She lifted her chin like a queen and looked him in the eye. “I am choking on my emotions right now.”
Vince nodded, looking down. “I know. Over my years in the Bureau, I’ve sat with many parents of missing children. It’s a terrible thing to know someone you care about is out of your sight, out of your influence.
“I’m quite fond of Miss Navarre,” he admitted. “I’m very upset that she’s missing—and that your son, Tommy, is missing. I believe that they are both probably with your husband, and that they are both in grave danger.”
“Peter would never hurt Tommy,” she said, lifting a forefinger for emphasis. “Never.”
“Not the Peter you know,” Vince said. “The Peter you know is a fine, upstanding family man. A really nice guy. I’ve met him, spoken with him. Heck of a nice guy.”
“Yes.”
He nodded earnestly, agreeing with her. “Yes. But that’s not who we’re talking about now, Mrs. Crane. We’re not talking about your husband. The man we’re talking about—you don’t know him. You’ve never met him. Your son doesn’t know him.”
She said nothing. The lack of response in and of itself spoke volumes.
“The man we’re talking about did this,” Vince said.
From the file folder he removed a full-body photograph of Lisa Warwick taken at autopsy, which he placed on the table in front of Janet Crane.
She didn’t look away, but every drop of color drained from her face, and her eyes seemed to double in size, the white showing all the way around. Her whole body began to jerk and shake.
“The man who did this,” Vince said in the same calm, measured tone. “Not your husband. The man who did this has your son. If you have any idea at all where that man might have gone, please tell Sheriff Dixon. Thank you, and please excuse me, Mrs. Crane.”
Vince walked out of the room with the same calm. He walked down the hall to the men’s room and went in. He just made it into a stall before his legs buckled under him and he vomited until he nearly blacked out.
The man who did those terrible things to Lisa Warwick, and to Julie Paulson, and to Karly Vickers, and to Christ knew how many others—that man had absolute control of the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
91
The boy had finally stopped crying. The loud sobs he had started with had subsided to a constant, almost whispered crying that seemed to go on and on. Finally, silence. Peaceful silence.
He would kill the boy first. That was the kindest thing he could do. He would hold him, comfort him, and suffocate him with the blanket he was lying on.
It would be over quickly. The boy would struggle hardest for the second and third minutes of the suffocation—while his brain was being starved of oxygen and panic set in—but he would quickly lose consciousness, and that would be all. It would be over.
In another part of his mind, in another self, he would be devastated. But there was no other choice to be made.
This meant his own life would now change forever, and he was quite angry about that. He would lose everything he had worked so hard to build. If only everything had simply gone on according to plan. Law enforcement had nothing on him with regards to the other women. Nothing. He knew that because he had made certain of it. Even though he signed his work, they had no concrete forensic evidence linking him to any crime.
A slice of moon cast a smoky glow over the country landscape of tree-studded rolling hills. He turned off the dirt road and into the field, gaining access to the property through the same open gate he had come through before. No one would be watching it. No one would think he would use it again.
Now that the search for the last woman was over, the field had been cleared of the tents that had offered shade and shelter for the volunteers and backgrounds for the TV newspeople. They would all be back here in a day or two, but no one was watching Gordon Sells’s field of junkers tonight.
He pulled the Jaguar in at the end of the back row. He would leave it here with the bodies in it, then hotwire something that could get him to Mexico.
Tommy had stopped crying. The car sat idling, exhaust fumes leaching up into the trunk.
Anne was dizzy and nauseous on fumes and fear and from struggling against her bonds as the car rose and fell over a road she couldn’t see.
She had managed by twisting and squirming to finally get her hands free of the belt Crane had bound her with. Feeling around inside the trunk, she had found a couple of potential weapons. She had to think about how and when to try to use them. She would probably have only one chance. If she tried and failed . . .
Why wasn’t he doing something? Why hadn’t he turned the car off?
Maybe they were in a closed building and this was his plan: to gas them.
Or maybe she wasn’t his priority.
Tommy.
Instantly Anne began to kick and scream and thrash. If he would just open the damn trunk . . .
Tommy pretended to be asleep. He had had lots of practice at that, fooling his parents on a regular basis. Now he would have to fool Shadow Man, who had opened the door and stood staring at him. Tommy could feel the monster’s eyes on him. If he had dared to look, they probably glowed red in the dark night.
He stayed perfectly still as Shadow Man crouched down in the open door and touched the back of his head, stroked the back of his head, then put a hand on his back—like his father sometimes did when he came to check on him in the middle of the night.
Tears rose up again in Tommy’s throat.
I want my dad. I want my dad. I want my dad.
He stared at the boy for a moment, then reached out and touched his hair. The moonlight on his face made him look like a sleeping angel.
He rubbed the boy’s back and prepared himself for what he was about to do, pulling a cold steel curtain across his mind, relegating the job to its proper compartment.
Then the car began to rock and the teacher started screaming.
As the trunk opened, Anne attacked, coming up in Crane’s face with a spray can of something that smelled like oil, shooting in the dark and hoping to blind him.
He cried out—startled?—hurt? She didn’t know and couldn’t wait, scrambling out of the trunk in the second he jumped back.
She had to run. She needed cover.
Her ribs hurt. She couldn’t get a breath.
Rows of cars, one after the next.
If she could duck out of his sight—If she could get under one of the cars—If she could get more than three steps ahead of him—
He lunged for her, hit her hard with a fist between the shoulder blades. Anne went down, hit the ground, rolled, holding tight to her last chance.
He kicked her as hard as he could.
Anne tucked into a ball like a small animal, trying to protect herself. She got her knees underneath her and ducked her head.
Tommy watched in horror from beside the car as Shadow Man attacked Miss Navarre, hitting her, kicking her, tearing at her like a wild beast from a nightmare.
Tommy had never been so scared. He had never imagined anything as horrible as this. He felt so small and so alone. He was just a little boy and the Shadow Man was a demon.
They needed a hero, him and Miss Navarre. But there was no hero. He had to be the hero. He had to save the day. That was what his father had taught him.