Deadly Pursuit (35 page)

Mitch topped the exit ramp and pulled off to the side of the road as the rain continued to beat against the car.

“I don't know.”

“And even if he is, what could he possibly know that would help us find Alison?”

“I don't know that either.”

“We could send one of our people to the home to talk to him.”

“He freaked the last time the police showed up.”

“A detective wouldn't be in uniform.”

Mitch stared into the night, tapping a finger against the wheel. Hating that they were losing even one minute to indecision. “No, but he'd be a stranger. Erik asked for me by name. He may not talk to anyone else.”

“You could call him.”

“I don't think that will be as effective.”

A few beats of silence passed before Cole responded.

“Talking to Chuck Warren may be more productive, and we're closer to his place.”

“Yeah.” Mitch wiped a hand down his face. “But the drug unit guys could do that for us if we brief them.”

“Maybe not with the same . . . passion.”

He couldn't argue with that. Both he and Cole had a vested interest in getting Warren to cooperate. And they wouldn't hesitate to let him know that if he balked.

Yet some instinct was pushing him toward giving Erik top priority.

“My gut tells me Erik has information we need.”

A flash of lightning lit up the sky, and in that brief illumination Mitch got an unsettling glimpse of his colleague's conflicted expression. They both knew the wrong decision could be deadly, and he felt the pressure as heavily as Alison's brother.

“I don't feel a strong pull either way, but I can see you do.” Cole blew out a breath. “Okay. Let's go with your gut.”

With Cole behind him, Mitch put the car back into gear and pulled into traffic. “Why don't you call Dorothy Walker at the home and alert her we're on our way? If you give her some background, she can prep Erik for our arrival.”

“Good idea.”

After crossing the highway overpass, Mitch sped down the entrance ramp, heading back the way they'd come. At the end of the ramp, he flipped on the flashing light bars and hit the siren.

Hoping he'd made the right decision.

Because if he hadn't, they'd be wasting a lot of time.

And Alison could die.

Daryl readjusted the tarp around his shoulders and took a long drag on his last cigarette. A quick inventory told him he was down to his last beer too.

The game was starting to lose its luster.

And the beating rain was dampening his enthusiasm as well. It was beginning to seep through the folds in the canvas.

He picked up the stick he'd sharpened earlier and poked it through the cage again. When it encountered soft resistance, he pressed harder. Let up. Repeated that routine a few times. Sometimes he stopped there. Left Alison hanging, wondering if he was going to jab it into her flesh. Sometimes he did, with a sharp thrust and a twist.

Like this time.

A small moan followed.

Tormenting her had amused him for a while, and the dark hid any blood that might be a by-product. But he was growing tired of this diversion too.

If the weather had cooperated, he'd have found plenty of other ways to make her suffer, dragging out her torture into the wee hours of the morning. But the rain was beginning to annoy him.

A flash of lightning strobed through the sky, and he flinched. The ominous rumble of thunder that followed close on its heels added to his unease.

It was time to get this show on the road.

Flicking the stub of his cigarette over the edge of the truck, he stood, using the tarp as a cape. Another bolt of lightning slashed across the sky, this one much closer. He heard a splintering sound, and the pungent smell of sulphur assaulted his nostrils.

Yeah. It was definitely time to get out of here. Electrocution wasn't in his plans. For either of them.

Bending down beside the cage, he peered at Alison, who was huddled in one corner, her knees drawn up close to her chest. She wasn't moving much now, but the next round of lightning told him she was wide awake. Her eyes might have dulled, but they were registering his presence. Excellent. He wanted her fully conscious and aware for the ending.

“You look a little wet, honey. But that doesn't matter. You'll be even wetter soon.”

Standing, he draped the canvas over the cage, tucked it in, and jumped off the back of the truck. Once the tailgate was secure, he climbed into the cab. He might be damp, but Alison was drenched. She looked like a drowned rat.

As he started the motor, he grinned at the analogy. Rat . . . social worker. One and the same, to his way of thinking. And drowning was a fitting end for vermin.

That's why it was beach time.

Dorothy Walker was waiting for them when they arrived at the group home a few minutes after ten. She opened the door as they approached and ushered them into the dimly lit foyer.

Mitch took the lead. “I'm sorry we had to disturb you at this hour, Ms. Walker. But as Cole explained, we think Erik may have information that could save Alison Taylor's life.”

“I did have to wake him, but he's dressed and waiting for you in the kitchen. I gave him some milk and a cookie and tried to reassure him he wasn't in trouble, but his last encounter with the police has left him a bit gun-shy.”

“I understand. We'll do our best to put him at ease. Detective Taylor is going to wait out here so Erik doesn't feel as if we're ganging up on him.”

They'd discussed this on the drive over, and though Mitch knew Cole wanted to be part of the interview, he'd bowed to Mitch's logic.

She dipped her head. “Good idea. Make yourself comfortable, Detective.”

Turning, she led the way through the darkened house. Mitch followed as she opened a door in the back that led to a brightly lit room. Erik sat at a large dinette table, his untouched cookie on a plate in front of him, his eyes filled with trepidation as he cast a nervous glance toward the two people who had entered.

“Here's Detective Morgan, Erik. He came all the way over here on this rainy night to talk to you.”

Reaching deep for a smile, Mitch crossed the room and pulled out a chair next to the young man. “Hi, Erik. I'm sorry we had to wake you up, but from what you told the 911 operator, it sounded like you had something important to tell me.”

Erik fiddled with the paper napkin next to his plate and cast a sidelong look at Mitch. “She wouldn't give me your number.”

“But she told a policeman about you, and he told her to call me.” Mitch tried to keep his tone conversational. “I listened to a recording of your call. You said a friend was in trouble. Was that friend Alison?”

