James Swain - The Night Stalker

My head broke the water’s surface, and I swam to the pool’s edge. Lowman had given up trying to kill me, and was running toward the gate. He was going to escape.

I stared into the faces of the crowd. Several guys my age were giving me curious looks. They knew something wasn’t right; they just didn’t know what. Cupping my hands over my mouth, I yelled, “Stop that guy! He molested my daughter!”

“Him?” a guy yelled back.

The guy was huge, and had two kids with him. He was standing a few feet from Lowman. I yelled, “Yes. Watch out, he’s got a gun.”

The guy let go of his kids, and brought his forearm down on Lowman’s shoulder. Lowman’s knees buckled, and his gun fell out of his hand.

“Pervert,” the guy said.

Several other guys in the crowd began to pummel Lowman as well. Lowman twisted like an animal caught in a trap, but could not break free. Cops had a special name for when crowds got angry enough to tear someone apart. They called it a feeding frenzy.

I pushed my way through the mob with Cheeks behind me. In a loud voice, Cheeks announced that he was a cop, and Lowman’s attackers backed away.

Lowman lay sprawled on the ground. His shirt was a memory and blood poured from his nose and mouth.

“Don’t let them kill me,” he begged.

I don’t like being shot at. I dragged Lowman to the edge of the pool, and dunked his head into the water. The crowd erupted in cheers.

“Drown him!” someone yelled.

“I’ll help you hold him down,” another offered.

I waited a few moments before pulling Lowman’s head out of the pool. He spit out a mouthful of water, and looked fearfully at me. “Tell me what you know about Sampson Grimes’s kidnapping, or I’ll let them have you,” I said.

The words hit Lowman harder than any punch. He grabbed my shirt with both his hands, and held me like he was never going to let go.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.

Cheeks drove us to Lowman’s house in his Suburban. I sat in the backseat beside Lowman and watched his hands, which were handcuffed behind his back. He had closed his eyes, and was breathing heavily. Lowman lived in a subdivision in Pembroke Pines on the curve of a cul-de-sac, an attractive one-story with a terra-cotta roof. As Cheeks parked in the driveway, I spied a hammock in the side yard moving back and forth in the wind.

At the front door Lowman offered up his house keys, which were resting in his pocket. Cheeks unlocked the front door, and we entered the chilly interior. The shades were drawn on every window, and the place felt like a tomb.

I flipped on the lights. The furnishings were sparse. Hanging from the walls were blowups of young girls with their swimming suits falling off. They were everywhere I looked. Cheeks had Lowman sit in a leather chair in the living room.

“Do not move,” Cheeks ordered.

I pulled Cheeks aside. He was breathing hard, and looked like hell.

“Do you want me to search the place?” I asked.

“I’ll do it,” Cheeks said.

“You sure you’re up for it?”

Searching a predator’s house meant banging on every ceiling and wall, and checking every loose floorboard. If you didn’t, you might miss a hidden crawl space where a child could be held prisoner.

“Just watch him,” Cheeks said, going into the back of the house.

I stood in front of Lowman’s chair. His face was caked with dried blood and covered with ugly purple bruises.

“Start talking,” I said.

Lowman stared at the floor. A long moment passed.

“I changed my mind,” he said.

Behind where I stood was a wall unit lined with DVDs. In anger, I started pulling the DVDs out, and throwing them at Lowman’s head. One DVD caught my eye, and I stopped long enough to read what was written on the box.

CONFESSION

I waved the DVD in front of Lowman’s face. “What’s this?”

“You have no right to look at that!” he protested.

A computer sat in the corner of the living room. I powered it up, and popped the DVD in. The computer’s screen flickered to life, and a film of Lowman appeared. I listened to him recite every crime he’d ever committed in his life.

“Wow,” I said. “You made a confession.”

“I thought I was dying of colon cancer a few years ago,” he said.

“Trying to cleanse your soul?”

“Something like that.”

“Too bad it didn’t work. What do you want me to do with it?”

Lowman’s head snapped. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. Would you like me to destroy it?”

“Yes-yes!”

“Will you play ball then?”

“Yes!”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“There’s an e-mail stored in my computer that Sampson’s kidnapper sent me,” Lowman said. “I will explain what it is. It will help you find the boy.”

Lowman gave me the password to his e-mail account. Using the mouse on his computer, I entered his e-mail account, opened it using his password, and went into his Saved box. An e-mail from someone calling himself Big Daddy jumped out at me. I clicked on it, and found myself staring at a photograph of a little boy sitting in a dog crate. It was Sampson. I ejected the DVD of Lowman’s confession from the computer, and broke it in half.

“Start talking,” I said.

“Burn it,” Lowman said.

“Excuse me?”

“A broken DVD can be restored and played. Burn it.”

You learn something new every day. I put the DVD into an ashtray on the coffee table. Lowman directed me to a drawer containing a collection of restaurant matchbooks. I lit a book, and dropped it in. We watched the DVD catch fire and melt.

“Now tell me what this photo means,” I said.

“Sampson is giving his kidnapper problems,” Lowman said. “The boy fights and screams and tries to escape whenever he can. His kidnapper couldn’t handle him, so he turned the boy over to a pair of drug enforcers. These men are used by drug dealers to collect money. Sometimes they take children into their possession as collateral.”

“That’s who has Sampson now?”

“Yes.”

“And they’re keeping him in a dog crate?”

“That’s right.”

Sampson’s photo was still on the computer screen. Instead of being scared, the kid looked fighting mad. I didn’t know this little boy, yet I admired the hell out of him.

“Did the kidnapper say where they were keeping him?” I asked.

“In a hotel in Fort Lauderdale,” Lowman said.

“Is that where this photo was taken?”

“Yes.”

I brought my face inches from the computer screen. The photo said a lot. Along with the dog crate, it contained a night table, a worn patch of carpet, and wallpaper with a logo embedded in the design. There were cops around the country who were experts in identifying hotel room interiors, and I felt certain one of them would be able to tell me in which chain Sampson was being held prisoner. Knowing that, and the fact that he was in Fort Lauderdale, would make it easy to track him down.

I printed the photograph on Lowman’s laser printer. It was sharp and clear. I held it in my hand, and felt my heart race.

I was one step closer to finding him.

F rom another part of the house I heard a door open. Then Cheeks staggered into the living room. He’d pulled off his sports jacket, and his chest was heaving.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

Cheeks didn’t reply, and fell heavily against the wall. I rushed to his side. The look in his eyes bordered on helpless, and it appeared that he couldn’t breathe. I punched 911 into my cell phone without taking my eyes off Lowman.

“Tell me your address,” I said.

Lowman gave me the address, which I relayed to the 911 dispatcher. Hanging up, I made Cheeks lie down on the living room floor, and elevated his legs with a pillow.