‘He’s my nephew.’
I step into the corner of the room and gesture for the chief to join me. ‘How much do you know?’
‘They had a fight this morning and he hasn’t answered her calls all day.’ He gives an exasperated shake of the head. ‘She says it’s not the first time though. When they fight he tends to go for a beer. He doesn’t usually stay out all night, but this morning’s fight was a big one.’
‘Have you put a trace on his cell?’
Defeat fills his voice. ‘I’ve requested one, but I was told not to expect an answer before tomorrow afternoon.’
‘What’s his number? Alfonse will get it long before then.’ He hesitates. It’s one thing hiring us to help out, but to actively encourage us to break the law goes against every principle he is paid to uphold.
I watch his face as he conducts the internal debate. It doesn’t move beyond a tiny flickering of the eyelids. I know he’ll be balancing the probability of Prosser lying asleep on a buddy’s couch against the fact he could also be in the hands of a serial killer.
Concern for the safety of a civilian wins the battle with his instinctive law-abiding morals.
As he begins to open his notebook, my cell rings.
I listen to what Alfonse has to say, then read him the second number right from the chief’s notebook.
Taking the chief’s arm in my hand I make for the door.
47
I turn onto Main Street and stop at the first set of lights, which are showing red. There’s no traffic but I have the chief of police sitting beside me. I’m only driving because his car was blocked in and mine wasn’t.
‘Dammit, Boulder. Put your goddamn foot down. Ain’t nobody in this town gonna give you a ticket tonight.’
I obey his instruction and streak through town until I’m heading towards the airport.
With Casperton behind me, I open up the Mustang until it’s approaching three-digit territory.
My eyes keep flicking to the odometer. Before hanging up, Alfonse told me Wendy Agnew’s cell was seven point two miles from the edge of town.
When I reach six and a half, I slow down to thirty in case his calculations are off. The chief opens his window and shines his flashlight onto the scrub at the side of the road.
We’re not sure what we’re looking for, but we’re looking anyway. I just hope it’s not a body we find. Apart from the fact another innocent will have died, us discovering one of his kills will put our families at risk from the killer.
My headlights bounce off a metallic silver car. The same kind of Ford Wendy Agnew owns.
I glance at the odometer. It shows seven point two miles travelled.
As I draw up beside the car, the chief uses his radio to summon two deputies. We climb out and circle the car, looking around as we do so. Finding nothing obvious, I stare out into the blackness as the chief shines his flashlight inside.
‘There’s nobody in the car.’
He gives me a pair of nitrile gloves and pulls on a pair himself.
We’ve found the car, but not the owner. The car being left here is odd. There is no real place for parking, no junctions or side roads. There isn’t even a track leading into the scrub.
I hear the chief trying a door handle as my eyes scan the darkness again. I can’t see anything due to the cloud cover but it doesn’t stop me sensing there’s something out there.
There’s a slight creak from the hinges as the car door opens. The chief reaches in and presses the button to release the trunk.
There’s a thunk as the mechanism releases the catch.
We move to the back of the car as if choreographed. My eyes never leave the wilderness surrounding us. My vigilance is involuntary, fuelled by an instinct borne of some primeval sixth sense.
The way the chief doesn’t comment on what I’m doing makes me realise he feels the same way. That he’s trusting me to keep lookout is a comforting endorsement, only offset by the fact he shares my nerves. When an experienced law enforcer like Chief Watson gets the jitters, it’s not without good cause.
‘It’s empty.’
He takes over guard duty while I sink to my knees with his flashlight and look underneath the car.
There’s nothing there except a small patch where oil has dripped from the engine. Standing up, I shake my head and return his flashlight.
I leave him shining his flashlight into the nearby brush and lean into the car. There’s an open handbag in the passenger footwell. It’s filled with the usual paraphernalia along with a cell phone and a woman’s purse.
I fish the scrap of desk pad from my pocket and use my cell to dial the number Agnew gave me. The cell in the bag rings, providing all the confirmation we need.
So where is she?
I don’t profess to be an expert on women, but I’ve met enough to know there are very few who’d leave their car in the middle of nowhere and go off without their bag or cell.
Therefore, this is the site of her abduction. Which brings us back to trying to work out who took her.
The realisation does something to me. I’m not sure whether it provides adrenaline or a higher state of consciousness, but I no longer fear whatever may be hiding in the shadows. The killer won’t be watching the abduction site. His style is to watch the place where he dumps his victims.
Looking around I see enough brush and scrub bushes fleetingly illuminated by the chief’s flashlight to know we’ll never find Wendy Agnew’s body tonight even if it’s twenty feet from here.
‘When the deputies get here, I’ll leave them to guard the car. We can start a search in the morning. You heard from your buddy yet?’
I shake my head. The chief’s subtext is I should call Alfonse to ask. There’s no point, he’ll be in touch as soon as he’s located Donny Prosser’s cell.
A check of my watch shows the time as five after three. If Alfonse takes the same time tracing Prosser’s cell as he did with Wendy Agnew’s my cell should ring within ten minutes.
We wait in silence until a patrol car arrives. When it does, the chief walks over and starts issuing orders before the patrolmen have fully exited the car.
I stare at my cell, willing it to ring. It doesn’t.
The chief joins me in my car, his raised eyebrow asking the question again.
I ignore him and start the engine.
We’re a mile or so from Casperton when my cell rings. I listen to what Alfonse has to say without commenting. There’s not a lot I can say, but an inner cussedness is making me enjoy the chief’s exasperated impatience.
Making a mental note of Alfonse’s directions, I end the call and hang a left at the first opportunity.
‘Well?’
The chief’s sole word carries insistence along with the full burden of his worry.
‘His cell was at his place of work until six thirty. After that Alfonse traced it to a couple of bars.’
‘I don’t want its family history, Boulder. I want to know where it is now.’
‘The last signal he got from it was a half mile out of town. He says it was near the bridge over Hangman’s Creek.’
‘That’s on the Forty towards Denver ain’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
I’ve forgotten just how new he is to Casperton. He’s still finding his feet in this town, learning the place and the people.
Like me, Alfonse and a lot of the other incomers, he’ll never achieve total acceptance by the town’s original inhabitants no matter how long he stays. If I have any children born and educated in Casperton, they’ll be classed as locals, but it’s not a status granted to anyone who moves into the town.
I ignore him as he pulls out his cell and starts issuing orders. My concentration is on my driving as I throw the Mustang into corners and hurtle along the deserted streets until I link with the Forty.