Torn Apart (28 page)

Katie grabbed Hershel’s arm. “You have to let J.R. know. You have to, Chief! If we lose this man today, I may never see my little boy again!”

Hershel knew she was right. “Vera! Find that chopper pilot. Give them the information. Tell J.R. that we’ll find out where on 49 he bought gas and feed him info as it comes in. But tell him not to take action himself. Tell him if he spots them, just let us know. We’ll take them down from the ground.”

“Yes, sir,” Vera said, as she turned toward the dispatch center.

“Thank you, Chief. Thank you,” Katie breathed.

Hershel sighed, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Cody Sands had been flying choppers for Macklan Brothers Oil for nearly ten years. He had a son from a previous marriage who lived in L.A., and he saw him—maybe—three or four times a year. Definitely not often enough.

When he’d gotten the call to divert to Bordelaise and then learned the reason why, he’d been in shock. He knew J. R. Earle. He’d seen him with his son more than once. The thought of that little dark-haired kid at the mercy of a sexual predator was horrifying. By the time he picked J.R. up and got back in the air, he was almost as focused on the chase as J.R. was.

They didn’t talk much. There wasn’t much to say. And then the Bordelaise dispatcher found him.

Vera quickly relayed the information that Newt Collins had purchased gas from a station off of Interstate 49, north of where it intersected with Highway 190, west of Bordelaise.

J.R. headed the chopper north.

By now it was nearing four hours since Newt Collins had made his escape from Bordelaise, and he was feeling pretty cocky. He’d gotten out without a hitch, and the kid seemed to be cooperating better than he’d expected, even though he’d been unable to slip another dose of sleep meds into him.

He’d learned the hard way that pushing an issue only made the kid bullheaded, so for the time being he’d backed off. And when Bobby Earle asked to sit up on the seat, claiming his legs were hurting from sitting cross-legged on the floor for so long, Newt, thinking they were most likely out of immediate danger, had waved him up. Now the kid was buckled in the seat beside him, with the package of cookies in his lap.

“Don’t eat too many of those,” Newt warned. “You don’t wanna make yourself sick.”

Bobby reluctantly set the package aside, then drank the last of his water and tossed the empty bottle onto the floorboard.

Newt glanced up at the rearview mirror, saw nothing out of the ordinary and then concentrated on the road ahead.

The phone had been ringing with regularity since the Amber Alert had gone out. But after Hershel had updated the report with more information, including Newton Collins’s tag number, the garbage bags in his truck and his physical appearance, the calls had increased. Others were going into the state police HQ where the alert had been issued, and they sent the information down to Bordelaise.

Vera took down all the information as it came in, although she could tell from most of the calls that they were going to wind up being useless. So far, no one had reported what she would call a verifiable sighting. Either they’d seen a man and a kid in a blue truck but with no garbage bags, or they’d seen a family pulling a trailer full of furniture and garbage bags, or something in between. And none of them had given the correct license tag number.

When the phone rang again, Katie spun toward the desk where Vera was sitting and held her breath as she listened, just like she did every time.

“Bordelaise Police Department,” Vera said.

“Um, hello. My name is Evaline Corwin. I work at the Gas and Grub off Interstate 49. That’s between Bunkie and Alexandria. I’m calling about that Amber Alert. I just saw that little boy.”

Vera grabbed her pen. “Yes, ma’am. Can you be more specific?” she asked, sure this was going to be another false alarm.

“Um, yeah. Sure. They were in a blue truck with a bunch of garbage bags in the truck bed…like they were moving or something, you know? They came in to use the restrooms.”

Vera’s heart skipped a beat. “Did you get a good look at the driver?”

“Yeah. He was white…middle-aged, with a potbelly and a weak chin. He was wearing shorts and a tee. The little boy had on a red-and-blue-striped shirt and blue jeans.”

Vera stifled a gasp. “Did you get a good look at his face?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s what bothered me most.”

“What do you mean?” Vera asked.

“Both his eyes were black. His nose was swollen, and his upper lip was puffy. He looked like the kid on the news, just all beat up.”

“Sweet Lord,” Vera muttered.

Katie was standing behind Vera, watching her taking down the information, and when she saw the physical description of the little boy, her stomach lurched. If this was Bobby, what in God’s name had he been enduring?

