Hide and Seek Read online

  “The backpack was wedged in the chute,” Sherman said. “I guess that’s what kept the body from falling. The pack was protected from the sun and rain, so it’s still in pretty good shape.”

  Nevada clicked on a flashlight and directed the beam onto the red backpack, which lay on its side. The initials TET were embossed on the outside, and there was a yellow yarn pom-pom attached to the zipper. It was old. Clearly long forgotten.

  “I’ve got daughters of my own,” Sherman said. “I can’t imagine one coming home without her pack. They carry everything in it. Like my wife’s purse.”

  Nevada removed latex gloves from his pocket and tugged them on. “Did you open it?”

  “Shit, no. Soon as I spotted that skull, I had my men clear out.” Sherman rubbed the back of his neck. “Still makes my skin crawl when I look at it.”

  Nevada took several pictures of the bag and the bones scattered around it with his phone. He looked up at the chute and tried to imagine how the bag and the body had gotten in there. The pack would have gone in first and then the individual after it. This could be a case of murder or just a damn tragic accident.

  He pulled out a roll of yellow crime scene tape and tied it to one post, wound it around another, and knotted the ends to the horse stall gate.

  With Sherman standing outside the tape now, Nevada spread out a white cloth and set the backpack on it. The red fabric was heavily stained on the top with a dark substance that smelled faintly of must and death. When the body had decayed, it would have bloated with gas until it burst, secreting its contents onto the pack.

  “When’s the last time this barn was used, Sherman?” Nevada asked.

  “It’s been close to thirty years,” he said. “When I played ball, we came out here on Thursday nights before the games. Hell of a lot of fun.”

  “Did you play on the Dream Team?”

  “I wish. Those boys came along about five years after me. Took it all the way to the state championship.”

  “When did the bonfires stop?”

  “Sheriff Greene put an end to them shortly afterward.”

  Nevada bent down and carefully tugged on the zipper. It slid smoothly for several inches, then caught in a crimp. Carefully, he added pressure until the zipper gave way.

  Inside were books, along with a pair of girl’s jeans, a dark cable-knit sweater, and sneakers. He set the still-folded clothes aside on the cloth and picked up a book for advanced calculus.

  Many of the pages were seized together, but after he gently tugged the cover a few times, it opened. On the inside flap was a LEASED TO stamp followed by five lines. The names on the first three rows were crossed out. The last name was written in clear block letters. It read TOBI TURNER.

  TET. Tobi Elizabeth Turner.

  Anyone who’d lived in Deep Run was familiar with the girl.

  In early November 2004, Tobi Turner, a junior at Valley High School, had borrowed her parents’ van to attend an evening study session. However, Tobi had never arrived. No one had sounded any alarm bells until she didn’t make it home by curfew. The girl’s father had called Greene, who made a critical mistake in the investigation: he didn’t launch a full-on search until morning.

  In a child abduction case, the first hours were crucial. The survival rate plummeted with each passing hour.

  Police had located the Turner family van at a truck stop along I-81 late on the second day, but there had been no sign of Tobi. She had simply vanished.

  Volunteers had posted flyers of the girl’s picture on street corners, in bars, and in grocery stores. The media had broadcast her story for months. Milk cartons and roadside billboards had featured Tobi’s likeness. But no credible leads had ever panned out.

  She’d disappeared.

  Until now.

  “Mr. Sherman, it’s going to be a while before I can let you back on this site,” Nevada said.

  Sherman ran his hand over his head. “Shit. Do you really think that’s Tobi Turner?”

  “Most likely.” If this was Tobi, her family was facing more heartache. In his experience, grim discoveries didn’t bring closure.

  “That poor girl. We searched every corner of this county.”

  Volunteers from around the state had walked the woods, checked dumpsters, and conducted room-to-room searches in abandoned buildings. “Were you on a search crew?”

  “Just about everyone volunteered.” Sherman shook his head. “She was here all this time.”

  Nevada had witnessed enough human carnage to know evil walked among them. Part of the reason he’d tried to take a break in June had been to escape the darkness closing in on him. Now, it seemed, it had found him again.

  Nevada called his deputy, who he’d recently promoted to chief of investigations. Deputy Brooke Bennett had been with the sheriff’s department for ten years. In her early thirties, she was raising a fourteen-year-old son with the help of her mother. Bennett would likely have his job one day.

  “Deputy Bennett.” Her tone was crisp and cool.

  “It’s Nevada. Call the state police. We need their forensic people down here ASAP. I think we’ve found the Turner girl.”

  “Tobi Turner?” Shock, sadness, and anger all vibrated around the name.

  “Yeah.”

  Silence stretched over the line for a moment before she offered a terse “Where?”

  “The Wyatt barn.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Good.” He surveyed the pitched roof and the darkened corners. It was the perfect place for a monster to do his work.

  “Sheriff, the timing isn’t great, but I received the results on the rape kits.”

  When Nevada had been elected, he had immediately sent the entire set of rape kits to be tested. He’d also asked Bennett to visit the surrounding jurisdictions and collect untested DNA sexual assault evidence.

  “What did you find out?” Nevada asked.

