Carol O’Connell - Find Me

Charles Butler was running the portable siren as he changed lanes, proposing to take the Crookton Road, Exit 93, heading north toward Seligman, Arizona.

“No, not that way.” Kronewald waved him over to the side of the road, and obediently, the Mercedes came to a stop.

The Chicago detective put his phone away, giving up on Riker’s b u s y signal. “We’re not gonna find them up there.” Kronewald had his personal map of dead children spread on his lap. “I got an inventory from Harry Mars. Berman’s crews dug up all the graves in Arizona months ago. That road’s just like the Santa Fe loop. No bodies were ever found north of I- 40.”

“Then the FBI missed a few, or perhaps they never looked for them there.” Charles nodded to the guidebooks piling up on the floor mat at the detective’s feet. “My favorite is the Route 66 trivia lovers’ guide. The Seligman loop is not quite the same as the Santa Fe segment. You’re sure the killer’s father was a truck driver, right?”

“Yeah, and the kid used to ride with his old man.”

“And Mallory believes that he’s following his father’s route. Well, Route 40 connects the two ends of the Seligman loop, but it wasn’t finished until the nineteen eighties. When your killer was a child, his father would’ve driven the old road north and around the Seligman loop. Now consider this. Those undiscovered graves might be the reason he picked that area. He wants full credit for all of his kills-or his work won’t be complete.”

“Why couldn’t he just phone in the grave locations?”

“Maybe he did.”

“While Dale Berman was in charge of the case. That incompetent prick.” Frustrated, Kronewald turned his face to the passenger window. “Okay, I see the problem.”

“And there are other good reasons,” said Charles. “It’s a dark segment. No lights from the interstate, very little traffic this time of night-”

“Hey, look!” Kronewald pointed to the road as Mallory’s car sped past them and then changed lanes for the exit that would lead her to the northern loop of Route 66.

“So,” said Charles, “on toward Seligman?”

Up ahead was the Black Cat bar, one of Riker’s fond memories of the road through Seligman. He could not recall the cattle ranges that Mallory spoke of. In his teenage days, grazing land had not been on his mind so much as booze and girls and good times that could not be had in the company of cows. The old saloon slid past his window, and he looked out on the scattered lights of small buildings near and far.

“Look behind us.” Mallory was staring at the rearview mirror, and she was not wearing her happy face. “It’s the Mercedes-Charles.”

“Get used to it, kid,” said Riker. “Every time you turn around, he’ll be there. I think sometimes he forgets that you’re the one with the gun.” Riker reached for his cell phone. “I’ll get ahold of Kronewald.”

“Get them off this road. If the perp spots a tail-”

“Even if he’s seen Charles’s car, he won’t know one Mercedes from another. The perp’s looking out for cop cars, not tourists.”

Past Seligman, the land opened up. It was dotted with the occasional lights of houses and then nothing but darkness-until he saw the black cow in the headlights, and yelled, “Oh, God-they’re all over the road.”

The brakes were screeching, smoking, dust clouds rising all around them. Mallory swerved to graze one animal, rocking the car onto two wheels. It slammed back to earth on all four tires, and she cut a hard right to miss the next cow. Riker was lurching the other way, and now back again toward Mallory, rolling as the car rolled over. The air bags imploded, massing up in an instant and blinding him with white; it felt like a punch from a giant fist large enough to pound his chest and his gut with one mighty shot. Just as quickly, the bag deflated, and the last thing Riker saw was a fence pole coming through the windshield, missing Mallory and snapping his arm bone. A second pole hit his head.

Good night, all.

And the car rolled on.

Charles Butler was the first out of the Mercedes. The Volkswagen convertible had flipped over and the passengers hung upside down, held in place by seat belts. The ragtop was badly damaged, but the roll bar had held. Mallory and Riker still had their heads. As Charles wrenched a door open, Kronewald’s hands were reaching inside to undo Riker’s seatbelt, and the unconscious man was eased out in Charles’s arms and then laid upon the ground.

Running to Mallory’s side of the car, Charles heard Kronewald sing out, “Riker’s still breathing, but his arm’s broken and he’s out cold.”

Mallory’s door hung open, and she was working her own belt loose as Charles reached inside to cradle her body and keep her from falling head first. When she was on her feet again, she looked around at the cows milling about on the road. Kronewald was doing traffic control, his arms spinning, his screams full of obscenities to move the animals away from Riker’s prone body.

“Somebody opened a gate,” she said.

“It would seem so.” Charles was staring at the damage her convertible had done to the barbwire fence that lined the road. “Or maybe another car had a mishap.” He returned to the road, where Riker lay motionless and wheezing with one arm bent at an unnatural angle. “I think his ribs are bro- ken, too.” When Charles looked up again, he saw Mallory wandering off, preceded by the beam of her flashlight.

Kronewald held up his cell phone, saying. “The ambulance is on the way from Kingman, but there’s a wreck on the interstate, and it might take a while.” He turned to see the back of Mallory. “Where does she think she’s going?”

“You might keep an eye on her-in case she’s in shock.”

“Got it.”

A few minutes later, the Chicago detective returned. “Mallory sent me back. Says our perp’s got an infrared sight on his rifle. He won’t wanna see her with company.” The old man held up one hand. “Hold on, Charles. He’s not gonna shoot her. You know he didn’t d rag Mallory all the way out here for that.” The detective paced near a ditch on the other side of the road. “There’s some rusty metal piled up here. Same stuff the fence posts are made of. She needs that car back on the road.” The detective climbed down into the ditch and lifted a length of pipe, yelling, “Give me a hand!”

A short way up the road, Mallory found the source of the wandering cows. She stood before an open gate and faced a dirt road leading off across flat open land in the direction of distant foothills. It was the gate that held her interest. Two strong metal poles supported a high crossbar that displayed the name of the ranch and its brand. But was the crossbar welded on? She looked down at the ground, wondering if the supporting poles were footed in cement. Her flashlight picked out loose lengths of well casing piled up on the other side of the gate, but these were obviously meant for mending fences. She turned back to the gate posts. No shorter section of pipe would do. Back down the road, she had tools for this job-and Charles Butler was one of them.

She turned her eyes upward to consider the problem of a welded crossbar, and the flashlight dropped from her hand. So surprised was she to see her father’s million stars in the sky above-just as he had promised and right where he had left them, his “-brilliant stars and lesser ones, millions beyond counting, beautiful-mesmerizing.”

A child was waiting.

Mallory picked up her flashlight.

Down the rancher’s road far past the gate, twin points of light blinked twice. The cell phone in her knapsack was beeping, but she had no intention of answering it. That would surprise her adversary. She was in control now-not him. And he would learn that soon enough; nothing would happen as he had planned. She ran down the road. The grade was dropping, and soon she would be out of his rifle sights.