“How did you get into his room?” Calvin demanded.
“It’s a garage. It wasn’t hard,” she snapped, looking to Liz for backup.
“Calvin, Ben Stoops was at the park where Orla’s bike was found. He obviously buried her clothes. He had her earring,” Liz offered.
Calvin frowned and glanced at the television.
“He came into the store one time with an injured chipmunk in his coat. Its leg was broken, and he nursed it back to health. He sat and read his book and fed that chipmunk sunflower seeds for two hours.”
“What are you trying to say, Calvin? Because he took pity on a chipmunk, he couldn’t have killed Orla or Susie or any of the other missing girls? His being in those places with Orla’s stuff is a complete coincidence?” Hazel’s voice had grown shrill.
Calvin reached out and took her hand, but she jerked it away.
“Hazel, I’m not disregarding what you’ve found. Maybe I’m wrong, but… genuinely caring for a living thing is hard to fake. He seemed like a compassionate guy.”
“For animals, perhaps. Then again, he might have taken the chipmunk home and crushed it with a hammer.”
Fighting tears, she stood and rushed from the room onto the porch. She strode down the stairs and into her garden, but that too did not bring peace. An overwhelming desire to stamp the flowers beneath her sandaled feet washed over her. Before she lashed out, she jogged to her car and jumped behind the wheel. As she pulled out, Liz and Calvin stepped onto the porch.
She drove away, refusing to watch them in her rearview mirror.
Abe
Abe sat in the interrogation room, glaring at the two-way mirror.
Time ticked by. There was no clock, an intentional move by the police to disorient their suspects.
Eventually, Detective Moore pushed into the room, a thick folder clutched in his hands. He dropped it on the table with a thud and sat across from Abe.
“Why am I here?” Abe demanded.
“Why are you here?” Moore sneered, opening the file. “This afternoon, you called in a burial site containing Orla Sullivan’s clothes, which interestingly also contained a tooth. We have an officer who spotted you at the purported scene of the abduction of Amber Hill. A second eyewitness who saw you getting into your car just outside the Fountain Park entrance. I’ve also received a very interesting police report faxed in from Spokane, Washington, about your potential involvement in the disappearance of a young woman, Dawn Piper, in 1966.”
Abe bristled, hands that he’d been relaxing in his lap instantly turned to fists.
He said nothing, but stared at Detective Moore with such ferocity he thought he might burst a blood vessel in his eye.
Moore cocked his head to the side.
“Blood pressure jump? A lie detector would give us a good idea of how you’re feeling right about now. Figured we’d never find out about her, huh? Dawn Piper. Awfully suspicious when the prime suspect in the disappearance and suspected murder of an eighteen-year-old girl moves across the country, where conveniently a slew of other young women start vanishing without a trace.”
Abe swallowed the lump of rage forming in his throat. Hearing Dawn’s name on this man’s lips, the injustice of the accusation, tensed every muscle in his body. It took all of his will to remain in the chair when he wanted to shove the table aside and grab the detective around the throat.
“You piece of shit,” he hissed. “You low-life piece of shit.”
The detective narrowed his eyes.
“You best watch your mouth, young man.”
Abe flicked his eyes to the mirror. Other men would be observing the interview, a videotape might be running. Abe had to calm down. He understood his rights. This wasn’t an arrest. Legally, they couldn’t hold him.
“If you have questions, you can talk to my lawyer. You’re familiar with him, I’m sure, former prosecutor Martin Levett. I know my rights, Detective Moore. If you hold me for another fucking minute, I will sue this police department, and I will broadcast your misconduct from here to the moon. As for Dawn Piper, I’m guessing your little fax also contained verification of my story. As for your other bullshit claims, let me put it to you this way. I’m a reporter. Usually, I just write the stories. That is until the lead detective in a series of disappearances sits on his thumbs and watches the birds instead of investigating. Frankly, I’m not that kind of guy. That’s why I was at Fountain Park, and that’s how I found about Orla’s clothes - good old-fashioned investigating. Have you heard of it, Detective Moore?”
Abe glanced at the mirror.
The detective’s face flushed red, and his hands, previously resting on the table top, now gripped the edge.
Abe dropped his voice. “If I’m not walking out that door in ten minutes, you’re going to be headline news.”
It wasn’t ten minutes, more like twenty-five, and by the time a deputy told Abe he was free to opened the interrogation room door and told Abe he was free, he felt sick to his stomach.
Moore had left his folder open on the desk, pictures of Dawn staring up at him.
Chapter 48
Orla
Orla pitched forward. It was dark, wooded. Branches grabbed at her hair, scratched her face. As she ran, a figure stepped from the trees. A shadow man, eyes black, hands raised to catch her. Orla turned and plunged the other way, but again the man loomed before her. No matter which direction she turned, he was there.
“No,” Orla whispered.
She mumbled, raising her arms to fight off her attacker, lunging away.
Suddenly she was falling. Her eyes flew open as she thudded onto the floor, gasping for breath. She sprang to her feet, backed into the couch she’d been laying on, and fell landing on the armrest. She blinked the room into a focus.
The shadow man had been a dream.
She put a hand on her chest, her heart racing, and tried to get her bearings.
Two candles on a wooden table illuminated a small kitchen and living area with a wood burning stove and threadbare rugs. Dark curtains hung over the windows.
Trembling, Orla crept to the table. Her hands shook as she pulled out a note tucked beneath a candle.
I brought you somewhere safe. It’s over, Orla. I’ll be back before dawn. -Ben
Orla sighed, a low, throbbing pulsed in her head, as she sat heavily in one of the wooden chairs.
After several minutes, she stood and pulled back the curtain. Night had fallen. It was pitch black and pouring rain. Through the storm, she glimpsed thick woods.
The cabin had the hot stuffiness of late summer.
Orla opened the door, and a warm, wet breeze blew into the room.
In the distance, lightning lit the sky through the canopy of trees. A loud clap of thunder followed. She jumped and hauled the door closed. She trembled as she leaned against it.
She moved through the cabin quickly, searching for a phone. There was none. One door, likely to a bedroom, was locked. She rattled the knob, but it didn’t turn.
Abe
As Abe stepped into the hallway, he heard a voice.
“It’s not me,” the man insisted.
Abe gazed into the interrogation room across the hall as a detective slipped through the door. He saw Ben Stoops seated at a table, hands clasped at his mouth as if in prayer as he pleaded with the detective who faced him.