  “We only have results on eight from Deep Run. Three samples were badly degraded, and the reports on them were inconclusive. Two matched known felons who are currently incarcerated. And the last three . . .”

  Her heavy tone told him there was one more shoe to drop.

  “The same perpetrator committed those three rapes,” she said.

  He stared at the math book lying open on the white cloth. “When did these attacks occur?”

  “These three all date back to the summer of 2004.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I pulled the files myself.”

  Nevada’s gaze drifted to the scattered bones. “The same year Tobi Turner vanished.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Saturday, November 16, 11:45 p.m.

  In the early days, he hadn’t had the nerve to kill. He’d been afraid. A coward. So he had tracked his targets. And for a time, he had felt a sense of mastery over the weakness that stalked him.

  But it hadn’t been long before simply watching wasn’t enough. He had needed to do more to prove to himself that he could master anything. So he had begun entering women’s homes, first when no one was there and then when they were sleeping. He had loomed over them while they had lain tucked in their beds and watched the slow rise and fall of their chests. He had savored the sound of their soft moans and watched as they rolled into different positions as their unconscious minds wrestled with the sensation that something was wrong.

  To commemorate his visits, he had stolen personal items as trophies. One earring. A shoe. A scarf. Nothing huge. Small mementos of the time they had shared alone.

  The first time he decided to rape a woman, he hadn’t really prepared. He’d been watching her in the dark and knew if he left without taking her, that little victory would have been hollow. So he had climbed on top of her. Her strength had surprised him, and he had scrambled to bind her hands and shove himself inside her. It had been a victory, but a narrow one.

  He had planned more carefully after that. He had begun leaving behind rope under their beds, knowing the bindings would b
e waiting for him when he returned.

  The next woman had been easier to control. The rope had allowed him to tie her spread eagle to her bed. His body had grown harder when he’d seen the fear in her eyes as he’d shoved her panties into her mouth. He had savored the salty taste of the sweat beading between her breasts as he’d thrust into her. He had loved the bang, bang, bang of her racing heart when his hands had wrapped around her neck.

  Alone in the room with her, he had realized he was God. He had the power of life and death. Win or lose. It was an intoxicating sensation. With each new conquest, he had taken his partners closer to the brink of death.

  When the opportunity to kill had arrived, he had seized upon it. Squeezing the life from her body had provided a greater rush than even he had imagined. It had surpassed any victory or reward the regular world offered. It had put him above everyone. It had been the ultimate win.

  And once he had crossed the line, he’d known it wouldn’t be long before he was chasing that exquisite high again.

  By then the police had been looking for his first murder victim, whose face had appeared daily in the evening news. Her body hadn’t been found, but everyone had known something terrible had happened. As the cops had pieced together her last day, he had stitched together an alibi, silenced threats, and kept his head low.

  When the storm had passed, relief quickly gave way to a fresh hunger. And soon he had sailed toward fresh hunting grounds.

  For fifteen years, he had been very careful. He had moved from town to town, state to state, jurisdiction to jurisdiction. He had selected his subjects with the utmost scrutiny, attacked on nearly moonless nights, and never carried his phone with him or used his own car. No digital trails. He had kept moving. Kept quenching his thirst for death.

  And now he had a new subject. She’d been on his radar for weeks. He had learned everything about her.

  Tonight she would be home alone. After finishing up a double shift, she would slip out of her work clothes, shower, and change into an oversize T-shirt with no panties. He could already taste her.

  He approached the side window of her empty house and wedged a screwdriver between the window and casing. He wiggled it back and forth until the cheap vinyl sprang open. He pushed open the window, then hoisted himself up on the sill. His feet still dangling over the garden, he toed off his shoes.

  He swung his legs around and lowered himself into the dining room. He moved through the house, double-checking each room. Fifteen years had taught him to never assume anything.

  In the kitchen, he spotted a cereal bowl and spoon in the sink. A blue dish towel was crumpled into a heap, so he took a moment to straighten and drape it over the faucet. Porcelain salt and pepper shakers representing Snow White and Prince Charming stood side by side on the windowsill. He plucked up Snow White and slid her into his backpack.

  In her room, he walked to the dresser and studied the collection of earrings.

  He pocketed a single hoop earring and a diamond stud and then carefully arranged all the jewelry into a neat row.

  He removed a skein of red rope from his bag and placed it directly under the bed. Climbing on the bed, he pretended she was under him and struggling and he reached under the bed, making sure he could lay his hands on the rope quickly. He did this several times until he was confident it was perfectly accessible.

  He slipped under the covers, drawing the unmade sheets to his nose. He inhaled her scent. His erection pounded.

  When he heard a car pull in to the driveway, he hopped off the bed, carefully smoothed the top comforter, and hid in a closet in her roommate’s room.

  He listened as she turned on music, sang off-key, and puttered around the kitchen. Within twenty minutes, she was in bed, and the blue glow of the television shimmered from atop the dresser.

  He imagined her eyes slowly drifting shut as she nestled under the covers. She felt safe. Warm and cozy.

  When the television light clicked off, he still lingered inside the closet. He was in no rush.

