Carol O’Connell - Find Me

Mallory stood in the open doorway of Ray Adler’s autobody shop, the keys to his truck in one hand. Her own vehicle was no longer in many pieces, but it still needed work.

“We’ll be done tonight,” Ray promised, “or tomorrow morning for sure.”

She returned to the house and fired up the vacuum cleaner for an assault on the last bastion of dust, the basement. Around midnight she was almost done labeling the cardboard boxes with lists of junk that Ray never used but could not part with. There was no way to play the cassettes or the vinyl records. The man’s stereo only accepted CDs. Among this useless collection, she had found a box with Peyton Hale’s name on it. It was filled with music, and she wondered which of these songs had been his personal favorite. None of the letters had been able to tell her.

At one in the morning, showered and ready for bed, the detective placed a call to Chicago. This chore had been saved for last in hopes of waking Kronewald from a sound sleep. She had some new issues with this man, and every little bit of payback counted.

The groggy Chicago detective answered his home phone, saying, “This better be good.”

“It’s Mallory. Find out if any other adult bodies turned up on Route 66-or maybe you already know.”

“Two of ’em,” said Kronewald, perhaps not realizing that he had just confessed to holding out on her. “One was found on the road in California and one in Arizona. And here’s the kicker. That number carved on Linden’s face? They’ve all got that, and I mean the exact same number, a hundred and one.”

Ariel Finn had no numbers carved into her flesh, but Mallory let this slide.

“Weird, huh?” Kronewald was more awake now. “He doesn’t count the grownups when he tallies up his kills.”

“So you’ve been holding out on me- again .”

“Naw. Riker phoned that in hours ago. Don’t you guys ever talk?” He endured her silence for three seconds, the outside limit of his patience. “Got anything else?”

“Do you have a current list of Dr. Magritte’s campers-the ones with kids who fit the profile?”

“Yeah.”

“Find out if they live in rural areas, no close neighbors. I think I know how the perp shops for the little girls. He follows the school bus. That gives him a chance to scout out the kids and the property, too.”

“Okay, so our perp might be a stalker. Thanks, kid. I’ll get on it. Where are you now?”

“Still in Kansas. This perp is comfortable with car theft. He was probably driving a stolen car when he killed Linden. It’s all about the road. He lives to drive. Long distances don’t faze him.”

“Okay, I’ll start with stolen car reports for the-”

“No,” said Mallory. “There may not be a police report. You’re looking for abandoned cars, old junkers with nothing as fancy as a car alarm or a LoJack. Maybe you’ll get lucky with forensics.”

“Did you give any of this to Riker?”

Mallory ended the call without the formality of saying good-bye. Maybe tomorrow she would run Riker down, perhaps literally.

Click.

The photograph was expelled from the camera, and it took some time to develop. The blood from the victim’s s lashed throat was bright red as it flowed onto the Oklahoma road.

A less inspired photographer might have discarded this picture and taken another, for it was slightly blurred by motion. The victim was still twitching-still alive.

The beeping cell phone startled Riker, but he was slow to open his eyes. The detective had no memory of crawling off to sleep last night, and now it was day. He awakened in the front seat of the Mercedes. Fortunately, Charles Butler was driving.

Riker pulled out his cell phone and said, “Yeah?” And now, with no pity, he listened to Kronewald’s own story of interrupted sleep in Chicago. “Where’d she call you from?… So our perp’s a car thief… Y eah, thanks.” He tossed the cell phone into the back seat, where it would not trouble him anymore. “Mallory’s in Kansas. Now where am I?”

“You’re approaching a travel plaza.”

Riker patted down his shirt pockets and he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “I guess this is weird for you, huh? I mean chasing Mallory.” He was still seeking a way back into the story of Charles’s last meeting with her, the one that had ended with a proposal of marriage.

“Well, I don’t t hink she expects to see me again.”

“So I’m guessing she didn’t let you down easy.” After a few miles of silence, Riker tried again. “Did she at least say good-bye?”

Charles steered the Mercedes onto the exit road for the travel plaza. “That night after dinner, I walked Mallory home, and she kissed me.” He pointed to his left cheek to indicate that this had not been a moment of passion. “Later-a month later-when she wouldn’t return phone messages or answer the door, I realized that the kiss- that was good-bye.” Charles pulled into the large parking lot. “Lunchtime.”

This place was also a rendezvous point for the FBI. Riker’s first giveaway clue was the slew of government cars and the rentals favored by feds in the parking lot. He checked out the young people near these vehicles, almost standing at attention. There were no agency logos in sight, though their clothing approached a kind of uniform in the similarity of blue jeans, hiking boots and navy blue jackets that were missing only the initials of the Bureau. The colors of their T-shirts varied, but the detective gave them no points for this lame attempt at disguise.

“Mallory’s not in Kansas anymore,” said Charles Butler.

Riker turned his head to the other window in time to see Mallory glide across the parking lot with the top down on her silver convertible. And he could not speak nor even move. This was the culmination of night-into-day worries and tension. Finally, the road-weary detective managed to stumble from the Mercedes, and then he treated everyone in the lot to an explosion of involuntary emotion.

Mallory was on foot and heading for the door of the restaurant when she recognized that loud, laughing voice. She turned to face Riker. He walked unsteadily, approaching her V o lkswagen Beetle and pointing at the roll bar. The other hand was holding his side where the laughter had caused him a stitch of pain. An impartial observer might have likened the man’s outburst to hysteria, for he could not stop himself. He was so happy, he was in tears.

Later, he would put his mistake down to lost sleep, but now he committed the worst error on Mallory’s scorecard of crimes against her- derision. He pointed to her convertible and said, maybe a bit too loud, “A roll bar on a VW ?” When laughter subsided long enough to speak again, Riker said, “I’ve seen it all. I can die now.”

Mallory glared at him, perhaps with an idea for arranging this early demise.

He yelled, “Hey, kid! Yo u planning to race this car?” His best line spent, he was truly helpless, leaning against the side of her Vo lkswagen for support. He was enjoying himself so much that he thought he might fall down.

In icy calmness, the control freak turned her back on him with not even a word of hello after all this time when they had not seen one another.

Charles Butler appeared at his side, saying, “Uh, that might’ve been over the top. I’ll just explain to her that you were tired and overwrought.”

“Oh, come on. ” Riker slapped the roll bar, saying, “ This is funny.”

“I have another theory.” Charles was watching the wide window of the restaurant. “Wait-she’s going into the ladies’ room.” He pointed toward her car. “Can we take a look under the hood?”