Distress tightened the young man's features. “Yes. A mean man had her wallet. He said he was her boyfriend, but Alison told me she didn't have a boyfriend. I was afraid he might have hurt her to get the wallet. Is she okay?”

“Right now, we don't know where she is. We're trying to find her, and we're hoping you can help us do that. Where did you see this man, Erik?”

“At the quick shop. Where I used to call Alison from. I walk there every day to get a candy bar.”

“Are you certain it was her wallet?”

He nodded vigorously. “Yes. When he opened it, a picture fell out. The same one that fell out the day Alison dropped her wallet at the store. She was in it, and everybody was wearing pointy hats, like it was a birthday or something.”

Mitch's heart skipped a beat. He'd seen the same picture. Cole had a copy in his wallet too. It was the one his colleague had shown him the day he'd asked him to take Alison to the family wedding.

Their first date.

He cleared the sudden tightness from his throat. “What did he look like, Erik?”

The young man scrunched up his face. “He was skinny. And he was wearing a cowboy hat.”

The guy from Alison's parking lot.

“Did you see what he bought?”

“Yeah. Some cigarettes and a sandwich and beer.”

Alcohol and meth. Dangerous combination.

“What about his car. Did you notice that?”

“Uh-huh. It was a black pickup truck. There was some big square thing in the back, covered with a sheet or something.”

Mitch had no doubt the man Erik had encountered was Daryl Barnes. He was equally certain Alison had been inside that big square thing in the back of the truck.

But none of the information Erik had passed on would help them locate her.

This may have been a fruitless trip after all.

His spirits nose-diving, he folded his hands on the table, frowning at the slight tremor in his fingers. That was an anomaly. He was always steady under pressure. “Erik, did the man say anything at all that gave you an idea about where he might be going?”

The young man across from him slowly shook his head. Then he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, crumpled piece of paper. “No. But before he drove out of the gas station, I copied this down.” He held out the sheet.

Curious, Mitch took it. Scanned the letters and numbers. Blinked. Sucked in a sharp breath as his pulse took a leap.

“Sometimes on TV shows people copy down license numbers,” Erik added. “I thought it might be important.”

Casting a quick glance at Dorothy Walker, Mitch rose. “It's very important, Erik. It may be the thing that helps us find Alison. And we're going to go look for her right now. Thank you, Ms. Walker.” He started toward the door.

“Will you let me know as soon as you find her, please?”

At the question from Erik, Mitch paused on the threshold and turned. “It could be very late.” He cast a glance at Dorothy Walker. She gave a slight nod. “But I promise, you'll be the first to know.”

And as he rejoined Cole in the foyer and prepared to call in another BOLO alert, Mitch prayed he'd be disrupting Erik's sleep again in the very near future.

As Daryl wound along the dark, narrow road, he shut off his windshield wipers. The wind was still gusty, but the rain had stopped. That was a plus.

But there was bad news too.

He was getting nervous. The plan that had seemed so perfect in theory was freaking him out in reality.

He needed some more meth. For courage—and confidence.

When he drew close to his destination, he flipped off the headlights and eased back on the accelerator. There were a few houses tucked into the trees, and he didn't want to alert anyone to his presence. At ten thirty, he hoped most people were in bed—or tuned into a late-night talk show. And there should be minimal traffic on this dead-end road.

Approaching the gravel turnoff that paralleled the railroad tracks, he slowed even more. The wind should mask the crunch of his tires, but no sense taking chances. He was in no hurry at this point.

As Bev would say, they were in the final scene of the final act.

His fingers tensed on the wheel as he drove to the end of the turnoff, well out of sight of any nearby houses. He couldn't see very far ahead in the pitch darkness, but he knew what lay ahead of him.

A long railroad bridge that spanned the Meramec River.

Beads of moisture formed on his upper lip, and he backhanded them away. He hadn't been here in years, and his last visit had been painful. His friends had known he'd never liked playing chicken. So one day, they'd brought him here. Frankie, the leader, had told him it was a test. Had dared him to walk to the middle of the bridge and wait for a train. And when it approached, Frankie hadn't wanted him to run, as usual. He'd wanted him to lay on the narrow walkway that extended on each side of the tracks and wait high over the river as the train rumbled by, inches away.

A trickle of sweat inched down Daryl's back. He remembered staring at the long trestle—and the long drop to the water—and imagining the train thundering by. Recalled the goading faces of his friends as they'd urged him on. Tasted again the terror that had left his legs wobbly.

Most of all, he remembered the ridicule that had followed after he'd refused not only to take the test but even to set foot on the menacing bridge.

It had been one more dismal failure in a series of failures stretching back to his childhood.

Well, he wasn't going to fail tonight. He was going to walk right out to the center of that bridge. Face his dragon and triumph over it. Vanquish his old fears forever.

And in the process, he was going to get rid of the woman whose meddling had robbed him of his future.

He fumbled for the meth he'd stashed under his seat and pulled out the small jar. Withdrew a dollar bill from his pocket. Shook out a line.

Less than half a minute later, he snorted it and settled back in his seat to enjoy the brief rush.

And then, bolstered by his courage-in-a-jar, he'd raise the curtain on the finale.

As Mitch hung up after doing his best to expedite the BOLO alert on Daryl's truck, Cole ended his call with one of the drug unit detectives who'd paid Chuck Warren a visit.

“What did they get?” Mitch tucked his phone back on his belt as they sat in his car outside the group home.

“Enough meth paraphernalia to book the guy. They think he's cooking and has a steady clientele. He's not admitting anything on that score yet, but he did acknowledge that Barnes has his truck. However, he claims he doesn't know anything about the kidnapping. Nor where Daryl went. He was also high. Surprise, surprise.”