  Another hour passed before he eased open the closet door. Cautiously, he peered into her bedroom and saw her supple form as she lay on her side in the bed. She faced toward the window.

  He moved closer. She wasn’t wearing her favorite oversize T-shirt, making him wonder if she was still wearing her panties.

  She shifted slightly under the covers, and he hesitated before a deep sigh seeped over her lips.

  He came up to the bed and stood over her for several seconds. He removed a small flashlight from his pocket, clicked it on, and shined it in her face, knowing it wouldn’t take long before the glaring light reached her unconscious mind.

  Slowly she stirred, raising her hand to her eyes, and realized the light was real and not going away.

  She blinked. “What’s going on?”

  He didn’t speak as he shoved a rag into her mouth. Her body tensed immediately and she struggled, but he was quick with the rope. Her hands and feet were bound before she knew what was happening.

  A moaned plea coupled with the panic in her gaze thrilled him. As tempted as he was to take her now, he was disciplined enough to wait. They had time. No need to rush.

  He wrapped his hands around her neck and squeezed. She struggled under him, but he kept the pressure steady until she passed out.

  When her body went limp, he carried her and her purse out the side door toward her car. He sat her on the ground and then dug her keys out of her purse and opened the trunk. Carefully he dumped her and her purse in the small space and closed the lid with a soft click.

  Later he would double back and get his car, which he’d left down the road about a mile, hidden under brush.

  In the front seat, he started the car. He turned on the radio, selecting one of her favorite songs.

  Humming, he backed out of the small driveway.

  Would she beg before it was all over?

  Hard to predict how she would react in her moment of truth. But he hoped she would beg.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday, November 18, 8:00 a.m.

  Alexandria, Virginia

  Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

  It was the sound of fingers clawing against the dirt, and it had echoed through Special Agent Macy Crow’s dreams last night. She was accustomed to nightmares, which had plagued her since she was a small child. But this one had been agonizingly real.

  Still unsettled, Macy opened the driver’s side door of her four-door Toyota. She tossed a worn black backpack into the passenger seat, slid behind the wheel, and shifted the pressure off her right side and away from the annoying pain. The discomfort had been a daily part of her life since a hit-and-run five months ago in Texas.

  The attack had broken her right leg, cracked her skull, and flatlined her heart for nearly a minute. By rights, she should be dead. She shouldn’t have walked again. She shouldn’t have returned to work.

  But here she was, ignoring not only the lingering discomfort but also the crazy dreams that had followed her back from the other side of the rainbow.

  Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

  She started her engine, slid on her sunglasses, and drove out of the apartment building lot onto Seminary Road. She followed side streets to the I-95 south entrance. The morning traffic was already heavy and, like always, pissed her off.

  Following a familiar route to the FBI complex, she was more anxious than most days. She juggled jolts of worry and excitement as she visualized her upcoming interview with Special Agent Jerrod Ramsey.

  Ramsey headed up a small team that tackled violent crimes. His group had cracked several high-profile cases in the last year. Details about their deeds were scant, but their results made them legendary.

  After cutting through the traffic sludge, she took her exit and slowed as she approached the guard station at Quantico. She reached for her badge, flipped the leather case open, and handed it to the marine on duty. “Morning, Corporal.”

  The marine looked at her picture and then at her, frowning
as he’d done almost every day since her return three weeks ago. He handed back her identification and waved her through. She drove to the main FBI building, parked, and presented her badge to the familiar FBI security guard while her backpack was x-rayed.

  “Crow, what do you call a pen with no hair?” he asked with a straight face.

  Every day it was a new joke about her short hair.

  “Shoot me now, Ralph, and just get it over with.”

  A neurosurgeon had shaved her head minutes before he had cracked open her skull and relieved pressure on her brain. Yes, she currently looked like a cross between Twiggy and a bristle brush. Desperate hunts for hair ties were gone for the near future, but she was aboveground.

  “Come on, Special Agent, I bet you know,” he gently coaxed with a shit-eating grin.

  “What?” She carefully tucked her badge in her jacket breast pocket.

  “A bald point.”

  Despite herself, she laughed. “Jesus, Ralph, you need help.”

  “Who loves ya?”

  Ignoring the Kojak reference, she took the elevator up to the third floor, where Special Agent Jerrod Ramsey worked. She made her way to his corner office and knocked.

  “Enter.”

  She pushed open the door as a leather chair swiveled toward her, offering her her first up close look at Jerrod Ramsey.

  Thick brown hair was cut short and swept off a striking face that conjured images of East Coast prep schools, old money, and the Hamptons. He wasn’t classically handsome, but the sharp green eyes and olive skin coupled with tailored suits had to be kryptonite to the ladies.

  Ramsey rose and adjusted his blue tie before he crossed the room to her.

  “Special Agent Macy Crow,” she said.

  A faint smile hinted of a welcome. “Good to meet you, Agent Crow,” he said, extending his hand.

  She accepted his strong grip, clasping his hand firmly. “And you as well, sir.”

  When Macy had declared her intentions to return to the bureau, she had been temporarily assigned to the ViCAP computer section because her former position had been filled. If she wanted back in the field, she would have to apply for another position.