“Anything else?” Vera asked.

“Yes. Because the little guy looked like he might have been abused, I took down the tag number. And then I saw the Amber Alert, and—”

“Can you give me that tag number?” Vera asked, her adrenaline pumping.

When Evaline rattled off the number, Vera stifled a shout. This was it. Their first big break. Now they knew for sure that Bobby Earle was still alive! She felt Katie’s fingers gripping her shoulders and knew she’d gotten the message, as well.

“How long ago was it when they stopped at your store?” Vera asked.

Evaline glanced at the clock. “Oh, I’d say fifteen minutes ago…give or take a few.”

“Thank you for calling in,” Vera said. “May I have your name and number for the record?”

Evaline rattled them off.

“Thank you for the call. You may literally be a life-saver,” Vera said, and disconnected.

“Why did you write down black eyes and bruises? What does that mean?” Katie tried to keep the fear from her tone, but she knew she wasn’t doing a very good job.

“The caller said the little boy she saw had black eyes, and a swollen nose and lip.”

Katie felt sick all over again. “But it was them, right? Is that the tag number for Newt Collins’s car?”

Vera smiled. “Yes. It was them.”

“Oh, Lord, oh, Lord…Bobby is alive.” Katie breathed, and then she started to cry. “Call J.R…. you have to tell J.R.”

“I need to notify the chief first. I can’t take control of this. He’s in charge.” Vera spun her chair toward the dispatch center and reached for the phone.

Hershel was already on his way back to headquarters from a quick trip out for food when he got Vera’s call. He could tell by the quiver in her voice that something big had happened.

“Porter here. What’s up?”

Ever careful of civilians with scanners, she kept her information vague.

“We got a hit,” she said briefly.

Hershel’s heart skipped a beat. “A good one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Notify the highway patrol, then the chopper. I’m on my way back.”

Anxious to hear details, Hershel took a shortcut through an alley and accelerated on the other side, running with lights and sirens all the way to headquarters.

Cody and J.R. had been so focused on watching the highways for blue trucks that when the radio squawked again, they both jumped. When Cody answered the call sign, he felt J.R.’s attention shift.

J.R. could hear everything in his earphones that the pilot could hear. When he recognized Vera’s voice, his first thought was, Please, let this be good news.

“We got a call from a clerk at a gas station off Interstate 49, between Bunkie and Alexandria. She reported seeing a man and boy matching the descriptions of Bobby Earle and Newton Collins. They were in a blue late-model truck with a whole lot of garbage bags in the bed. The tag number she gave matches Collins’s tag.”

“How long ago?” Cody asked.

“Around fifteen minutes,” Vera said. “The highway patrol has been notified. What’s your twenty?”

“Maybe thirty minutes behind them,” Cody said, then added, “But not for long. Over and out.”

He glanced at J.R. “Are you up for a ride?”

“Just get me there,” J.R. said. “I don’t give a damn how low or how fast you have to go to do it.”

Cody grinned. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Newt had pulled over at a rest stop off the interstate to take a piss. He was feeling so cocky about his escape that he even let Bobby out to pee, showing him how to stand close to the pickup so passersby couldn’t see them, and cautioning him about staying close so he didn’t get run over. He had Bobby so nervous, he knew he wouldn’t run.

By the time they were through and back on the road, Bobby was getting sleepy.

“If you’re tired, just lay your head down here next to me,” Newt said, and patted the seat beside his leg.

Bobby eyed the white hairy legs with the healing burns on the thighs and shook his head.

“I’m not sleepy,” he argued, and reached for the cookies instead.

Newt shrugged. Whatever. If the kid gave himself a bellyache, it was no skin off his nose. He didn’t care what he did as long as he stayed still and stayed quiet.

Newt cast a quick look in the rearview mirror. Satisfied that there was nothing behind them but normal traffic, he switched on the radio, searched for a country music station and then settled back against the seat.

The air conditioner kept his discomfort to a minimum, and before long he was eating cookies with Bobby Earle.

“Hey, kid…can you open up one of those Pepsi-Colas for me?”

Bobby reached into the sack and pulled out a can.

“It’s not cold,” he said.

“Don’t matter to me,” Newt said. “Just pop the top easy like…just in case it wants to spew.”

