“Go ahead.”
“The first four abductions took place in Miami. The fifth and sixth took place in Collier County, outside of Naples, the seventh in Fort Lauderdale. The eighth, ninth, and tenth took place in Central Florida — one in Winter Park, one in Kissimmee, and one in Lakeland. The tenth happened in Jacksonville, and now Skye gets abducted. Do you think the kidnapper is driving around, randomly picking his victims?”
He shook his head and took a sharp left.
“Why not?”
“The victims are being moved to a place that the police can’t locate. That would indicate their abductions are premeditated, and not random acts.”
“Do you think the victims are alive?”
“I do. We have a dozen missing women and not a single body. If our assailant wanted these ladies dead, he’d kill them on the spot, like he did with Elsie Tanner. But he’s not doing that. He, or they, have an ulterior motive.”
“You think it could be a gang?”
“I’m not ruling it out. The abductions have taken place several hundred miles apart. That would be difficult for a single person to pull off.”
“What would their motivation be?”
“I have no earthly idea.”
“Have you ever dealt with a case like this before?”
No two abduction cases were alike, and he let the silence be his answer.
“Could a demonic cult be behind the abductions?” she asked.
He hit the brakes. There wasn’t another vehicle in sight, and he turned to face her, freezing Gamble in her seat. “That’s a stupid question. Cults leave clues as a way of claiming responsibility, and there’s none of that here. Cut it out, or I’ll take you back to the American Legion hall.”
“The sheriff in Polk County said during a news conference that a group of devil worshippers might be behind these crimes. If you don’t agree with the sheriff, then just say so.”
He threw the car into drive and pointed it down the road.
“The sheriff of Polk County is an idiot,” he said.
“May I quote you on that?”
“Be my guest.”
“Slow down. It’s up ahead.”
A hundred yards down the road, she made him stop and retrace his steps. Using his headlights, she found the unmarked dirt driveway that led to Elsie Tanner’s farm, and told him to drive down it. Elsie lived in the sticks, and he wondered how her abductor had managed to find her place without drawing unwanted attention to himself.
The driveway led to a clapboard house with a rusted tin roof. Light streamed through the front windows. He parked and stayed in the car.
“Did Elsie have a husband or a partner?” he asked.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Gamble said.
“Well, there’s someone home, and we’re trespassing. Here’s what I think we should do. Get out, but stay close to the car. If someone comes out, and starts acting funny, jump in the car. Understood?”
“Loud and clear.”
They both got out. Lancaster made it a point to slam his door, so whoever was inside would know there were visitors. The porch light came on, and a short woman wearing coveralls stepped outside wielding a shotgun, its barrel pointed at the ground.
“Who the hell are you, and what do you want?” she demanded.
“Should we run?” Gamble whispered.
There was a difference between threatening someone and protecting yourself.
“Talk to her,” he whispered back. “She’s not going to hurt us.”
“Hello. My name is Lauren Gamble, and I’m a reporter with the Tampa Bay Times. This man is Jon Lancaster, and he’s a famous law enforcement agent. We’re here because we’re trying to find out who murdered Elsie Tanner and kidnapped her granddaughter. Would you mind if we had a look around?”
“You got credentials?” the woman asked.
They produced their business cards. The woman cautiously crossed the front yard. She was missing a front tooth, and her skin was bronzed by the sun. She took the cards and studied them. Looking at her male guest, she said, “Team Adam. Does that have something to do with the little boy that was murdered way back, Adam Walsh?”
“It was named after him.”
“And you work with them.”
“I offer my services when they’re needed.”
“There’s been a few dozen detectives and FBI agents snooping around, trying to figure out who murdered my mother and stole my kid. What the hell do you bring to the party that they don’t, Mr. Lancaster?”
“Are you Elsie’s daughter?” he asked.
“Yes, I am,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry for your loss. To answer your question, I’m a specialist in finding missing people. I worked missing persons cases as a cop, all of them successfully. Before that, I was a Navy SEAL, and participated in over a hundred and fifty missions whose purpose was to rescue people in distress.”
She laughed in his face. “You were a SEAL? Well, I guess that makes me the fucking pope. Get out of here. You were no god damn SEAL.”
Her words stung. He didn’t have an athletic build, and his round belly suggested that he spent his off-hours lying on the couch guzzling beer. His appearance was the by-product of a condition called gastroschisis, which gave him a big stomach and made him look fat. The truth be known, he worked out every day, and could hold his own against the fiercest adversary.
“On the contrary, I was a SEAL,” he said.
“Is that so? My cousin was a SEAL, and had a bone frog tattoo on his arm to prove it,” the woman said. “He said that every SEAL got a bone frog tattoo to honor the SEALs who died in combat. Let’s see your tattoo, Mr. Lancaster.”
He undid the buttons on his shirt and parted the lapels. He had a single tattoo on his body, and it was of a large frog skeleton crawling up his right shoulder.
“Well, shut my mouth,” the woman said. “Please accept my apologies. You don’t look like you were a SEAL. I bet you hear that all the time.”
“I’m used to it,” he said, buttoning his shirt back up. “With your permission, I’d like to take a look around the property before it starts to rain.”
“You’re not going to find anything. It’s been picked clean.”
“I’d still like to have a look, so I can get a sense of what happened. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Carla Jean. My second husband and I are having issues. He and Skye don’t get along, and Skye took my maiden name just to piss him off. I sent Skye to stay with my mom until we got things worked out. Then this happened.” She shook her head and started to cry. “Fuck, there goes the waterworks again.” She wiped away her grief and threw her shoulders back. “Can I offer you a glass of iced tea? It’s all I’ve got.”
“Iced tea would be fine. Thank you.”
He arched an eyebrow. Gamble took the hint, and followed Carla Jean inside.
He traipsed across the property listening to the frogs. It was rectangular shaped, mostly pasture, the north side bordered by wetlands. Before the wetlands started, there was a large firepit. It was here that Elsie Tanner had died.
He stood with his belly pressing the crime scene tape and used the flashlight on his cell phone to light up the ground. Elsie had been cutting the grass when a stranger had driven onto the property, entered the house, and abducted Skye. It was believed the teenager had either been tied up or knocked out before being taken to the stranger’s car. When Elsie had tried to stop him, she’d been beaten and dragged to the firepit.
Elsie’s killer was a sadist. Not content to knock the old woman out, he’d broken her nose and jaw, then crushed in her head with a blunt object. Killers who used their hands had rage issues, and Elsie’s killer had been filled with fury. The police report said the murder weapon hadn’t been found, and the detective handling the investigation had speculated that the killer had taken it with him.