy noticed the logo stamped on the side of it. He recognized the dark brown crest. He had seen it many times on the jackets and uniforms his grandfather and Uncle Nick wore. It was the symbol for the sheriff’s department.
Chapter 60
The smell of coffee nauseated Maggie, though it seemed to be the only thing to combat the effects of the Scotch. She picked at the scrambled eggs and toast while she watched the door of the diner. Nick said it would take only ten to fifteen minutes. That was an hour ago. The small diner was beginning to fill with its breakfast rush, farmers in feed caps next to business men and women in suits.
Maggie had hated leaving Christine this morning, though she knew she wasn’t much of a comfort. She had never been good at offering words of reassurance or doing the hand-holding routine. After all, her only experience had been as a twelve year old, a small, gangly child struggling with and dragging a drunken mother up a flight of stairs to their run-down apartment. No words or courtesies had been necessary when dealing with someone who was half-conscious. Even as an FBI agent, etiquette skills were unnecessary. Most of the people she dealt with were corpses or psychos. Questioning the victims’ families didn’t require anything more than polite condolences, or so she had convinced herself long ago.
Last night she’d simply felt paralyzed. She hardly knew Christine. One dinner surely didn’t enforce any obligation of friendship. Yet, Timmy’s small, freckled face remained etched in her mind. In her eight years of tracking killers, no one she had known personally had ever been a victim. However, every corpse stayed with her, their ghosts a permanent part of her mental scrapbook.
She couldn’t imagine-didn’t want to imagine-adding Timmy to that portfolio of tortured images.
Finally, Nick came into the diner. He spotted her immediately and waved, making his way to the booth but stopping several times to talk to customers. He was dressed in his usual uniform of jeans and cowboy boots, only this time under his unzipped jacket he wore a red Nebraska Cornhuskers sweatshirt. The swelling was gone from around his jaw, leaving a bruise. He looked exhausted. He hadn’t bothered to comb his hair or shave after showering. He looked even more handsome than she remembered.
He slid into the booth opposite her and grabbed a menu from behind the napkin dispenser. “Judge Murphy is stalling on the search warrant for the rectory,” he said quietly as he looked at the menu. “He didn’t have a problem with the pickup, but he thinks-”
“Hi, Nick. What can I get for you?”