Bobby popped the top.

The can fizzed, then spewed.

Newt cursed.

Bobby laughed out loud.

It was the shock of the little boy’s laughter that turned Newt’s thoughts to lust. His grin was more like a leer as he took the sticky can out of the kid’s hand. “Thought that was funny, did you?”

Bobby seemed as startled by his laughter as Newt had been. Even though the bad man was smiling, he ducked his head and wouldn’t look up or answer.

Newt shrugged and downed a swig.

Yep. He knew what he was doing. All he needed with this kid was some time.

Seventeen

T
he black Macklan Brothers chopper was flying so low and so fast that the ground below was a blur. When J.R. suddenly spotted the Shell Oil sign on a pole high above the roof of a small building, he pointed.

“Gas and Grub! That’s it! That’s the place where the call came from!” he shouted.

Cody Sands nodded, then pointed to his watch.

“Five minutes. We should catch up to them shortly. Keep watch!”

J.R. gave him a thumbs-up and looked back down.

All of a sudden, a blur of flashing blue lights appeared on the highway up ahead. Two dark blue Chevy Caprices were merging onto the interstate from a frontage road. When he saw the gold stripes and the Louisiana state outline emblazoned at an angle on the doors, he knew the cars were Louisiana Highway Patrol.

“Cops!” Cody said.

J.R. nodded. He just hoped to God they were after Newt Collins and not on their way to some wreck.

Long moments passed with J.R. frantically scanning the highway below for sight of a blue truck, while the highway patrol cars sped up the highway, their lights and sirens still flashing.

Cars quickly gave way, pulling over into the slow lane or even onto the shoulder to let them pass.

J.R.’s heart was pounding as the chopper quickly overtook them, then passed them from above.

“Unless the truck pulled off, we should be coming up on them any minute,” Cody said, as they quickly left the patrol cars behind.

Only a couple of minutes later J.R. spotted a blue truck on the highway below. The bed was loaded with black plastic garbage bags packed full to bursting.

“There!” he shouted.

Cody reached for the radio, keyed in on the police frequency and started to broadcast what they’d seen.

Within moments the airwaves were alive with traffic from below. The troopers acknowledged the sighting and ordered them to maintain visual contact without interfering.

“Is Bobby in there?” J.R. shouted.

“Can’t tell,” Cody answered.

“Get lower!” J.R. begged.

“Can’t!” Cody said, pointing to the electric wires.

J.R. groaned.

Seconds later the highway patrol cars caught up with the truck.

Then they watched in horror as the truck accelerated, fishtailed, then sped forward at an alarming rate.

The race was on.

Newt was downing the last of his Pepsi when he caught a glimpse of flashing lights. He glanced up in the rearview mirror just as a Louisiana Highway Patrol car swerved out from behind a semi and headed toward him.

Startled, he coughed, then choked, spewing hot Pepsi through his nose.

Seeing pop spew out of Newt’s big nose looked funny to Bobby, who snickered, then covered his mouth and ducked his head, afraid he would be in trouble again.

This time there was nothing about Bobby Earle’s mirth that was amusing to Newt. His lust level was in the dirt. There were myriad reasons why the highway patrol might be running with lights and sirens, including a wreck up ahead, but something told Newt that they were after him.

“Oh, shit! Oh, no! Oh, hell!” He moaned, then stomped the accelerator.

His tires squealed. The truck lurched and then fishtailed as the engine revved.

Bobby’s smile disappeared. He grabbed hold of the armrest with one hand and the edge of the seat with the other, and started to yell.

“Slow down, mister. Slow down!” he cried.

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Newt screamed, and swerved around a car pulling a camper, then back in front of a minivan. He caught a glimpse of panic on the driver’s face as he flew past and wondered if his own expression was as frantic.

As they swerved back into the fast lane, the seat belt yanked hard against Bobby’s throat, cutting off his air supply and almost strangling him. Panicked, he unbuckled it before he thought, and within seconds slid to the floor, bumping his head against the dash.

“Damn it, kid! Stay down!
Stay down!
” Newt yelled, and dodged into the right-hand lane, cutting off an eighteen-wheeler, then swerved onto the side of the road, where he began passing vehicles from the shoulder.